Getting Here

It started with two baby ducks in a shoebox. Little did I know this innocent gift from an aunt who lived in the country would be the catalyst which finally moved me into the direction of which I'd been dreaming for ten years.I knew nothing about raising ducks. I bought a book,"Raising the Home Duck Flock". I learned the basics from that book, but soon found our ducks posed questions not answered in print.  Many calls to my aunt brought her sage advice, "Just watch them and you'll learn everything you need to know".

"Guido" and "Luigi" grew into fine, healthy adult ducks. They were of the Muskovy breed, and were, in fact, male and female. I learned, also, that muskovies are very good parents, and soon, we had enough eggs for our table and a growing flock in the backyard. For the most part, no one except for our immediate neighbors knew they even existed. Muskovies don't actually quack. The males hiss, and the females make a cooing sound except when provoked, and then may quack, but not loudly.

We had an inground pool and I feared the ducks would ruin it, thinking they had a pond. But they never swam in it. The only time we found a duck on the pool was when one slid over the edge and landed on the winter cover. When the pool was opened in spring, they kept their distance, content to play in the kiddy pool we had for them. I wondered if this was because their feet couldn't touch bottom? The practice continued after we moved to the country. We noticed the babies enjoyed a swim in the kiddy pool, but seemed to outgrow the urge as they matured. Muskovies, we also learned, are leaner ducks, and are not as waterproof as other breeds. Maybe that was why.

When the flock began to number around 20, babies began to sneek under the fence, and were found swimming in puddles near the street.  The word was out; boxes of escaped ducklings began showing up at our gate when we came home from the grocery store. I feared the city would cite me for raising fowl in my backyard. Although no one reported it, it was time. I'd wanted to move to a place in the country for at least ten years: what better time than now?

It took over two years to sell our home in the city for the price I wanted, and all the farms I'd looked at during that time were subsequently bought by others. I felt I couldn't live on less than 25 acres, but when reality set in, my funds dictated the outcome. If the house was in good condition, there wasn't enough land. If the acreage was adequate, the house and outbuildings needed too much work. I was a widow with a teenaged son who wasn't totally committed to this farm-idea as one year dragged into two with no buyers for our house. And then, it happened. Someone bought our house and I found the farm.  A "farm", hardly, by any stretch of the imagination but mine. The house was solid; it stood near the epicenter of an earthquake some years back but suffered  no damage. But, my dream of no less than 25 acres was readjusted to 4 1/2. The land was gently rolling, on the edge of a woodland with a stream below. It had a barn where the previous owners had kept a horse. It felt like home.

So, on moving day, on the last trip back to the city, we loaded forty ducks into the back of my pickup and turned many heads in passing, as we drove to our farm on the edge of the woods.