Resslin' Around by Casey Ressler

Attack of the quack

Rockwellian, I thought. A dad and his soon-to-be 4-year-old daughter feeding the ducks on a snowy day -- it had all the makings of a Norman Rockwell print, and it would be fun.

All day, my daughter told anyone who would listen that she and her daddy were going to feed the ducks, there at Wasilla Creek. She was excited about the possibility. The last time she did it, she threw little pieces of bread into the creek as ducks convened on them, quacking all the while.

Thursday afternoon, we got out of the truck, some bread in hand.

"Remember to throw it into the water so the ducks can get it," I told her.

We never made it to the water. In fact, we barely made it out of the truck as a stampede of ducks overtook us, sending her shimmying up my body as fast as her little arms and legs could go.

We went straight from Rockwell to some horror movie starring a bunch of crazed quackers that are willing to kill for some stale biscotti, minus the mocha latt/.

Before I knew it, I had my daughter clinging to life around my neck, choking any possible breath from my lungs. If she could have, she probably would have stood on my bald head, just to get away from the several hundred ducks who were trying to commandeer my bag of bread. I could only toss the bread about three feet because I had a small child wrapped around both of my arms.

"Throw it, dad. THROW IT RIGHT NOW! LET'S GO!" she started screaming, and as fast as I could, I was tossing old hamburger buns as if I were tossing the discus in the Olympics. It turned out to be counterproductive -- it just brought more ducks up to us, crowding us.

"I never see this happening when I drive by here," I told Madison. "Normally, these ducks are pretty tame."

About that time is when I noticed that about 100 ducks had taken several hamburger buns onto the highway, effectively stopping traffic while they held a little meeting right there. People started honking their horns both ways to get the ducks to move. They didn't. The way traffic zips up and down the highway, I thought for sure I'd have to explain to Madison why some of those ducks are now squashed and not moving on the pavement.

Luckily, I didn't have to have that conversation. Just then, I felt it -- the poke of a duck's beak against my ankle.

"That duck just had a go at me" I told Maddie.

"Dad, I don't like this. Let's go," she said.

With that, I flung my remaining pieces of bread as far as I could with a young toddler hanging on my arm and quickly got in the truck, trying to end the nightmare as fast as I could. I was out of breath, but I got the upper hand on the quackers.

"Dad, instead of feeding the ducks, let's go get some ice cream," Madison asked from the back seat.

Sounded like a good plan to me. I couldn't remember seeing any Norman Rockwell painting of a dad and his daughter covered with mud and duck pecks in an ice cream parlor, but he sure missed a golden opportunity.

Casey Ressler (valleylife@frontiersman.com) is the Valley Life editor. He normally likes cheese with his quackers.