Duck Soup

Born in 1919, my late father was a member of the "Greatest Generation". Here in 2014, it is hard for us to relate to what life must have been like for him and his generation growing up when they did. Below is my version of a story he related to me some ten or so years ago. I hope you enjoy...

Duck Soup

As told to Ted D. Nelson by his father, Douglas Ross Nelson

We hadn’t eaten all day. My stomach thought my throat had been cut. My cousin Eldon and I were in charge of finding dinner while my big brother Gilbert and another cousin Harvey found a room for the night. We scoured some recently harvested fields and found some stray carrots and onions to toss into our pot to make some soup.

With the makings for our dinner in hand we headed back to join up with the others. We took a short-cut through Nampa’s one and only City Park on a beeline to the hotel where Gilbert and Harvey agreed to meet us. I was excited to be with my older cousin Eldon. I had looked up to him all of my boyhood life, he could do just about anything he set his mind to; it seemed like for him, life was just one exciting adventure after another. And now, here we were, fending for ourselves out in the real world. What could be better? It was 1937 and here in Idaho, jobs and cash were equally scarce. We were determined to spend as little as possible while finding work to get some cash to take home to get us through the winter.

As we rounded the duck pond in the middle of the park, Eldon gave me a quick glance over his shoulder with that smile that put me on alert that I was just about to hear a wonderful plan. He declared, “How ‘bout some duck soup for dinner?” With that, Eldon stooped over and scooped up several rocks, studied them carefully for the perfect size weight and shape, and then dropped all but two. “These will do fine.” Eldon took aim and let fly.

A direct hit on the first try!

Quack!

The duck never new what hit him!

Our room at the Hotel had one bed and a pot-belly stove for heat. The bathroom was indoors, just right down the hall, which we shared with the other seven rooms on our floor. After spending the whole day looking for work without a bit of luck, tired and hungry, we were happy to have a place to stay.

“We got a duck” I proudly informed my big brother, upon entering the room (as if I had helped Eldon throw the rock). “Here!” I tossed the dead duck to my brother, “you and Harv get to pluck it and cook it”!

Gilbert resisted the temptation to put his little brother in his rightful place by ‘boxing my ears’, (I was lucky he was so hungry), and instead just got busy preparing the duck, fast as he could. Soon, the duck was featherless. “Okay Douglas”! He declared. (Gilbert was back in charge.) “I plucked the bird, you get rid of the feathers while I start the soup”!

I wasn’t sure what I should do with the feathers, (I didn’t want to go back outside). As I surveyed the room, the obvious solution was the pot-belly stove. Well, let me tell you what I learned, nothing smells worst than burning wet duck feathers!

Over six decades later, I ran into Eldon at a family ‘get-together’. We laughed about old times; including our adventure that summer in Nampa. He reminded me of how good a boiling pot of carrots, onions and duck could taste (evening without salt and pepper). He declared the duck to be so tough, that he could barely stick his fork in the soup!