Roboduck?

BY CARLA RHOADS

During the last waterfowl season of the 20th century, the ducks were elusive, skittish around even the most sizable spreads. But one craze flew to the rescue: Roboduck!

After first seeing it in action, my husband came home, exclaiming excitedly, "It's amazing! It's like the aluminum bat to baseball!" Apparently my response lacked the appropriate amount of enthusiasm because he continued earnestly "Like the Big Bertha to golf." If he'd said it's like lycra to pantyhose, like cordless to telephones, like color-safe bleach to laundry—I'd have gotten it and been able to feign the proper amount of astonishment.

Monster duck (as I call it) is, essentially, a decoy. What separates monster from his magnum relatives is not his size (which has historically been the benchmark for decoy classification), but that he brings something to a spread that they cannot by size alone: motion. Monster has wings. Not just stationary wing replicas, but wings that rotate not by the force of wind, but by the unbridled power of two AA batteries, creating the illusion of a duck maple-leafing amidst the motionless pseudo-flock.

My husband's resourcefulness, much to my dismay, resulted in a dozen evenings in the garage dedicated to monster duck's construction, transforming remote control cars into decoy giblets. He fashioned wings of spinning aluminum fascia or Styrofoam or painted fiberboard, anything he could find, while I feverishly hid the Tupperware lids. Even my new Swiffer (1999's revolutionary dusting invention) fell victim to the cause, leaving me with nothing more than the pad and a 10-inch handle-perfect for dusting anything at knee level. With the gaseous fumes of paint, epoxy and solder wafting through the halls, I avoided using the fireplace for fear of putting the entire neighborhood in orbit.

I found some comfort in the fact that he wasn't alone in his Emitt-"Doc"-Brown-inventor-gone-awry impression. The phone rang incessantly with fellow hunters sharing tales of failed attempts at styling a monster duck.

The garage was soon a graveyard of car parts—little plastic bumpers and wheels tossed aside during the frenzy to attach wings in their place. But finally it paid off, and he emerged victorious with his own Franken'Duck.

A handheld trigger, once a mere child's toy, was now the link from mission control (the blind) to the front decoy line. With one tiny flip of the toggle, it sets the wheels—I mean, wings—in motion. Not only did it spin the aluminum wings, it did so at two speeds and, if need be, could plow through a tower of Lincoln Logs in the driveway while going in reverse!

Now that Franken'Duck is complete and has fearlessly led the decoy squadron to victory on a number of occasions, my fear remains that it was just phase one of a master plan. In phase Y2K, I can see a remote control airplane disguised as a duck, equipped with the same device that rendered the Red October silent, flying the skies forcing the ducks to land by telling them they are flying in U.S. air space and if they don't land, they will be shot down.

Caria Rhoads is a free-lance writer residing in Springfield.

January 2000   7