PicoBlog

Many years ago, a version of the following story appeared in the Reader’s Digest. Mother had read it and told it at my table one holiday.

Three men die together in an accident and go to heaven. When they reach the pearly gates, Peter says, “We only have on rule here in heaven: don’t step on the ducks!”

So they enter heaven and there are ducks wall to wall. It is practically impossible not to step on a duck, and although they try their best to avoid them, almost immediately one of the men accidentally steps on one. Along comes St. Peter with the meanest tempered, ugliest woman he has ever seen. St. Peter chains them together and says, “Your punishment for stepping on a duck is to spend eternity chained to this woman.”

The next day, the second man, even though he is as careful as he can be, accidentally steps on a duck. St. Peter, who never misses anything, is right there with another extremely hateful, ugly woman. He chains the two of them together and says as before, “Your punishment for stepping on a duck is to spend eternity chained to this woman.”

The third man has observed all this, and not wanting to be likewise chained, is very, very careful where he steps. He goes months without stepping on a duck, but one day St. Peter comes up to him with the sweetest, gentlest, most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Without a word, St Peter chains them together. The overjoyed man says, “I wonder what I did to deserve being chained to you for all of eternity?” The woman replies, “I don’t know about you, but I stepped on a duck.”

Several months later, in June, my husband, Danny, and I were sitting (as always) behind Mom and Dad at church. The congregation at Salem was acknowledging Mom and Dad's wedding anniversary and the preacher looked at the two of them and asked, "How did you two wind up together?" Danny leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Your mom stepped on a duck."

It was one of those situations. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. It was the only thing I could do because it was the least appropriate thing possible.

I still laugh when I think about it.

This makes our thirty-fourth year together. Each one has presented challenges, but each one has been sweeter than the one it followed. Instead of giving each other “stuff”, we have always gone somewhere together to celebrate, and almost every year, I have written him an anniversary love letter. I find that as we age and our memories fail, those letters have become a valuable reference. Thirteen years ago, we went to New York to celebrate. When we travel, because I love going new places, only twice have we returned to any place I have ever been, and yet if I ask Danny where he would like to go, he invariably names someplace we’ve been together. Just before the pandemic, my gift to him was to return to the place he most often names, New York City. Even though I always plan our activities with his pleasure in mind, I determined that this year, I would schedule things for the express purpose of maximizing his enjoyment. That’s why I wrangled tickets to see a taping of Stephen Colbert’s show. He adores Stephen Colbert, records the show, laughs his heart out. It is one of my favorite sounds. Even though he was skeptical, I got tickets to Hamilton. I knew he would love it. He did. I planned for us to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. He is very interested in bridges and knows more than you would expect about John Roebling. He is a Law and Order fan and had said he wanted to spend some time in Central Park to see if he could recognize any of the crime scenes from the show, so we ambled through.

He loved each of those adventures, but because he has been a volunteer fireman for over 30 years, the primary reason he wanted to go back to New York was to visit the 9/11 memorial and museum. And so we did. I had seen the memorial before when my sister and I went to New York together to celebrate her birthday. It is a moving and fitting design. Eight walls of stone plunge into the earth marking the foundations where the two towers stood. Each minute, gallons--tons of water flow over those walls and disappear into an empty void, just like those 2,606 people did. Along the upper edge of those walls where we, the living, stand, are engraved the names of each of those human beings who lost their lives that day. The memorial society places a rose into an engraved letter on the day of the birth of each individual every year. Rising above the markers is a beautiful grove of trees that offers shade. The leaves seem to whisper those names. Piercing the sky far above the trees is the One World Trade Center, the monumental glass building. It is almost mirror-like; reflective, as we all should be when we stand in the absence of those people. It is a beautiful place, a quiet place, a place of solace.

The museum, too, is a beautiful place, a quiet place, but a place of horror preserved. It, is gouged into the earth. Visiting requires a descent in space, in time, and in spirit. Preserved within the walls are heart rending artifacts: eye glasses, shoes, personal possessions recovered from the rubble. Without cease, clips of the impact of the two aircraft play over and over. Recordings of the voices of some of those who were on the plane that failed to reach the White House can still be heard. Every day, the tragedy happens again and again, lest we forget.

In his Harrison County Fire and Rescue tee shirt, Danny stands reverently before each exhibit—twisted beams, gigantic elevator motors, all manner of detritus from massive destruction, but when he approaches a fire truck that still bears witness, he is still and silent, unmoving, but moved to his core. “We will never forget you, Jeff,” had been scribbled on the back of the tanker which is twisted and burnt on the front end. I watch him. His head is bowed. I cannot read his thoughts, but I know that while he had been pummeled by sorrow for those who lost their lives that September day, his grief for the ones who gave their lives is palpable. It’s personal. He knows, I know, that if he had been there and gotten the call that day, he probably wouldn’t be standing here now.

He turns away from the exhibit and leans with both hands tightly gripping a railing. Tears slip and fall across his cheek making their way to the floor. As he stands there, bracing himself, a uniformed doyenne approaches him and gently lays her hand on his shoulder, offering the comfort of human touch. “Are you OK?” she asks simply. He nods. They stand in the solidarity of silence and grief.

Finally she says, “My brother died that day. He was a firefighter, too. His name was Robert. I am Barbara. I miss him. But you know what? That day, he left the house smiling. This is what he lived for. This was the BIG one. He was happy to be going that day. When you get yourself together and go into the next gallery, it might be too much to handle. There are early exit doors if you need them. When groups of kids come, I try to keep it light. I tell them about my brother. People say if I didn’t shave my moustache, I would look just like him.” She smiles. It is a pretty, warm smile. Danny smiles back. It is a sad smile, but it is a smile.

We make our way through the rest of the exhibits. Uncharacteristically, Danny wants to go into the gift shop before we exit. He selects a souvenir to add to the shrine at the Harrison County Volunteer Fire Department. A contingent went to New York to aid in the aftermath and brought back a beam from one of the towers. He also buys a FDNY tee shirt. He is pensive.

Back outside, we walk through the grove of trees. I look up and see the pinnacle of One World Trade Center. It is a captivating vision. I snap a photo. I want to remember.

We walk together, hand in hand. This is my husband. This is the man God designed me to help. It is humbling to think on that truth. Am I worthy? No.

Danny just stepped on a duck.

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