A Tale of Ducks, Golf Clubs, and Farmyard Justice
A long time ago, on our little patch of land, we had chickens and ducks roaming freely—though we didn’t call them “free-range” back then. To us, they were just part of the farm, providing fresh eggs and keeping pests in check. The chickens were bantams, small but scrappy, and the ducks were mallards, sleek and usually well-behaved.

Most of the time, the birds did their jobs without issue. But there was one duck—a particularly bold mallard—who had it out for my mom.

This duck had a vendetta.

Every time Mom stepped outside, he’d lie in wait. The moment she appeared, he’d charge, wings flapping, beak aimed straight for her ankles. You might think a duck peck wouldn’t be a big deal, but Mom swore it hurt, and she was done being terrorized by a feathered tyrant.

Then came the day she snapped.

The duck made his usual attack, sprinting toward her like a tiny, quacking linebacker. But this time, Mom was ready. Spotting the only weapon within reach—a discarded 9 iron from an abandoned Mayflower moving container (thanks to Dad’s job)—she grabbed it and charged back.

The duck’s confidence faltered. His prey wasn’t running away—she was coming for him. Panicked, he took flight, hovering about waist-high, quacking hysterically. And then—WHACK!

Mom’s swing connected.

For a brief, surreal moment, it looked like an air show stunt. The duck barrel-rolled midair before crashing to the ground in an unceremonious heap. It was not a graceful landing, but something tells me he didn’t feel much.

Mom swore she hadn’t meant to kill him—just scare him. But I think she scared the quack right out of him.

After that? Peace. Absolute, glorious peace. No more ankle ambushes, no more feathered harassment. Just a quiet farm where Mom could walk outside without looking over her shoulder.

And as for that 9 iron? Well, let’s just say it earned a permanent place in family lore.

Moral of the story? Don’t mess with Mom. Especially if she’s armed with a golf club.