When my brother, Bill, and I were young, we each received a duckling for Easter. We fed those ducks and watched them grow. Our parents warned us not to get attached to those white ducks because the plan was to cook them one day. I guess Bill and I didn't believe that and we became quite fond of the quacking, messy ducks.

Then one Saturday, our mother told us to catch one of the ducks. We caught Bill's duck, and Mom decapitated it (while I, as usual, held the metal funnel used for the same purpose on chickens). Mom cleaned the duck and early Sunday morning, she prepared it for the oven. She said it takes longer to roast a duck.

Our grandparents came for dinner, and the duck was the main course. The house at that time was built into the hillside so that windows on the upper side and the back were at ground level. As we were eating in the dining room, I had a clear view of the living room side window and was startled to see my duck peering in the window as we ate its buddy. My brother and I could not eat any more duck. The adults were rather amused, as all of them except our father, were born and raised on farms.

The next week, Mom decided my duck was next for the funnel guillotine. She told us to catch it. Bill and I chased that duck for a long, long time before we actually were able to hold onto it. It seemed to know what we were going to do and it didn't want any part of it.

To this day, I have never eaten duck again.