Ducks in a Row

This week I’m getting all my ducks in a row. Every ducks is a moving duck, so better duck: duck-stuff’s a’ flying. Well in our case Rob-duck-stuff is moving in a big duck truck, not really flying per se, but don’t let that stop you; you should still duck.

Our stuff is flying and we don’t know where.

That makes duck lining a tough thing to get down. How do you make a line to nowhere? Right now I guess it’s more of a circle-line than line-line. Our stuff is a ring of dropping ducks around your coffee cups.

Remember those shooting gallery tin-ducks, ducking off the edge of a conveyer only to reappear on the other side? Well, while those vision tins of painted-ducks dance through your head, picture each duck with a box on its back. You’d think the box would slide off tin-duck like water off a ducks back, but it doesn’t. It just come back up the other side. Same ducks. More boxes. Never ending.

Endless ducks in endless row carrying endless boxes. Our boxes. Our stuff. Our Ducks.

Leading those ducks over the edge are our duck scouts. Our ducks scouts are portrayed by Ma and Pa Pirate Queen. Think of the pirate parents as the Lewis and Clarke ducks exploring the Michigan wilderness for the new Rob and PQ homestead.

The pirate parent duck scouts are the old wise ducks, pa duck the old duck, ma duck the wise duck. Picture Gandalf the grey duck and Elmer the Fudd duck waddling from open house to open house like traveling pilgrim evangelist ducks.

“Have you heard the good news? RobBlogger may be moving here!”

This line of duck talk will probably get me Dick Cheney buck shot.

“Wobby season!”

So I’ll continue.

The Queen and I wanted to be house ducks. We’ve acquired whole lots of duck stuff and we need a duck nest to house it. A house nest holds more duck stuff than an apartment nest does.

QED.

Storing boxes means moving boxes and all our storage needs require a flock of moving packages. Some find the duck boxing daunting. I don’t.

Aim for the bill. I don’t know what that means. Go ahead and reread it. You’ll figure something out. I’m sure it refers to the expense moving. Moving isn’t about the moving price though. Moving is about the moving experience.

You know what? For all the times that I’ve moved, I don’t mind being moving ducks. It’s better than being sitting ducks, and like many other life events, moving a thoughtless moving task. If someone shoots the box out of my hand, it’s done. There’ll always be another box to replace it in the next circular revolution.

In our revolution, Lewis and Clarke ducks scouted prime landing sites. Unfortunately Michigan homes are swooped up by other migrant ducks undergoing America’s economic resettlement before we can quack an offer. Squatters thwarting our manifest destiny. I offered a solution:

“We’ve bring you blankets.”

The Pirate Queen said no.

This moves us across the line to apartment ducks. That means more of our duck stuff is duck dropping and not duck coming. Can we survive that?

I dunno. I line a deep nest, but I’ve been lining my nest with Thoreau lately. All that box duck stuff just weighs us down. If we didn’t have stuff, we wouldn’t have to move stuff. I’m burdened by a duck conveyer of my own making.

Time to cut ducks and trim fat. I’m the judge jury and executioner of all things Rob-ducky and I’m knee deep in duck stuff. I have to evaluate if every duck should stay or go. I’ve kept and coddled these ducklings for 15 years. Is it time to let them fly--if for no other reason than that there’s one less duck in the row?

And the ducks I reject may haunt me forever.

“Out! Out! Damn spotty Daffy rug!”

My feathers are more than a little ruffled and there are other ducks besides stuff ducks to line against the wall. This is my quacking orchestration. Power ducks, gas ducks, phone ducks, travel logistic ducks all need to be set into motion. If the right ducks don’t tow the duck line, my duck row could look like British teeth. Or even worse, I may lose all ducks altogether.

Duck season. Heh, heh, heh, heh…

Sigh...

I’ve spent 43 years accumulating and moving my ducks. I’ve done it longer than any career I’ve held. I take my ducks personally.

I’m a ducking professional.

The first time I moved, it was a great adventure; stepping out into the world, becoming my own drake. I didn’t have much more than a room to move so it was pretty easy.

The next time I moved I wasn’t as eager but it was still fun. I had friends, beer and pizza to keep the duck-walk moving.

Then next move I grew a new appreciation for Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. Oh, I still don’t enjoy the story, but burning a pile of books before a move now seems benevolent.

Today, moving is no longer about the adventure, it’s about the drudgery.

As a kid, the first time I saw a duck it was a ducking new experience. The duck might as well be a unicorn, cuz that duck was a first duck. As I got older, each new duck becomes just another duck packed together in a flock of ducks.

This time my duck walk leads to a duck apartment. The Queen has landed with a lease in bill and we’re moving on. Now my ducks are all moving ducks. I’m done. I’m tired. It’s no longer about the great adventure on the other side ( and I assure you, for a SoCal boy moving to Michigan, it is a great adventure), it’s about the same-ol’ same-ol’ process that gets me there.

Oh, I’ll snap out of my repetition, just as soon as the Rob ducks get on the road. Until then, well…everything is just ducky.

Detroit or bust.