Just Ducky

 So my story of the Peabody ducks actually starts when I was a preschooler. My dad (long divorced from my mom at the time) was in Memphis and sent me a postcard of the famous ducks in the lobby fountain. He said he’d take me sometime. I knew not to hold my breath.

The first time Patrick and I drove to New Orleans together for Mardi Gras, Beatrix was 4. As we approached the outskirts of Memphis I realized where we were and yelled “DUCKS!”

Always up for an adventure, Patrick agreed to stop. Beatrix was fascinated by the ducks in the fountain, and the Duckmaster fell in love with her (and maybe my story). He took us up to the duck penthouse and gave us a private tour. I still have my duck pin from that day.

Since then, we’ve stopped every time (if we’re around at lunchtime, we eat at Huey’s across the street). We’ve met my cousin Janie here. We pass Sun Records on the way out of town.

Today, we actually arrived in time for the March of the Ducks. Every day at 11, the Duckmaster rolls out the red carpet and they come down and waddle from gf elevator to the fountain, as trained to do by a circus artist 86 years ago (not the same ducks).

And damn if, though brief, it was not every bit as good as I hoped it would be.