If a tarantula was crawling down Grace’s face, Nora wouldn’t have said a word. I don’t think it was so much that they didn’t like each other; I have no concrete evidence of that. (Well, maybe I do!) It’s just that they came from different worlds and had nothing in common.
It’s unreal how much each duck mirrors their namesake. Nora the Duck is larger than your average duck and dwarfs Grace the Duck.
Grandma Nora wasn’t fat, mind you, she was just a large woman, big-boned, with arms that looked like she could out arm-wrestle a blacksmith.
Diminutive Grace, frail as a china doll, has a chipped beak and looks like she could break in two at any minute. So too did her namesake.
Grandma Nora was a hardy, plainspoken country gal from hardworking farm and oilfield folk. She had an orchard before moving into town later in life where she lived in a small, tidy house down in the valley.
I got the impression she didn’t have a lot of extra cash lying around. I can’t ever remember her being sick; I doubt that she spent two days in a hospital in her life, and she lived to be over 90 years old.
She wasn’t what I’d call the jovial type but at least she’d wink at you once in a while, and I believe if this young teenager would have asked, she’d have given me a sip or two of beer after I mowed her lawn.
Grandma Grace, on the other hand, was pure city person, if you can call a town of less than 10,000 a city. She was the dutiful high-society wife, married to the town mayor, fire chief and leading businessman.
She was a big shot in the Eastern Star, lived high on a hill and wouldn’t say you-know-what if her mouth was full of it. She lived a much shorter life than Grandma Nora, and I always thought, a much sadder one too.
Even though she was a foot shorter, I got the impression that Grandma Grace looked down her nose at Grandma Nora. It was almost palpable, as if Grace came from a higher caste.
On holidays, which was the only time we dared put them in the same room, Grandma Nora would join in the penny-ante card games and would share a beer with Uncle Buddy. I’m quite sure this mortified Grandma Grace to no end.
Grandma Grace was deeply religious, the daughter of a minister who built one of the first churches in town. And when I say “built,” I mean with his two hands. Grandma Nora, on the other hand, spent about as many days in church as she did in the hospital.
Grandma Nora lived a frugal life and didn’t pay much when I mowed her lawn and weeded her rose garden. She was very particular about her yard and would inspect the job I did – and always had a complaint, a suggestion and occasionally even a compliment.
Grandma Grace paid much better, and seemed appreciative, but would not have come outside to inspect my work if the house was on fire.
It’s spooky how much Grandma Nora and Grandma Grace were like the ducks of the same names. They remind me of country folks and city slickers, who simply don’t understand each other.
The city lady and the country gal, side by side in our yard, and they still haven’t said a word to one another in years. 
