LETTERS FROM HOME: FOR THE LOVE OF DUCKS AND BORING NIGHTS AT HOME

March 28, 1996

Dear Leslie,

DC and I just returned from the Lake of the Ozarks, where she shopped, I golfed and we partied with a couple hundred duck lovers.

Call it a blow-out-the-winter-blues break.

DC's Neosho sister and brother-in-law invited us and DC's brother Paul dropped in from Columbia. The brother-in-law belongs to Ducks Unlimited, a coalition of hunters and conservationists who are wild about ducks.

At this state convention, they auctioned off shotguns alongside beautiful wildlife prints with nary an ironic thought. They raise piles of money for the cause and put it where their mouths are: into legislative action.

For some reason I was concerned that my vegetarian eating habits and dearth of hunting tales might offend them, make them think there was an enemy in their camp. But they weren't at all concerned with anything but ducks and having a good time. Perhaps everyone there knew there are lots of ways to love ducks.

The duck lovers were a happy lot, walking about the lodge making duck noises to each other as if they knew a secret code. One day I watched my brother-in-law watch a flight of ducks circle a small lake on the golf course. He accurately predicted each turn and dip seconds before it occurred. Hunters have their own appreciation for the ways of the wild.

I'd lived in Missouri two-thirds of my life and never been to the Lake of the Ozarks before. It's huge, with so many coves they're numbered. We heard that Cove 17 is the party spot where in the summer geysers of beer flow and swimming suits are very optional.

We stayed at the lake's eastern portal, Osage Beach, a town that always will have enough room for one more miniature golf course and go-cart track. The town also has the most muscle boats this side of Miami.

A maze of factory outlet stores offer anything from crystal to Bibles, but that isn't the most singular characteristic of Osage Beach. It's an anachronism called a tearoom.

These are quaint little shops crammed with knickknacks. In the back of the shops, usually, are a few tables and chairs where you can eat a salad or a bowl of reconstituted potato soup while sitting among the knickknacks.

DC and her sister seemed to enjoy this, while Paul and I sat there bumping our knees against the tiny table legs and trying to admire the bric-a-brac and soothing teas.

I don't have a proper appreciation for this pleasure. The Victorian ideal was to salt every inch of living space with objects and canisters and plates and doilies. Made sense in tiny England. But sitting beside a gargantuan lake, the effect is just claustrophobic.

The lodge was much more hospitable. There was a waterfall in the lobby, a bowling alley, movie theater, horseback riding and 2 1/2 golf courses. But DC worried about the dogs the whole time we were away, even though she knew our parents were home lavishing them with food and attention.

Somehow she resisted coming home with a "We Don't Need No Stinking Leashes" T-shirt.

Dogs are the poster children for the "Be Here Now" philosophy. They forget about you the moment you're gone and remember you with a fanfare of tongues and tails on your return. Hank and Lucy did not disappoint.

We were happy to be back home and settled in just in time for the Oscar telecast. In time to hear the Holocaust survivor speak so eloquently about the value of boring nights at home with your family.

Love, Sam

~Sam Blackwell is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.