their checkbooks shut when they saw
him coming had provided him with a sheen and style worthy of the very best (or worst, depending on your point of view) slithering
public relations man.
“Professor Tillman, I do understand your concerns. Tradition is important, I agree with you. But in evolving times we must
sometimes cast off our old traditions and establish new ones. I like ducks, too. In fact, I’m a member of Ducks Unlimited
and go duck hunting every fall.”
Michael was wondering if, in addition to professional incompetence and moral degradation, presidential dismemberment was sufficient
cause for loss of tenure.
One of the best students Michael ever had went on to law school and stayed in Cedar Bend after graduating. Michael called
him. “Gene, what can be done to prevent these clowns from pouring cement over ducks and tradition?”
Gene always had a soft spot for radical causes, so he looked into it. He called back in two days, flat out saying the building
couldn’t be halted by legal chicanery. Something to do with state law and a Board of Education master plan for masterful buildings
and a master race.
“Screw ’em, Gene. I’m going to plant myself right in the middle of that pond and make ’em drag me out with chains.”
“Michael, I’ll defend you free of charge if you do it. But you’re going to lose. You’ll be better off spending your time looking
for another home for the ducks.”
Knowing bureaucrats hate bad publicity more than anything else, Michael wrote a long article for the university newspaper,
making what he thought was a powerful and eloquent plea to save the duck pond. That started a fair amount of debate over the
whole affair, which drove Arthur dotty.
Arthur went completely out of his mind when the longhairs from the Student Socialist Brigade made up signs reading “Save the
Ducks” and began marching around Bingley Hall in their Birkenstocks. Recruiters from the Fortune 500 who were on campus interviewing
savvy students told Arthur they were looking for good corporate citizens, not radicals. He took them over to the faculty club
for cocktails and reassured them this was merely one of those periodic outbreaks coming down to us as a result of universities
being too lenient in the sixties and it would soon be over. Afterward he took the recruiters to his office, unrolled his blueprints,
and showed them all the wonderful space the new building would have for interview rooms. They liked that a lot better.
The university newspaper was flooded for a few days with letters pro and con. One of the bookstores printed up T-shirts with
the logo
Ducks, Not Cement
and sold them for twelve dollars each, proving once again capitalism can profit even from the concerns of its enemies. Michael
was surprised to see Jellie write a letter to the newspaper in support of his position. It was a nice letter. And he knew
it probably caused her trouble at home, since Jimmy had dropped by to talk with him about the issue and seemed utterly amazed,
or perhaps bewildered, that Michael could get so worked up over eight or ten ducks.
But nobody except Michael cared very much. The longhairs marched, Arthur fretted, and the earth-moving machinery was carted
into position on the back of big, muddy trucks. Gambling on having a mild winter, the contractors would begin digging on the
following Monday. Michael was sure the tame ducks wouldn’t know how to handle the filling of their pond and contacted the
Humane Society. He and the society put a notice in the paper saying anyone who wanted to help in getting the ducks moved should
show up early Saturday morning and be prepared to get wet.
Light frost lay upon the grass of autumn when Michael rode the Shadow through early light and parked it by the pond. While
he sat on the bike, taking one last look at tradition and little geezers who slap-slapped about on orange legs and flat feet,
he noticed someone walking
him coming had provided him with a sheen and style worthy of the very best (or worst, depending on your point of view) slithering
public relations man.
“Professor Tillman, I do understand your concerns. Tradition is important, I agree with you. But in evolving times we must
sometimes cast off our old traditions and establish new ones. I like ducks, too. In fact, I’m a member of Ducks Unlimited
and go duck hunting every fall.”
Michael was wondering if, in addition to professional incompetence and moral degradation, presidential dismemberment was sufficient
cause for loss of tenure.
One of the best students Michael ever had went on to law school and stayed in Cedar Bend after graduating. Michael called
him. “Gene, what can be done to prevent these clowns from pouring cement over ducks and tradition?”
Gene always had a soft spot for radical causes, so he looked into it. He called back in two days, flat out saying the building
couldn’t be halted by legal chicanery. Something to do with state law and a Board of Education master plan for masterful buildings
and a master race.
“Screw ’em, Gene. I’m going to plant myself right in the middle of that pond and make ’em drag me out with chains.”
“Michael, I’ll defend you free of charge if you do it. But you’re going to lose. You’ll be better off spending your time looking
for another home for the ducks.”
Knowing bureaucrats hate bad publicity more than anything else, Michael wrote a long article for the university newspaper,
making what he thought was a powerful and eloquent plea to save the duck pond. That started a fair amount of debate over the
whole affair, which drove Arthur dotty.
Arthur went completely out of his mind when the longhairs from the Student Socialist Brigade made up signs reading “Save the
Ducks” and began marching around Bingley Hall in their Birkenstocks. Recruiters from the Fortune 500 who were on campus interviewing
savvy students told Arthur they were looking for good corporate citizens, not radicals. He took them over to the faculty club
for cocktails and reassured them this was merely one of those periodic outbreaks coming down to us as a result of universities
being too lenient in the sixties and it would soon be over. Afterward he took the recruiters to his office, unrolled his blueprints,
and showed them all the wonderful space the new building would have for interview rooms. They liked that a lot better.
The university newspaper was flooded for a few days with letters pro and con. One of the bookstores printed up T-shirts with
the logo
Ducks, Not Cement
and sold them for twelve dollars each, proving once again capitalism can profit even from the concerns of its enemies. Michael
was surprised to see Jellie write a letter to the newspaper in support of his position. It was a nice letter. And he knew
it probably caused her trouble at home, since Jimmy had dropped by to talk with him about the issue and seemed utterly amazed,
or perhaps bewildered, that Michael could get so worked up over eight or ten ducks.
But nobody except Michael cared very much. The longhairs marched, Arthur fretted, and the earth-moving machinery was carted
into position on the back of big, muddy trucks. Gambling on having a mild winter, the contractors would begin digging on the
following Monday. Michael was sure the tame ducks wouldn’t know how to handle the filling of their pond and contacted the
Humane Society. He and the society put a notice in the paper saying anyone who wanted to help in getting the ducks moved should
show up early Saturday morning and be prepared to get wet.
Light frost lay upon the grass of autumn when Michael rode the Shadow through early light and parked it by the pond. While
he sat on the bike, taking one last look at tradition and little geezers who slap-slapped about on orange legs and flat feet,
he noticed someone walking
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