(Note:
Of late I have been cleaning out some of the detritus of a lifetime, a part of
which was destined to sale on Ebay. An old wooden duck decoy was one of these
items, but when I started to write the description of Ducky for Ebay it took on
a mind of its own. Needless to say Ducky is still with us, not unlike the
Cabbage Patch Kid that my wife tried to throw out after our daughter left for
college that was rescued from the garbage sack by Kokee, our naturally bred
Maine Coon Cat who would hear none of it.)
.
Ducky
is in pretty bad shape. He’s lost his head a few times (but always got it
back) and has broken his neck on at least two occasions. He’s not the proud,
handsome Canvass Back decoy he once was when he first bobbed in the currents of
the Detroit River (Canadian shore) as the 19th century drew to a
close. These were the days of the market hunters who decimated the duck
populations of Lake St. Claire, the lower Detroit River and Lake Erie with their
4 gauge cannons that had to be mounted in the prow of a boat since no man could
hold and fire them. 50 ducks on the water was a good shot back then and the
patrons of Demonico’s in New York, a few blocks from where I write, were
appreciative. Ducky and his approximately 150 decoy companions worked diligently
in the cold November waters each year for a series of owners right through to
the early 1950’s, by which time their number was reduced to just over 100. At
that point they were retired to the back of an Amherstburg barn where they
suffered and deteriorated in silence.
When
my first wife and I moved back to Detroit in 1966, we had both become or at
least fancied ourselves avid hunters. My father was the largest single
stockholder in a company called Browning Steamship that in addition to operating
freighters on the Great Lakes also owned Boblo Island (known as
Etiowiteedannenti to the original inhabitants) and its amusement park (a
perennial candidate for bankruptcy) in the lower Detroit River. A friend
suggested that Boblo was right in the path of the Canvass Back migration.
Apparently nobody had noticed this since the older generation of Amherstburg
hunters was too busy passing away. The caretaker at Boblo claimed to have seen
flights of Canvass Backs numbering in the hundreds settling down for the night
in the island’s eddies. He also knew about the lost set of decoys back at the
barn on shore. We convinced the Board of Browning to shell out the $200 to buy
the decoys and a like amount to restore them. One of the Browning brothers
("Red") was a duck hunter himself who had never shot a Can on Boblo.
The Board acceded to our wishes.
The
decoys were in terrible shape. We estimated that about 90 could be repaired and
restored to working condition. My wife saved the rest. Why not sand them down,
stain them and patch them back together, she thought. They would make nice gifts
as long as they didn’t have to swim in the river. So Ducky survives and
hopefully will limp his way through the next 100 years.
As
to Ducky’s brethren, they went a long way towards curing me of killing things.
We got it right the first time we tried. We laid out the mighty 90 and withdrew
to our respective shooting stations that consisted of shacks up against the
embankment resembling outhouses with openings for our swift and true guns. Of
course I had my duck caller too. This resembled a limp phallus like rubber tube
with a reed at one end that when wiggled emitted quacking sounds like a duck at
peace with stuff. Well, I sat there for a full five minutes when a pair of Cans
splashed right into the decoys. “Quack, quack,” they said, so I shook my
rubber phallus in reply. Multiple quacks replied as an additional 100 or so
ducks settled in to join the pair. Well, they were about 50 feet out. And having
never honed my predatory instincts to this level, I inadvertently shook my
phallus and ‘Quack, quack,” replied the phallus. “Quack, quack,” replied
the gathering multitudes that continued to arrive, and they all swam a little
bit closer. The “Quack, quack” of my phallus was growing fainter but frightfully
more effective.
Finally,
it’s too much. These guys love you. What right do they have to do that? You
stand and yell. Shocked they start to take off. Two barrels are emptied. This is
not culling, no blood sport here. It’s slaughter pure and simple. Five duck
carcasses twitch in the current. This will keep you awake some nights forever.
Hunting is certainly no crime. The legacy of the market hunters is all about
brutality and waste. That was a crime. The decoys were not the guilty.
Some
years later the Family sold Boblo to a group headed Michigan AAA. When I asked
my father what happened to the decoys, he questioned my sanity. “Who cares,”
he replied, “why do you?”
“Because,
Dad, they’re worth more today than that damn Rollercoaster you and the
Brownings had built there three years ago was ever worth.”
Well, at least
Ducky is still around.
Here
are a couple of sites dedicated to Boblo:
http://www.bkejwanong.com/sombra/boblo_release.htm
(The owners strike back)
http://cec.chebucto.org/ClosPark/Boblo.html
(History of Boblo Island)