I don’t know if the hen spoke Duckish or if the ducklings understood Chickenese.
All I know is that she clucked once, and the two ducklings lined up behind her like a couple of construction workers lining up in the sweet tea-refill line at PoFolks.
The hen was a typical mother with her heart almost in single file behind her. She could not have been more proud of them if they had been… well, chickens. It didn’t matter to her that they wouldn’t fit under her wing anymore.
Then off they went, quacking and clucking into the bright sunlight, a joyous Mama taking care of her brood. They sounded like a mismatched band of troubadours as they marched toward the backyard where the grass was deeper, the shade cooler, and grasshoppers galore danced in the wind.
“You know that’s their mama,” the lady said.
I guess the confused look on my face begged for an explanation.
“Well, really, she’s their fill-in mama.”
She explained how a hawk got the mama duck before the eggs hatched.
The old mother hen, who’d had several hatchlings of her own in the past, crawled into the nest without a second thought and started setting on the duck eggs.
Mamas are wise like that, you know—always somehow knowing just what to do. It seems a mother’s heart and mind never changes.
“When the ducklings hatched, they thought the hen was their mama,” the lady explained in a tone as tickled as any grandmother.
To the ducklings, there was nothing unnatural about it, despite the difference in their mama’s nose, toes, and dialect.
To the hen, these ducklings were her brood—her family, despite the difference in their noses, toes, and dialect.
When the time comes, wouldn’t it be interesting to listen to her trying to teach the ducklings to cackle and the damp quackers trying to teach her how to float in the horse trough?
The young ones will pick up on Chickenese fast. Young minds are good at learning new languages.
But when it comes to them teaching her how to float… well, the only chicken I’ve ever seen floating was stark naked and in a pot of water on the stove.
But this is not your everyday chicken, so I’m not surprised at her stepping in and taking on the mothering role for the ducklings.
Once a mama, always a mama.
They are that way. They fix things. They hold things together, even duckling families.
When my brother and I were growing up, our mama was the binding agent around our house. She fixed things.
She protected us, too, even from unseen dangers. One way she did that was by frying pork chops so long that the bone was the easiest part to chew. During the Great Depression, that’s how they killed trichinosis in meat—they fried it to death.
She also kept us under her wing and protected us from dangers we could see. For example, she wouldn’t allow us to even glance at her butcher knife, much less touch it. Daddy kept it so sharp that just looking at it might cause a finger to end up down on the floor.
She protected us by not allowing us to go barefooted before May, no matter if you could fry an April egg on the hood of a Chevrolet. By May 2, she was picking splinters from our toes using a sewing needle. But not without first smutting up the sharp end by holding it over a lit match to kill the germs by—you guessed it—frying them to death. Old habits can be as hard to break as an anvil.
Like that mother hen, Mama had a nurturing spirit. When the cross-tie creosote burned my eyes, she made a “tater poultice” to draw out the heat. She said it would work, and it did.
But her caring ways didn’t always go down easy. She force-dosed us “Syrup of Black Draught” as a cure for stomachaches, backaches, headaches, stubbed toes, and toothaches. You name it, “Black Draught” cured it. Well, it might not have cured it, but it made it where we didn’t dare continue to complain for fear of a second dose. We just put on our shoes, kept our mouths shut, and went on to school.
Taking care of us and eating “mater” sandwiches made’er happy. Wait! I almost forgot. Cornbread soaked in buttermilk made her happy, too.
But what made her happiest of all was having her brood nearby, whether or not they could still fit under her wing.
That included Daddy, my brother and me, her brothers and sisters, a school busload of nieces and nephews, and children she babysit so their mamas could work in town. She kissed a lot of babies. When she did, it was like the past touching the future. It was just that magical.
When she talked about family, her face bloomed and lit up like the sun shining through the window in a flower shop.
She opened her heart, and her love for family would swallow you whole.
But I’ve never met a mother who wasn’t that way. That alone is reason enough for them to have their own special day.
So it should not have to be said that I miss Mama in every way on every day.
And it should not have to be said that I will especially miss her on Sunday.
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