This was shared with me. Almost so sad it's not funny, but really, you can't help but laugh out of control! I recommend putting down the coffee or food while reading!
Some years ago an older couple from Michigan moved to the area in Florida where my family and I lived and became members of our church. Soon some of their old friends also moved from that same area and joined our local congregation. After hearing my children’s story one Sabbath, they all cornered me at our potluck after the church service and began telling me some of the funniest animal stories I had ever heard. The four agreed that the strangest and most outrageous, story happened to the older couple just before they left to move to Florida. After knowing this couple for so many years since then I know this story had to be true.
It was in the middle of October when a neighbor lady gave our new friend a small basket of cherries, which she took to her kitchen. She washed and sugared them, probably with jam or jelly in mind. She then placed them in an old canning pot to boil but was sidetracked by her neighbor again. The pot was covered with a magazine and left on the counter. While she was out, her husband came in and placed the pot on the back porch thinking it was kitchen scraps to be thrown away. After a few days his wife discovered the pot and exclaimed how very forgetful she was and lifted the magazine to peek in. Oh no! Those good cherries with all that sugar had gone to waste. There were bubbles on top and the odor was like real dirty socks, you know, the kind that stand alone when you take them off.
She removed the magazine and sat the pot on the ground outside the back door to dispose of later, hoping her neighbor wouldn’t see it. As soon as the pot was on the ground her three pet ducks came over to search the pot for any possible goodies. Looking back as she started inside, all she could see was three white heads in the pot. At least the cherries wouldn’t go to waste, she thought, and her neighbor would never know.
Later that evening, when her husband returned from work, he came through the back door as usual. Normally he removed his dirty boots but not this time. He came in with his boots on and a very sad face. Immediately his wife knew that something was wrong.
“What is it honey?”
“How did the ducks die?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” she replied in puzzled voice.
“You mean you didn’t know?” he asked sadly.
“No,” she replied and went out the back door to see for herself. Sure enough, there were her three half grown ducks all stretched out on the sidewalk, ‘limp as a dishrag’ and ‘dead as a door nail.’ Her heart was just broken, as in the darkness, her husband placed the three little bundles of white feathers in a box to be buried the next morning.
Early the following morning as she was fixing breakfast, her husband went outside to do what had to be done. “Honey! Honey! Come here,” he shouted. Startled, she headed for the back door. With her hand cupped over her mouth, she stopped just short of screaming at the strange sight before her eyes.
It seems that just before they had turned in for the night, her husband sneaked out and plucked all the feathers off the ducks (except the wing feathers, which were too tough) to add to their feather collection for a downy quilt. Being a practical man, he saw no reason to let these feathers be wasted. It was a thoughtful and innocent gesture with the exception of one detail: the ducks were not dead. That’s right; they were stumbling all over the yard. They bumped into the car, and the flowerpots. For long periods of time, they just stood with their heads on the ground in a tripod position, staring cross-eyed at the grass. Three bluish-pink little quackers, woozy and cold, were a sight to behold.
Apparently, those cherries had gotten just a little too ripe and those poor ducks had consumed just about all that potent mixture in the pot. Not only had they almost gotten themselves buried alive, but now they probably had the worst headache a duck ever had. Standing there in the cold without their clothes, they looked like some cartoon character. In the place of each plucked feather, was a red tipped goose bump. They looked like ducks with the worse case of measles the couple had ever seen.
The couple didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. They picked up the wobbly little pets and took them inside to their warm spare bedroom. Now what were they going to do with three raw-hide ducks? Being the kind-hearted, motherly type, the wife did the only thing a good mother could do; she knitted each one of those ducks a bright red sweater. Each sweater had holes in the sides for the wings and holes in the bottom for the legs (and other purposes). While this did relieve some of her guilt it did little for the ducks pride.
Now it goes without saying that the neighbor soon saw those ducks in their fine red sweaters. A neighborly visit was in order. The conversation very quickly turned to how and why did the ducks get plucked? Trying hard to hold back a laugh, she blurted out “Bad cherries. It had to be the bad cherries.”
Some years ago an older couple from Michigan moved to the area in Florida where my family and I lived and became members of our church. Soon some of their old friends also moved from that same area and joined our local congregation. After hearing my children’s story one Sabbath, they all cornered me at our potluck after the church service and began telling me some of the funniest animal stories I had ever heard. The four agreed that the strangest and most outrageous, story happened to the older couple just before they left to move to Florida. After knowing this couple for so many years since then I know this story had to be true.
It was in the middle of October when a neighbor lady gave our new friend a small basket of cherries, which she took to her kitchen. She washed and sugared them, probably with jam or jelly in mind. She then placed them in an old canning pot to boil but was sidetracked by her neighbor again. The pot was covered with a magazine and left on the counter. While she was out, her husband came in and placed the pot on the back porch thinking it was kitchen scraps to be thrown away. After a few days his wife discovered the pot and exclaimed how very forgetful she was and lifted the magazine to peek in. Oh no! Those good cherries with all that sugar had gone to waste. There were bubbles on top and the odor was like real dirty socks, you know, the kind that stand alone when you take them off.
She removed the magazine and sat the pot on the ground outside the back door to dispose of later, hoping her neighbor wouldn’t see it. As soon as the pot was on the ground her three pet ducks came over to search the pot for any possible goodies. Looking back as she started inside, all she could see was three white heads in the pot. At least the cherries wouldn’t go to waste, she thought, and her neighbor would never know.
Later that evening, when her husband returned from work, he came through the back door as usual. Normally he removed his dirty boots but not this time. He came in with his boots on and a very sad face. Immediately his wife knew that something was wrong.
“What is it honey?”
“How did the ducks die?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” she replied in puzzled voice.
“You mean you didn’t know?” he asked sadly.
“No,” she replied and went out the back door to see for herself. Sure enough, there were her three half grown ducks all stretched out on the sidewalk, ‘limp as a dishrag’ and ‘dead as a door nail.’ Her heart was just broken, as in the darkness, her husband placed the three little bundles of white feathers in a box to be buried the next morning.
Early the following morning as she was fixing breakfast, her husband went outside to do what had to be done. “Honey! Honey! Come here,” he shouted. Startled, she headed for the back door. With her hand cupped over her mouth, she stopped just short of screaming at the strange sight before her eyes.
It seems that just before they had turned in for the night, her husband sneaked out and plucked all the feathers off the ducks (except the wing feathers, which were too tough) to add to their feather collection for a downy quilt. Being a practical man, he saw no reason to let these feathers be wasted. It was a thoughtful and innocent gesture with the exception of one detail: the ducks were not dead. That’s right; they were stumbling all over the yard. They bumped into the car, and the flowerpots. For long periods of time, they just stood with their heads on the ground in a tripod position, staring cross-eyed at the grass. Three bluish-pink little quackers, woozy and cold, were a sight to behold.
Apparently, those cherries had gotten just a little too ripe and those poor ducks had consumed just about all that potent mixture in the pot. Not only had they almost gotten themselves buried alive, but now they probably had the worst headache a duck ever had. Standing there in the cold without their clothes, they looked like some cartoon character. In the place of each plucked feather, was a red tipped goose bump. They looked like ducks with the worse case of measles the couple had ever seen.
The couple didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. They picked up the wobbly little pets and took them inside to their warm spare bedroom. Now what were they going to do with three raw-hide ducks? Being the kind-hearted, motherly type, the wife did the only thing a good mother could do; she knitted each one of those ducks a bright red sweater. Each sweater had holes in the sides for the wings and holes in the bottom for the legs (and other purposes). While this did relieve some of her guilt it did little for the ducks pride.
Now it goes without saying that the neighbor soon saw those ducks in their fine red sweaters. A neighborly visit was in order. The conversation very quickly turned to how and why did the ducks get plucked? Trying hard to hold back a laugh, she blurted out “Bad cherries. It had to be the bad cherries.”
