Why did the ducks cross the road?

Crossing the road where I grew up was no joke. Our mail and newspaper were delivered on the opposite side of the two lanes. To retrieve them, I stood at the end of our driveway and looked left. In that direction I could see the half-mile to where a busy state highway intersected our quiet county road. Any approaching traffic was visible.

To the right, the road crested. I couldn’t see vehicles coming from the west. Even a driver complying with the 55 mph speed limit would top the hill too quickly to avoid me. I strained to hear the squelch of tires on asphalt. If the only sound was the swish of cornstalks, I ran to the other side.

Once I fetched our deliveries, I stood on the berm and imagined the perils in crossing back. What if baa-ing sheep cover its noise and I step in front of a truck? What if I stumble and get hit by a car? Clutching the post to my chest, I dashed to the safety of our driveway.

Despite my fears, I volunteered for this errand to prevent my grandma from attempting it.  Grandma read her newspaper while crossing the road. This concerned and surprised me. Grandma worried about everything. I figured she would have shared my visions of vehicular mayhem.

Getting my grandparents’ mail was also an excuse to visit. They had sold their place in town and moved into a double-wide trailer behind our house. I loved having them so close. From listening to Grandpa’s tales of coon hunting to enjoying Grandma’s cooking, I had it made. More importantly, Grandma thrived in the country. Raised on a farm, she appreciated having cows as neighbors. Her green thumb helped our garden flourish. She knew the names of birds by sight and would join in their songs.

A duck nested across the road beside our neighbor’s pond one spring. After her eggs hatched, the mother initiated daily jaunts to our property. The duck waddled across the road followed by her five fluffy ducklings. It was the world’s most adorable parade, but I transferred my road-crossing anxiety to them. Grandma joined me. Unlike many of her worries, her concern for the ducks’ safety was legitimate. Still, Grandma enjoyed observing the family as they explored our yard. She would talk to them, getting “quack!” in response.

One evening as Grandma and I watered the roses, we saw the mother duck leading her charges our way. Grandma smiled but said, “That makes me nervous.” I agreed. A vehicle coming over the hill would never see the fowl family.

They had stepped onto the road when we heard a car approaching. It was coming from the east, so the driver could spot the ducks.  He would have ample time to slow or stop to allow them safe passage.

But that’s not what happened.

The car accelerated. We watched in horror as a front tire struck a duckling. Feathers flew when the rear tires made contact. The mother duck hastened to the ditch, but it was too late for three of the ducklings. Beside me, Grandma deflated. “That just makes me sick,” she whispered. I cried. Shortly after, Grandma retreated to her trailer.

Of all the accidental fates I imagined for anyone crossing the road, I never expected to bear witness to deliberate harm. Afterwards whenever I traversed the two lanes, I remembered those ducks, the ones that brought such joy and then such sorrow to Grandma.

Why did the ducks cross the road? To get to the other side.

Too bad that punchline was a killer.

 

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