Diane choplin

Geese, it turns out, aren’t the only waterfowl capable of terrorizing humans.

I was five when Mom and I moved from the Bay Area to Modesto, an agricultural town in California’s Central Valley. Dad remained in Menlo Park, living with his parents. Door to door our two houses were exactly ninety-nine miles apart.

I saw my dad for about three long weekends a year, my parents meeting halfway to pass their blonde baton. I slept for most of the journey, magically waking in proximity of Foster’s Freeze or Dairy Queen, just in time to plead my case for a dipped cone.

Another favorite stop was Woodward Park with its large, duck-filled pond surrounded by meticulously mowed lawn and expansive shade trees. For a nickel visitors could purchase pelletized feed for the ducks, dispensed by kiosk. Savvy to the system, the birds kept an eye out for humans with full hands. Mallards and Pekins casually waddled up, bobbing their feathered heads and softly quacking. If no treats were offered, they’d either return whence they came, or nonchalantly start preening.

Mom parked the car and started digging around in her purse.

I stirred at the sound, disoriented, thinking a critter was scratching from within my bedroom walls. Something fell as I stretched and wriggled, ensnared by sheets. Only there were no critters or sheets. I was captive only to my car seat. Oh yeah, I’m going to Dad’s. I rubbed my eyes and looked out the window, recognizing Woodward Park.

“Shoot!” Mom muttered, “I don’t have any change.”

She tried the glove box, then the insatiable voids between seat cushions.

“But we came to feed the ducks,” I whined, groggy and disappointed. 

“We’ll figure something out, sweetie. How about your crackers? Got any left?”

Peering inside, I inhaled their irresistible salty sweet cheesiness.

“Lots!” I lifted my box triumphantly.

Mom was an expert road trip packer, tucking snacks, toys and picture books aplenty within easy reach. Cheese crackers in square or fish form were nearly always on offer. I loved their intense flavor, how they melted on contact with my tongue. When I left Mom’s 1973 Vega for Dad’s 1968 Mustang, she’d return home with my outline traced in bright orange crumbs.

Mom and I headed to the pond, holding hands. I in a yellow windbreaker and handmade corduroy overalls, clutching a box of Cheez-Its, my fine hair sticking out in all directions; Mom in her kidney bean leather jacket, knee-high boots, and plaid mini skirt she also made, her waist-length hair brushed to silky sheen.

A feathered envoy greeted us, forming a semi-circle. Happy to oblige their gentle requests for treats, I grabbed a handful of crackers and tossed them in front of me. Their response was intense and immediate.

Ducks pounced on Cheez-Its as if they were the last edibles on planet Earth. What, at previous visits, could be described as a polite garden party became violent feeding frenzy. Snapping at each other, they loudly demanded more. Startled, my eyes wide in shock, I took several steps back, automatically dispensing another handful.

Ducks flew in from all directions. Gentle creatures I once wanted to pet now terrified me. They pressed in, a raucous feathered mass fixing me with too many greedy eyes. The car. I needed to get to the car!

Turning yellow coattail, I ran.

Still clutching my Cheez-Its box, unknowingly at an angle, crackers fell out in a dotted line behind me. The web-footed mob followed. I looked back, screaming in terror, and dropped the box in a last ditch effort to escape unscathed.

Then it was over.

Mom scooped me up.

Safely perched on her hip, the birds were no longer menacing. They crowded around the box, comically losing their heads to its depth. Mom was smiling, taking it all in. I wasn’t sure how to feel.

“Those are some hungry ducks!” she said.

“Ya,” I mustered.

“I think they like cheese crackers better than pellets.”

“Ya,” I said.

“Next time we bring crackers, maybe we just toss them out the car window.”

“Or an airplane.”

Perspective is everything. As a kid, I thought I rarely saw my dad because of his work. In my twenties I learned he rarely worked. Years after his death, Mom revealed that my few long weekends a year with him, crumbs wrapped in the bright orange glow of a little girl’s wish for her dad, were per her insistence. I was stunned. I remember him as always happy to see me.

“It’s time you saw your daughter,” she’d said during phone calls made after my bedtime.

I didn’t ask her about his response, if he dithered or sounded perturbed, or how many times she’d called. Some things are better left in the box.