My mother’s record collection was the greatest find of my childhood. Listening to her music was a way of getting to know her in a way she had yet to reveal to me in person. My little sister and I shared a small bedroom with side-by-side single beds in our little white house with a picket fence on Rochambeau Drive. We’d bounce from bed to bed listening to records, and on the rainy days, we’d put on our best disco outfits and let one particular record play over and over again. I can only imagine the headache my parents endured hearing this track on repeat all afternoon.
Of course, we’d tuck our arms, squat, jumping in our boots and booty shorts, true disco ducks. Oddly enough, my grandparents gifted us ducks one Easter. John and Marcy arrived at Rochambeau Drive as ducklings with blue and pink ribbons on their necks, respectively. They lived in the backyard, swimming in our plastic pool; so now, we were a true gaggle of disco ducks. We’d Conga line around the yard, learning to quack and waddle from the real things.
But, ducks grow faster than little girls, and soon John and Marcy were the same height as us, and feeling the pecking order needed to be reexamined, they began “nipping” at me and my sisters. I remember a story of my litter sister getting a right bite on the tush, but my parents say that wasn’t so. Either way, it was clear we girls weren’t ruling the roost anymore, and John and Marcy had to retire to Colonial Williamsburg, supposedly living out the rest of their lives at the pond behind the Governor’s mansion.
I asked my mom, recently, did those ducks really retire in style, or did they perhaps end up in a stew pot? To this day, she adamantly claims that the ducks did live happily-ever-after in the lush ponds of the nation’s first capital. I’ll admit, each time I visited with out-of-town relatives, friends or boyfriends (it was a romantic place), I’d always call out, “Hi, John!” “Hi Marcy!”, but a part of me always thought that story was more to spare us from the reality of where ducks usually end up when they start nipping children in the rear.
Anyways, I hope you get a good chuckle from this tale and also from this ridiculous track that will forever be a part of my childhood. If you’re feeling inspired to share your own childhood memories, be sure to check out Mr. Bump’s post and ping us back this weekend with your blast from the past.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
Disco Duck😂😂😂
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classic track! I bet the ducks lived happily ever after – one cannot have these animals and allow anything bad to happen to them.
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Yeah, still think they ended up in a dish somewhere, but it’s good to have dreams.
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well if she won’t tell you now, she never will!
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yeah, well, the truth with her is always filtered through many different shades of feeling…..hmm, wonder where I get my fictional ways?
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I have a daughter like that. What she fails to realie is that… nobody really cares.
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genau. Call, let the tap of her voice run, and then wash the dishes of it all afterwards.
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She is so full of cliches that you would consider her a good challenge.I, however, raised the white flag long ago.
“I’m not joking, but…” – was anybody laughing?
“to be fair…” – let’s just try being unfair instead, shall we?
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great deal of fun and colour in this post, even to the name ‘Rochambeau Drive’ , the Governor’ Mansion a touch of class and dignity, a little upended with the antics of disco ducks 🙂
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Thank you, John. It’s all true. Very vibrantly, embarrassingly real. 🙂
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really? wow: you had a charmed upbringing 🙂
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😉 Well, not the adjective I would use to describe it. Which part seems charming, the disco-record fantasies or the ass-biting ducks (a failed Easter experiment)?
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the affluence around you —
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yeah, it’s more the gravitas of my growing up years. You’ll see the more I post about these serious life-lesson moments. 😉
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Love it!!!! 😆😍🦆
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Thanks for the reminder about Disco Duck, ah the childhood memories of the seventies. It was weird time. Feeding the ducks was something I did a lot as a child, and it carried on with my own children. Sundays walking near the river, with day old bread.
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