Fuzzy Duck

There was a bar at 227 Broad Street, Gadsden, Alabama, on the main road south from downtown, before the four-lane highway was built. Called The Fuzzy Duck Lounge, it had a lighted sign with a duck walking along, holding a cocktail and whistling. I liked to drive that way when I could, because the old bridge over the Coosa River was so much more fun to drive over than the one on U.S. 431. The new bridge had safety walls to keep drivers from plummeting into the water, but I liked the view and the rush of danger I got from passing the statue of Emma Samson at the water's edge, and flying out over the Coosa on the 80-year-old bridge.

The name of the Fuzzy Duck popped up from time to time when Granddad and I talked, because the name was funny, and because it was so out of the realm of possibility that either of us, Baptist deacon or would-be missionary, would have gone there.

The last time I remember us having duck-talk, Granddad was living at the Wessex House, a nursing home in nearby Leesburg. It was well-run, with a caring staff. Granddad couldn't live by himself safely any more, and having a live-in helper hadn't worked out. His family was spread out, had jobs and families scattered all around, the nearest one being 45 minutes away.

He was visiting my parents, as I was, and around the table after supper, he told us about a new arrival at the Wessex House--a man in his 20s, recently paralyzed from the chest down. "How did it happen?" I asked. "He was shot in the Fuzzy Duck," my grandfather answered.

I knew he was thinking what I was thinking, so I asked, "What part of the body is the fuzzy duck?" He smirked. "I think it's below the waist."

Which leads to one of Granddad's other stories that he couldn't tell in church. It seems he was sitting on the front porch of the Wessex House when the postman came by. They made small talk, and the postman mentioned that his next stops were north, toward Cedar Bluff. Granddad happened to think of a family he used to know named Pimple who lived in that direction, and, trying to find out if the postman carried their mail, asked him, "Do you have any Pimples on your route?" The postman looked startled, then answered, "Well, I used to, but I used some cream, and that took care of it."