by Ginger Hamilton Caudill

Grandma loved ducks and Grandpa loved Grandma. So every Sunday after church, we?d all pile into Grandpa’s car to "see the ducks." If we went to Daniel Boone Park, we fed ducks that bobbed in the river. At Coonskin Park, we fed ducks that ruled the lake. When we shuffled off to Buffalo (as Grandpa called it when we drove past Black Betsy and Eleanor to get to the town of Buffalo), we stopped at a roadside park and fed the greedy ducks there. There were ducks at the Dairy Queen in Clendenin and ducks at Point Pleasant on the Ohio River near the Tu-Endie-Wei Park. Of our many duck destinations, my favorite was Zoological Park in Hurricane. I didn?t love ducks. But I did love animals.

Zoological Park displayed many types of animals, from tame rabbits and lambs to tigers, bears and wolves that endlessly paced in their cages. A monkey cage with no windbreak stood atop a hill at the Park. Dozens of capuchin monkeys were housed in a cage about 12 feet by 12 feet by 12 feet tall. It was raised on a wooden platform so the bottom was about three feet off the ground. The wind constantly whipped at the their furry sleeves. Grandpa said the monkeys were placed up on the hill so their stink could blow away. I felt sorry for the little organ grinder monkeys.

Grandma didn’t usually walk the trail due to her heart condition, but this one fateful Sunday she was feeling good. Entranced by the monkeys, she giggled like a little girl watching their antics. Grandpa wanted a photo of Grandma and me with the monkeys to remember the occasion. We stood side by side with cheesy grins on our faces, waiting for Grandpa to take his picture. He fumbled with the camera for a couple of minutes, and then asked us to back up and get closer to the cage. We happily complied.

The wind picked up and my shoulder-length hair rose into the air. One monkey shrieked loudly. Immediately, the monkeys swarmed toward me. My head was slammed against the cage as dozens of tiny monkey paws reached through the bars and grabbed at my hair.  A monkey jerked the hair he had and my head was pulled to the left. Another jerked in a different direction and my head was battered against the wire to the right side. Try as I might, I couldn’t break free from those greedy monkey paws. Grandma dug her fingernails into my shoulders and tried to yank me free. The monkeys shrieked in protest and pulled my hair harder. Grandma yelled. I screamed. The monkeys screeched.  Clumps of hair floated on the fetid breeze. Grandpa laughed so hard he plopped down on the ground, tears coursing down his cheeks.

"Get over here and help us, Harold," Grandma screamed. She tugged against the multitude of monkeys who were now tugging against her.

Grandpa drew a bandana out of his back pocket and wiped his tears. My eyes widened when he walked toward me, opening his pocketknife.

"Hold still, I’m gonna cut you free, honey." I knew Grandpa’s pocketknife was razor sharp, but a barber he wasn’t. Every time he sawed through a section of hair, a monkey screamed with delight and jumped away, clutching his prize. Grandma was an adversary.  Grandpa was an accomplice. Shrill angry shrieks shifted to low-pitched excited grunts. "Just you be patient," Grandpa consoled the monkeys. "It’s coming. You’ll get your piece." After an interminable time, he hacked me free. I looked worse than when I’d cut my hair with Mom’s sewing shears when I was two.

"I swan, Harold, those little heathens remind me of Indians whooping and showing off scalps." The monkeys screeched and gleefully swung from bar to bar, clutching clumps of my hair. They knew they’d won.

My head pounded and my scalp felt like it was on fire. I ran my fingers over the unfamiliar terrain of my new hair-do. What would the other kids say when I went back to school tomorrow? What would I tell them had happened? Grandpa must’ve read my thoughts because he said, "You tell them kids at school you fought off fifty monkeys with only a pocketknife, and you won!" I giggled despite my anguish.

Grandma felt guilty and said it would’ve never happened if she’d stayed down at the duck pond. She vowed to never walk up the hill again and she kept her word.

From then on, I stayed with Grandma at the duck pond because after all, Grandma loved ducks.

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