89 Gonna put on my golden shoes part 2

I just wanted to backtrack a little and admit to some experience with duck poop. After I wrote the last blog I thought "Yeah. But you've seen and smelled duck poop."

I was born on Long Island, but yes very close to Queens. There were no farms except for what people grew in their yards. It was usually the old time ethnic people that had gardens of some sort. The newer, modern people had standard suburban lawns. A lot of the Italian grandpas had grape vines and tomato plants. I remember the stark contrast of white washed brick houses with the green of the gardens. There was usually a statue of the Virgin Mary in the front yard, but in the back there were areas with white crushed oyster shells bleached in the sun. The first compost.

To make this quick there were days when my parents, I should say my Dad, were in a good mood and we'd go for a drive out east on Long Island. Back in those days duck farms were a major industry out east. We'd be driving side roads, maybe stop at a diner and look at potato farms. Then out of nowhere my brother and I would say "What's that smell?" Duck farm. It didn't take long for us to just say duck farm without asking. You'd pass one and hold your nose but be amazed by all that bright white. Orange beaks and bright white. Pretty nice looking. There's a history with that and I read that there's just one duck farm left. Sad.

But it was out in the open. Not an enclosed room. Here's another little duck story but remember these were different times. I used to explore the creek that was a few blocks away. Happened to see duck eggs one day and told my brother. I was pretty jazzed about it. Well, he went and got the eggs and brought them home. My mom was a big proponent of animals and said we should have left them in nature, what little there was. But now our rotten human smell was all over them and we had to raise them. Three eggs so one for each of us. (My sister with the hairspray was still at home.) 

We wrapped them up in a towel and left them in a warm place. I don't know how we knew, I forget, but I remember that mine died. More morbid life theme. "Mine's dead!" 😭

My sister didn't care so she gave me hers. My mom knew quite a bit about things because she grew up on one of those potato farms out near Patchogue, before they bought the deli in Nassau County. So we took an old double porcelain sink and dug a hole in the ground. Sunk that in there and filled it with water. The two ducks hatched. They were the white Long Island ducks, Pekin ducks, who were not really native.

They were my crazy friends with a "power load" of personality. I was pretty little so I didn't do all that much work with them. I played with them. I'd go out there in the backyard and they'd quack at me. Sometimes they got a little wild and chased me. I didn't do anything to bother them, I think they were just crazy. As a matter of fact they got so super crazy one day quacking at me and chasing me, that I ran into the next yard and climbed a dirt hill left from the driveway they were putting in. They had to get the dirt bomb.

Problem is we didn't have a fence to keep them in the yard. Lots of trees and bushes along the side, but sometimes they'd just go out front and walk down the sidewalk and bother the neighbors. The day of reckoning came. My mom told me we had to get rid of the ducks. "But why?" "Because they bit Mrs. Baylis."  That was a tearjerker of a day, that's for sure.

I feel better admitting to the duck poop, but it was always out in the open. No concentrated odors so my revulsion to the chicken poop still stands.