Every summer, my family and I would fly in from California to Atlanta and stay at my grandaddy’s house on the lake. One thing I always remember is the group of ducks that would visit his backyard every single day—for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

My brothers and I would run inside, grab handfuls of birdseed, and rush back out to spread it across the lawn. Feeding the ducks quickly became one of the highlights of our visits, and something I always looked forward to.

But my grandaddy didn’t just feed the ducks—he turned it into a game.

He created something we called “Duck Football.” He would toss a piece of bread into the middle of the group, and instantly all the ducks would race toward it, competing to be the one that came away with it. Before long, one duck would grab it and take off running, while all the others chased behind.

Grandaddy even had markers set up on the lawn for “touchdowns.” When a duck ran past one of them, we’d all start yelling “Touchdown!” like it was a real game. Then he’d throw another piece of bread, and we’d watch it all happen again.

It might sound simple, but that was what made it so special. He had a way of turning small moments into something unforgettable—something fun, something competitive, and something that brought all of us together.

Duck Football became more than just a game. It became a tradition, and a perfect reflection of who he was—someone who loved his family, loved to laugh, and always found a way to make life more fun.

I’ll always be grateful for those summers, those memories, and for him.