POOH-INSPIRED DUCKS ON A LAZY SUMMER DAY
by Dana Snyder-Grant
The Beacon (Acton MA)
"Connections" column
7/31/2008
“Let's find a shady place by the river to watch the ducks,” I say eagerly
to my husband, Jim, as we stand on a meadow in Randolph, New Hampshire in
the White Mountains. We follow the sign, PATH, into trees
by the Moose River, at the base of 5,000 foot Mount Madison and Mount
Adams. It's noon on a warm, summer day and we have come up here to watch
the town's annual duck race. This is the epitome of summer: relaxation,
letting go, fun, and fantasy combined. Let me bring you with me as six
hundred yellow rubber ducks come alive.
Duck races are inspired by the game of Pooh sticks, a pasttime that
Winnie-the-Pooh created on a bridge with his friends when dropping sticks
into a river on a lazy, peaceful summer day. They would lean over the
other side of the bridge to see whose stick would come out
first.
Watch yourself transform on another lazy day as rubber ducks, instead of
sticks, become live beings who float, or race, on the river. You have
bought and named a few ducks earlier that day or that month, but you have
no responsibility for them.
The proceeds of this race will go to the town's public library. Owners of
the top finishers on the Moose River will win prizes, donated by local
businesses and residents. The grand prize – box seat tickets for the Red
Sox - will go to the last place duck.
As Jim and I walk on the path towards the water, a band of teenagers,
carrying long poles and wearing yellow duck helmets, walk across the
grass towards the dam, where the ducks will begin the race. I think these
kids have the coolest job in the world.
“It's the stuck duck patrol!” I cry out, remembering this crew from
previous years. These young people will wade in the river and rescue
ducks that drift to its banks and get stuck in rocks and branches in the
water.
Jim and I find a shady spot by the water's edge. We look around and see
other Randolph residents. Jim's cousins, Guy and his red-haired son,
Frederick, pass by us and wave hello. Downstream, we see flags at the
finish line. After a short wait and a loud toot from the town's fire
engine, the race coordinator calls out, “Let the race begin!” We wait a
few minutes and then, looking upstream, we see the first sighting of
yellow, and soon, hundreds of flashes of yellow come into view. “The duck
are coming, the ducks are coming!” Jim shouts.
Community fun and relaxation become fantasy. The best thing is that you
are rooting for all the ducks, because you don't know which one is yours.
A large cluster of ducks pass by us, and soon, smaller groupings follow.
Then, ducks come by one at a time. Cheers come from downstream at the
finish line. The first duck has completed the race. But winning seems
irrelevant right now. It's the lazy, peaceful day that matters.
More ducks drift by us; the movements of some seem intentional. They've
become real ducks to me now, actually racing against each other. One
drifts near me and gets stuck in a branch. “Over here!” I call out to the
duck patrol, and a water-laden teen in duck garb sloshes through the
water to the rescue.
Relaxation allows the fantasy play to happen. I see teens on duck patrol
peer for lost ducks and rescue a few. A minute or so later, when I think
all the ducks have passed by, a lone duck drifts into view from behind a
log, and slowly meanders past me. I think, “That's me. Easy, slow and
steady. Last, but not least.”
We all come out of the trees onto the grass. I see Jim's mother, age 90,
with her sun hat on, with her slightly younger sister, Betty. A woman who
I recognize but whose name escapes me, stands behind a table and begins
to call out the top duck finishers – their owners and numbers – and their
prizes. Jim's mom wins four quarts of blueberries. Others win pedicures,
massages, dvds, or a cord of split lumber.
After 10 minutes, I am hardly listening, for I never win anything. But
that's not the point today. Jim Meiklejohn, a long-time family friend,
walks by Jim and me and says with excitement, “Last duck wins the Sox
tickets!” We are only fair weather fans, but I smile, anyway. A minute
later, I vaguely hear, “Snyder-Grant, #242.” I'm oblivious, until I hear
Jim's brother, usually mild-mannered, say excitedly, “Jim, isn't that
yours? It's the last one!”
Jim walks up to the table, to much applause, and picks up the winning
envelope. He returns and hands it to me. Stapled to the envelope, is the
winning ticket with my name, and the word "LAST" written at the
top in large letters. Sure enough, inside the envelope are the two box
seat tickets - for another day of play in September.
Dana Snyder-Grant is a social worker and a free-lance writer who lives in
Acton. Her new book, Just Like Life, Only More So and Other Stories of Illness,
can be purchased at Willow Books in Acton or on the internet at http://www.justlikelifeonlymore