Aaron's Duck


by Martie Pritchard


*********************************************************


"Ah, yes... the kid with the duck." That was what came to mind Monday when I recognized a face I hadn't seen in years. That smiling, freckled, happy-go-lucky Aaron waved to me as he left the school parking lot. Ordinarily I'd still be on the other side of town at my own school at this time of day, but Monday was my grandson Caleb's piano lesson day and I was on my way to pick him up. "Isn't it funny that Aaron would remember me," I thought. Yet, we did share an unusual experience and I would recognize him anywhere.

Aaron was in my seventh grade home room about four years ago. I teach science at Skyway Middle School. As a seventh grader, Aaron was a very cool guy. When puberty hits and your legs grow faster than your bank account, you have to become very cool... just for balance.

Aaron was into every sport known to Aroostook County. He was good at just about everything that was important to him. LIFE SCIENCE didn't happen to be high on his list of important stuff! Aaron was definitely a middle school version of the boy next door. All the girls wanted to get close to him. His walk, his attitude as he approached, even the way his hair, combed - just so, reflected the confidence of a rising superstar. Everything about his young man called to the friends he'd known all his life, "Notice me. I'm somebody you want to know better!

YET

There was a piece of this kid that hadn't passed beyond the wonderful age of wonder. When I introduced the avian incubator in the spring of his thirteenth year, Aaron couldn't wait to become involved.

"Mrs. Pritchard. My neighbor has ducks, and they lay lots of eggs. Can I bring in some eggs?"

"Well, I don't know Aaron. We're trying to hatch chicken eggs. There's a different time frame for ducks."

"But, Mrs. Pritchard! Could we TRY to hatch duck eggs? My neighbor says I can have a couple of his eggs."

After many such conversations I got tired of trying to be sensible and simply replied, "Why not? We can try."

The next day three very large and dirty duck eggs arrived in a shoe box surrounded by toilet paper. We set the eggs in the incubator along with the clutch of chicken eggs. I was really just humoring Aaron. I had no idea he really cared about those eggs. I thought he was searching for easy "self-directed learning" points. I was wrong.

Most people don't have a clue about the precision it takes to hatch eggs. Attention must be paid to temperature, humidity and turning times. In order to achieve a successful hatch, eggs are turned three to five times each day until the last few days of incubation. Then they must be kept still. The mother bird does this instinctively. We humans do it by hand, or in our case, through the use of an electronic turning machine. Chicken eggs stop being turned long before duck eggs do. Ducks take about a week longer. I was going for the sure thing. I wanted my students to experience the wonder of a live hatch. Aaron's duck eggs took a back seat to the chicken eggs.

The duck eggs were no longer turned... about a week too early. The chicken eggs hatched right on time. I left the incubator plugged in just to be sure. I did nothing extra for the duck eggs. They normally require a great deal more humidity than chicken eggs. The mother duck takes frequent baths to ensure her eggs will have a softened shell, making hatching possible. Duck egg shells are much thicker than those of chickens.

When the fluffy yellow chicks began to develop true feathers, I figured the time had passed for the ducks to make it. As I unplugged the incubator I noticed a tiny crack in one of the shells. I held the egg to my ear and heard a faint "peep." The duckling was weak but it was alive. It needed considerable help to escape a shell which was its prison. After a very long day of carefully peeling chip after delicate chip of shell away, the tiny life emerged. Just before late bus was called, Aaron's deformed duck pushed its way into the world. The duckling was perfect in every way except that its legs splayed off to the sides instead of supporting the body underneath. I believe it was the lack of turning which caused those legs to be useless.

The next morning, after allowing it to gain strength in the warm incubator, we began handling the delicate creature. Aaron and his buddies wanted to know for certain that the baby duck would survive. I didn't know what to tell them. So far the little duck hadn't gotten the use of its legs. It just flopped around trying to be a duck. In the wild, these misfits perish.

I recalled reading somewhere that this problem might be corrected with a simple trick. So it began. On the second day the little duck suffered having its legs tied together at the hips with a purple ribbon I happened to find in my bottom drawer. Every day, sometimes three times a day, we got together to re-tie the duck's legs whenever it squirmed free. I didn't know if the procedure would work, but I had to try SOMETHING. These kids were counting on me to fix things, and besides, I hate to give up on any life, anytime.

Only a person who works closely with adolescent-type people could appreciate the funny scene involving the fingers of this growing kid... a boy-kid, trying to keep control over his body parts as his heart catches up. Aaron wanted to be the one to tie the ribbon on his duck's legs, but my gosh! Weren't his finger HUGE! He finally gave way to the girls with tiny, nimble fingers. They tied the bows that enabled that duck to survive. As a bonus, Aaron added to his popularity with some very cute young ladies.

And so we got beyond the duck's crippled days. It soon became strong and mobile. The leg tying gave the duck time to gain strength as its leg muscles learned to get underneath it. It wasn't long before that little bit of a thing became the focus of the classroom. The chicken offspring were interesting , but the duck was the star of the show.

One amusing story connected with the life of this duck occurred at the MPG feed mill. How many teachers do you think have to get permission to leave school in the middle of the day to purchase duck food? Poor Mr. Graves! I don't think he'll ever be immune to my unusual "emergencies." I believe he has reached the point where he nods his head rather than try to understand the nature of what I need to do. When I realized that the duck was going to survive, I also realized that I wasn't prepared. I had no game bird starter. I had only chick starter food. I knew enough about ducks to recall that chicken food contains a medication which ducks and other game birds can not tolerate. When the second day of the duck's life was looking positive, I knew the yolk sac nutrition which keeps young poultry alive for the first few days would soon be used up. I had to get the to feed store... very soon.

The older fellow, Bob Churchill, greeted me with his usual mumbled, "So, what'll you need?" This was long before I became a farmer on the side, so Bob didn't yet know me.

"I need some duck food."

"How much?"

"I don't really know." At this point Mr. Churchill had locked the base of the hand truck and was wheeling it toward the thousands of pounds of poultry feed on the southwest wall of the huge storage room.

"Well, how many ducks 'ya feed'n'?"

"One."

A pause in his stride. "Say again?"

"Well, just one so far." (At this point I didn't know for sure that the other two eggs would not hatch.)

He resumed his trip toward the pile of fifty pound sacks. "Well, how many 'er 'ya 'spectin'?"

"Three."

Another pause. "Three hundred?"

"No, just three ducks."

The old fellow turned toward me, his hand cart now abandoned and repeated for himself, "Ya got ONE duck now and ya might have THREE?"

"I teach school." I interrupted. "We accidentally hatched a duckling along with some chickens. We have two more eggs which I doubt will hatch, but the one baby is alive. I just need duck food for one duck. Do you sell it by the pound?" (What did I know about feed stores?)

"Uh, no ma'am. We sell by the fifty. You say you have only ONE duck?"

By now I felt foolish and I just muttered, "Yes."

This man could have sold me a fifty pound bag of game bird started but I could almost watch him processing my wild story. "Well, no need of a whole bag. Come 'ere." This crusty old darling grabbed a garbage bag from his office and hand-filled it from a spilled bag in the corner. "Here 'ya go. This should hold 'ya."

Reaching into my pocked I pulled out the ten dollar bill I figured would cover the feed. "How much do I owe..." I didn't get the whole question out.

"Get on with 'ya now. This is for the kids."

We brought a wading pool into the classroom, not for the duck to swim in, but as a safe enclosure. The duck was most happy when all the kids rallied around it for the first four periods. He got nervous when quiet came and he and I were alone. At those times I had to let him out of the enclosure. He would follow me around the room with a constant "peep, peep, peep" which slowly developed into a sound that resembled "quack, quack, quack." So solemn. The little duck knew I was a substitute for the seventh-graders who adored him.

Then came the time that the duck and the enclosure smelled worse than we in the classroom could tolerate. As cute and educational as a duck in the middle school could be, kids and teachers with sensitive noses were paying a huge price. The duck had to find a home!

"MRS. PRITCHARD MY MOM SAYS I CAN HAVE THE DUCK!"

"Now, Aaron. You don't live on a farm. Your family doesn't even have a pond. What would you do with a duck?"

"We could keep it in the garage."

"Aaron, what kind of life would that be for a duck?"

"But my mom says I can take it home."

"Aaron, I think the duck would be happier with a bunch of other ducks. Ducks are flocking creatures. In nature, they don't live alone."

The discussion continued along the same lines for several days with no end in sight. Aaron was one determined young man. All my logic mattered little to a boy in love with a duck!

So I called Aaron's mom for help in the logic department.

"Aaron has this crazy idea that he should bring this baby duck home."

"Well, we don't mind. If it doesn't work out, well then, we'll move the duck to our neighbor's place. It really seems important to him."

Several weeks later I got a call from Aaron's mom. "This isn't a DUCK... it's a DOG!" She went on to tell me of the duck's devotion to the family. Apparently the duck would happily greet the family each evening at the end of the driveway. He really didn't mind being an "only duck." He had a different kind of "flock." He had his own family and his own boy. He was Aaron's duck.

The story could end here, but it continues.

I received a phone call from Aaron's mother this fall. She didn't realize who I was and I didn't recognize her name. "Martie, a friend of mine, Tammy Williams, mentioned that you keep ducks on your farm."

"Yes, I have a couple of ducks."

"Well, I was wondering if you'd be willing to BOARD our duck with yours for the winter. We love our duck and we'd want it back in the spring."

"What color is it?"

"White."

"Oh, I have several white ducks and couldn't guarantee that you'd get your own duck back."

"Don't worry. We'll know our duck. It's been with us for quite a while and is really a part of the family."

I thought about it and told her I could take it if it was a female, but a male wouldn't work because I already had three drakes and they'd fight.

"Well, her name is Myrtle, but I'll have to ask my husband to be sure."

"Call back when you find out. By the way, how is it that you have only one duck?"

"Oh, my son's teacher hatched it in the classroom and..."

"That's MY duck! I'm THAT teacher!" We laughed! What a coincidence. I couldn't believe that duck was still alive and well and bringing joy to Aaron's family.

Myrtle turned out to be a male so he didn't end up spending the winter on the "Barking Barn Farm." I hope he's still in the Archer's garage. They're going to need him.

I told Aaron's duck story to each of my four classes on Tuesday, January 27th, 1998. The news of Aaron's death the afternoon before had reached me just as I left for school that morning.

My memory of that beautiful person is reflected in his duck story.

*********************************************************


Author's note: On Saturday, March 14th, I received a phone call from Paul Carlson, a high school art teacher who was very close to Aaron. We'd worked together on a school committee this year. When we discussed the tragedy of Aaron's death, I shared Aaron's duck story. I mentioned that I was trying to write it so that I could send it to his mother as my personal condolence message.

"Martie, sorry to bother you on a weekend. I thought you'd want to know. I just got off the phone with Aaron Archer's mother. His duck was hit by a car. The duck is dead."

I didn't know how to respond. I asked if he thought I should call her and tell her of the story. At this point my writing had fallen into the category of "the best of intentions" and was not finished. Aaron's mom had no knowledge of it.

"I think it might be very comforting to her."

I called her right away and told her of the story. I asked if she'd like to hear some of it. We both laughed as I read to her from my very rough draft. Her laughter came through her anguished tears and I knew Paul was right. She needed the duck story.

The clock says three in the morning, Monday, March 16th. I've already called in sick for today. I knew I couldn't put off the completion of this work any longer. This is a tale that must be shared... with love, from a teacher.




Return to the memories page

Return to Aaron's Memory Home Page