A Fowl Situation

The idea that some lives matter less is the root of all that is wrong with the world. 

Paul Farmer

We all know why the chicken crossed the road, but why did the duck freak out in the street?


On our Sunday morning donut run, Tina and I drove past a frantic looking fowl that was continuously running back and forth between the curbside and out into oncoming traffic. I thought for sure duck a l'orange was going to be on the roadkill menu.

Sugar-coated cravings- for the donuts, not the duck- were tossed out the window as we turned around and pulled over to check on the distressed creature. Approaching closer, we could hear a chorus of tiny quacks but their source went unseen. Following the faint sound led us to a ditch drain along the sidewalk and upon further inspection, we could see ten fuzzy little coal colored heads looking skyward, crying out their confusion.

Immediately, Tina laid on the ground and stuck her arm through the rusted grate, trying in earnest to reach them. But the drop was at least 5ft below, making it impossible to even touch the ducklings.
Hoping to obtain the assistance of Animal Control, I dialed 411. However, because it was Sunday, my call was rolled over to the local police department. I quickly explained the situation to the lady dispatcher and simply asked if she knew of a telephone number I might contact for our predicament.

She informed me that even if Animal Control had been open, they would not have helped me since they will only deal with domesticated animals. So she gave me the number for Raleigh's Wildlife Services. Their location is approximately 3hrs away, but I assumed they would put me in touch with someone local.

Thanking her, I hung up and promptly called the 919 number only to be greeted by a gruff voice telling me he knew nothing of wildlife, but did know that I had interrupted is morning sleep-in.

Meanwhile, a few kind strangers had stopped and were all brainstorming rescue plans for the ducklings. One lady parked her van in the middle of the road to slow down traffic since the mother duck was constantly waddling into the street. A gentleman had purchased a 2x4 at the nearby hardware store thinking the babies could use it as a ramp out of the hole, and another lady helped by physically lifting the cast iron grate (she was hella-strong!) so that Tina could slide her body down into the concrete tunnel.

After several other 411 searches, and having zero luck on the phone, I finally called the police department back in hopes of obtaining a proper number for the Wildlife Services. Once again, the same lady answered and I conveyed to her my dilemma, asking if by chance there was an alternate number I could try.

Instead of double checking the number, she began a tirade, vehemently explaining that she had given me the only number she had, that it was the number the police department had been giving out for twenty years, and that it was correct. (I thought that in the time it took for her to say all of that, she could have just repeated the number).

At the end of her defensively toned spiel, she finally gave me the number again, which by the way was different as she has transposed two of the digits. Then she proceeds to tell me that the police department had "real emergencies" to deal with.

I was also very impolitely told that every single squad car and emergency resource available to the city was in current use due to a highly important phone call waiting on the other line. Now, I did not ask for a squad car, a police officer, a fire truck, or even a security guard. All I asked for was a telephone number. A correct telephone number.

Not once did she ask for my name, location, or even my cell because I would hate to think she might actually say something like, "I can't offer you any assistance at the moment, but I may be able to find out something later and call you back at a more convenient time." I guess it's asking to much for common courtesy or civility these days while searching for help.

The ironic thing is while she is describing this supposed apocalyptic, highly important phone call holding on line 2, an actual city police cruiser drives by us. He slows down to a crawl, observes the chaos, but ultimately does not stop. Granted, I am no cop, but one would surmise seeing three vehicles (one parked in the middle of the street), a man with a 2x4, a woman lifting a grate, another woman with half her body inside of a drainage ditch, and a large duck weaving in out of traffic, would at least warrant a "Is everything ok here?" sort of question.

We would also learn later that not 30ft  from us atop the hill, sat two police officers playing on their iphones while watching runners go by for a charity 5k in the neighborhood. God help whoever is holding on line 2.

Dialing the correct wildlife number led to an endless menu of options that all ended with, "Our hours of operation are..." So yeah, they were closed.

Finally, the grate was removed completely which allowed Tina to jump fully down into the tunnel. She managed to capture one of the ducklings, but the others waddled away further into the drainage system.

Not to be deterred, Tina knew there had to be an outlet somewhere within the stone-walled labyrinth. Finding her way to a briar-covered culvert, Tina placed the rescued duckling at the above ground exit, using it as bait to coax the mama duck to her.

From this vantage point, the mama duck called out to her babies in a series of quacks. We all held our breath, but slowly a steady procession of nine fluffy heads appeared, making their way through the briars and into the winged embrace of their mother. The victorious reunion was cloaked in elation, and in that moment all was right with the world.

While I was flummoxed by the behavior of the dispatcher and officer, I can still easily believe in the humanity of strangers.

 A huge thank you goes out to the man who spent money on an unused board, to the lady who was late for work because she stopped traffic, to the woman with super human strength opening a way, and to the couples that pulled over checking on us, worried we were broke down.

A feathered family of 11 was saved that day. It may not seem significant to most or even to the eco-system, but I have no doubt in the importance of people working collectively.

The cry for help, no matter how small, should always be answered. If two separate species can come together, then surely those of the same cannot be indifferent.

Shoes and Gum

This past week was Teacher Appreciation Week, and like how most of my assignments were in school, this blog is late.

There are educators that give 110% of themselves to their students every single day, but I honestly believe that I got the ones that gave 120%. I have written about a few of them before, but in honor of the week, I would like to highlight one more.
  
Mrs. Barbara Williams- 8th Grade Social Studies


Mrs. Williams was the first teacher to ever give me in-school suspension. Yep, I was chewing bubble gum. Tough kid, hard-core stuff. But rules were rules, and one had to adhere to them.

I still have the signed yellow detention slip, dated 2/11/93. I use it as a reminder that a person is only as good as their word. Mrs. Williams had said that if anyone- apparently that meant me too- was caught chewing gum, then they would be assigned ISS. No exceptions, no excuses.

Evidently gum was making the rounds onto too many places- desks, floors, walls- basically everywhere except for where it belonged. It was for the best really because I would have been mortified if my gum had ended up on the sole of her Prada pumps. I honestly don't know if she wore Prada, but she looked like it. She was the epitome of sophistication who internalized a quiet strength, and could easily be called a figurehead for compassion. 

Always elegant in both her attire and composure, Mrs. Williams held court in anything but a stately classroom. We were at an old country school without air conditioning, and we had those radiators that every teacher said we'd crack our heads on if we didn't stop leaning back in our chairs. But Mrs. Williams believed that room to be the segue to greatness, and thus we did too. It was instilled on a daily basis that us, her handful of students, could and would change the world. She continuously encouraged us to blaze new trails, become leaders, and to live out our dreams. With every history lesson, we were reminded that it only took one person to make a difference.

Myself, along with a few others, were chosen by her to participate in a living history day at the local county museum. And while we were clothed in the costume of early colonial settlers, we were also draped by her devotion to make us believe that one day we would be just as important as those we were impersonating.

In my yearbook she wrote: "Madam President, Just remember me when you get elected to some high office. I appreciate your interest in politics and history. Additionally, you know how to speak your mind and offer your opinion in a nice way. I'm glad you came back to Cool Spring! Sincerely, Mrs. Williams."
See what I mean? 

I am undoubtedly a massive dork, so you can only imagine how that nerdiness drifted into my apparel. I had one earring, huge glasses, and always wore two different colored socks. On the day of graduation, Mrs. Williams pulled me to the side and pointed down to her shoes. Initially I was terrified that she had stepped in gum. But no. Instead, she had on two different colored shoes! She proceeded to give me the largest grin I'd ever seen from her and said, "I did this for you."

Now, a part of me can't help but think that she put her shoes on in the dark that morning, but a larger part of me wants to believe that she really did do that just for me. Either way, no one will ever be able to fill her shoes. She is retired now and I grieve for the kids who will never pretend to cross the Delaware, never participate in a mock Presidential debate, or never chew gum in her class.

This coming week when you send your kids off to school, how about sending along a simple note of thanks to their teacher? And if you are lucky enough to still be in contact with your own former educators, send them a note too (or a pair of mismatched shoes).