Ned Sutton: Grandpa. ‘The Man. The Myth. The Bad Influence.’
The three white ducks, Huey, Dewy and Louie, hang together in a corner like a band, waddle and flop in unison, squawking a specific waterfowl rhythm that soon becomes a kind of dusty, backyard aria, which includes two young clowning grandchildren, an overhead helicopter, a hammock creaking in the breeze, several baby chickens in a coop, and Ned Sutton bitching about the rises in the yard, the hard dirt humps he finds difficult to step on to arrive at his chair. When he plops down, on this cool, March afternoon, he'll be there awhile, his mere presence providing extraordinary information.