November 22, 2011 at 11:25 AM

By Virginia Higgins Fowler

Sometimes early in the morning while it was still dark outside, we would hear heavy rubber hip boots “tip-toeing” around in the kitchen and a rattle-trap Ford truck “idling” out in front of the house. Then we would know the Bunker boys were there. It was impossible for either of them to tip-toe; they were BIG men—6 foot 3 or 4 inches tall and 250 pounds or more of muscle. They were lobstermen who worked on the sea. Try as they might, they could not be quiet. They had voices that carried over the ocean when they called from boat to boat—very necessary in times of trouble or when a joke just had to be shared.

They never came into the house together when they were dropping off “bugs” fresh out of the traps, but if it were daytime when they just “dropped in” to chat, they would both be in the kitchen with Dad at the same time. Their voices would have the dishes rattling in the cupboard. Mother and we girls (still in grade school) were in the living room, trying not to giggle out loud so they'd learn we were hearing them. We laughed over their huge voices when they thought they were being quiet, telling Dad something that had happened when they were out “hauling,” while Dad poured their drinks.

When I was growing up, it was a time of “barter and trade” and Dad ran accounts for their family to supply lobsters against the dental care he gave their family. Dad kept score and sent an occasional accounting for the two families. The brothers kept score for themselves, and at some time they'd compare totals and, according to a decision, start all over again. These discussions were by phone as the brothers lived on an out island off the east coast of our island. It worked very well as there was mutual trust. 

Every August the brothers would call for a Family Day when one family - father, mother, and all the kids - would have wholesale dental checkups before school started; the next week the other brother would set up a day for his family   

One day, just after noon dinner, we had a surprise visit from the Bunker boys. They had been “hauling” that morning off Mount Desert Rock where the water was deeper than elsewhere and, as usual, had a rifle on board for emergencies. A flock of Eider Ducks had settled there before they arrived so they just sat there in their boat for a few minutes. They decided to make a noise to “raise” them above the water. They wanted to make a count to report to Lyle Smith, the Fish and Game Warden, for his required annual report on the endangered species in his area. One of the boys took a potshot away from the flock but, as luck would have it, accidentally struck a “latecomer,” another Eider Duck that just happened at that moment to be trying to join the flock.

Not only was it illegal to harm an Eider Duck, there was a large fine and a federal jail term for shooting any bird of that family. The amounts were larger for a hen than for a drake and again, as luck would have it, it was a hen that was killed.

The boys didn't know what to do. For all their lives, they had maintained a spotless family reputation.  They knew Lyle kept a sharp watch for their side of Mount Desert Island and the other out islands, watching for poachers. For a while they sat there, stunned.  All they could think of was their poor wives, trying to raise enough money to pay their huge fines to get them out of jail while they were there and couldn't work to help. They knew Lyle would catch them if they tried to get home with that huge bird in their truck.

Suddenly, one of them came up with the idea of going to Doc Higgins. He was the only one they could think of that they felt they could trust. Maybe he could think of some way for them to get out of this mess. He was their only hope. 

They tied up at the Town Wharf where they had left their truck, using a tarp to cover the bird and their oars to help the camouflage. They headed for Roberts Ave. After leaving their boots in the truck, they knocked on our front door, something they had never done before.

I went to the door and was surprised to see the Bunker boys standing there. I turned and said, “Dad, you have two guests here” and backed up to let them in.They stepped in and met Dad at the foot of the stairs. Dad said, “Come into the kitchen; I can see you want to talk.”  With their booming voices, which as usual they thought were very quiet, we heard every word of their sad tale, even their explanation that they had wanted to report the number of the flock to Lyle as the reason for the shot.  Knowing how naive the boys were, we believed them, but the remaining question was, what would Dad come up with as an answer about what they could do.

It took a bit of soul searching and deep thinking but, after about an hour, Dad came out and said to us, “It's time for a vote, innocent or guilty? Raise your hands if they are innocent.” All three of us raised both of our hands, and he did, too. He went back into the kitchen and said, “It's unanimous, you’re innocent.” There was a big whoosh of air—they'd been holding their breath. Then Dad said, ”Now, here's what we're going to do.”

“One—Janet will stay in the living room, as innocent as possible, visible from the walk to the front door, reading or doing homework.

“Two—Sis will pluck the bird into her supply of feathers for her bed tick. You boys and Virginia and I will have a drink in the living room and chat during that time. 

“Three—When Sis is done (she's fast), one of you boys will gut the bird onto newspaper covered with waxed paper.  Save the heart, liver and gizzard for Virginia. Wrap all waste well in the waxed paper.  Don't forget the wings and head. Then wrap it all in newspaper and take it in the truck when you leave.

“Four—on your way home, one of you will drive the truck. The other will take the boat and the package. When you meet at your tie-up, park your truck and act as if you are heading home in the boat.  Part way there open the package, dump the contents overboard and rinse the waxed paper well. Soak the newspaper thoroughly so that it sinks and take the clean waxed paper and quietly put it under the trash in your trash bin at home. You do know the words “clean”” and “quietly,” don't you? I don't mean the way you TALK, I mean the way you move in the woods when you’re hunting!” They said, “Yes, we know the difference!”

Then one of the boys (don't ask me which one as I never could tell them apart) went out to the truck and came back carrying the bird and said to us, as he went back into the kitchen, “Come on out to the kitchen. You're all involved in this.”

So, all three of us girls went out to get our first look at the duck. She was laid out on the table and was really immense. We were used to seeing the usual ducks, Wood, Brown, Black, and Sea ducks, that Mother would always cook in pairs for a meal. (I remember that Janet and I would each get a carcass to pick to get all the small shreds of meat from the bones), but this bird looked as though she'd feed a family of eight or ten or more after she was cooked. One of the boys said, “Janet, you take ahold of her under her wing where it fastens to her body and then out on her wing.”  Then he said the same thing to me.  So we each had a wing.

Then he said, “Got a good grasp, you two?” We nodded.  He said, “Now, lift her.”  We tried several times but nothing happened.  Mother added her help, and we got her about one inch off the table, but not for long. We did find that her wing span was almost the width of our kitchen! Those were the days before instant cameras, and it's a good thing because we might have been tempted to take pictures of that illegal bird anyway. 

After we got through being amazed over the bird and touching her feathers, we followed Dad's instructions and I plucked her. I never saw or felt such a quantity of soft wonderful breast feathers before, and the underneath feathers were all the same all over her. The top feathers made a sheathing that protected her in all kinds of weather.

The only times this beautiful bird had touched land were during breeding and hatching her young. The rest of her life she spent on the ocean. She was truly a sea bird. And what a beauty she was.  I'll never see another like her—nor will I ever taste her like again.

When she had hung in the cold room long enough, Dad brought her upstairs for Mother and washed her thoroughly with cold running water. It was a good thing we had a large sink. Then he weighed her. Mother needed to know the duck’s weight in order to cook her properly, and she weighed too much for Dad to let Mother handle her by herself, he thought. 

We found the “innards” all neatly wrapped in wax paper. The boys wanted us to know they were gentlemen.

Janet and I helped Mother by making the conserve to serve with the duck. We chopped Greening apples, oranges, cranberries, lemon, currants and pecans into the top of the double boiler and added enough Barbados Rhum and water to cover the mixture. Then we set it over boiling water in the lower pot and set it on the back of the stove where it would mull all day. We kept an eye on it to watch when it needed more rhum or water when necessary.

With all that done, Mother could concentrate on the rest of the meal and the bird as a new “foreign object” with dried fruit and onion inside her. She relied on her courses of training at Drexel Institute (now University) in Philadelphia, the highest quality available at the time (1912 – 1916), to bring her through with flying colors. It certainly did. 

That dinner was magnificent.  It was served on her grandmother's irreplaceable Limoges Porcelain. 

Our menu:  

Jellied Bouillon

Tomato and Relish Salad

ROASTED EIDER DUCK

Conserve

Potatoes, Parsnips, Carrots

 Mincemeat Turnovers

 Coffee, Milk

We had been told to dress in our best dresses and shoes. Dad had on a suit and tie. Mother had on her prettiest dress. We were very surprised to find Phoebe (who usually only helped on Sunday) serving dinner.

Grace that dinner, included a special prayer for the Bunker boys.

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