✍Ruthie, the Duck Lady of New Orleans / July 2026
~ Fiction ~
Roman à clef, cher!
Created AI-free
by Leonard Earl Johnson
of Lafayette and New Orleans, Louisiana
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Yours Truly in a Swamp
July 2026
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Yours Truly in a Swamp
July 2026
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Ruthie
The Duck Lady of
New Orleans
by
by
Leonard Earl Johnson
© 2026, Leonard Earl Johnson / All Rights Reserved
Altered and Reprinted from Les Amis de Marigny, New Orleans,
October 2008 / photo credits: Frank Parsley
* * *
Ruthie, seems like we barely knew you though we lived within a couple blocks of each other for thirty-something years. You regularly zoomed by on roller skates, wearing a wedding veil, holding a big white duck and a rolled up poster of yourself roller skating by, wearing a wedding veil and holding a big white duck. You were existential infinity.
Sometimes you spoke as we pedaled along on Feather Bike, our yellow-feathered Huffy bicycle.
Once we rode a French Motobécane, a bicycle we took with us to Sea, "when we wore a younger man's clothes."
That French bike was stolen by a newly released ex-con you said you knew and hated. He noticed our casual, below Canal Street, lifestyle and jumped over the fence and plucked my Motobécane and its collection of prized travel stickers. We mourned those stickers -- an irreplaceable collection -- more than the bicycle itself.
You said, "Get a duck. I got a duck. Ain't nobody ever stole no duck."
Maybe, though sometimes they ran them over.
"You ought to know, Ruthie," we said. "Don't they call you the Duck Lady?"
Ruthie sometimes sat on her stoop, a traditional downtown New Orleans pastime, watching clouds ("gathering cotton"), contemplating the weather, Life and, maybe, her next Budweiser and Kool Cigarette.
"You got a little beer, for later? A little cigarette, "for later" was Ruthie's way of offering to accept a beer and cigarette, but not that she expected to return the favor. Ruthie was a no-strings, free citizen of the neighborhood.
She enjoyed sitting atop bar stools at Pat O'Brien's, on Saint Peter, and Crazy Shirley's, on Bourbon. We met for the first time at Crazy Shirley's. It was that era when the Fabled Sixties were morphing into the 1970s. Our best friend from college was a reporter for the Associated Press newly assigned to New Orleans. I had come from late-Winter Illinois to pen an early Spring story. I walked through a magical barroom door at Crazy Shirley's ~ and there sat Ruthie with a big white duck.
She accepted a beer from the bartender. Complete with a saucer for the duck. She got a little cigarette, "for later" from a man wearing a white-and-red striped shirt, standing just outside selling Lucky Dogs. He also gave Ruthie's duck a piece of bun.
At a dinner party that night my friend spoke to the table of Ruthie, the Duck Lady of New Orleans. One of Big Swamp City's most admired parade misters. After hearing? How could anyone of spirit live anywhere else? Within the year I signed off from my Yankee past and splashed down in New Orleans.
Ruthie gained her four-score-and-more drinking like a fish, smoking like a chimney, cursing like a sailor, and staying out all hours of the night and day, subsisting on a diet of salt, sugar and preservatives ~ washed down with Budweisers and smoke.
Many are the pure fallen to an earlier grave.
Ruthie befriended most people, and all ducks. Easter was a big day on her liturgical calendar. Many ducklings began their relationship with Ruthie as an Easter offering from friends and tourists who passed the little balls of fluff into her welcoming hands in Jackson Square in front of Saint Louis Cathedral.
She lived a careless life, and so did her ducks. None of whom lasted as long as she did. Most ducks did not make it to the next Spring. But they all seemed happier for their journey with Ruthie.
Any one who knew Ruthie knew some colorful version of her car-smashed-duck story. They all ended with Ms. Ruthie bending over the carcass telling the fallen fowl to stay on the sidewalk next time.
The sweetest version came from her friend, David Michel, a New Orleans Police Officer who was working off-duty detail, at Pat O'Brien's when informed Ruthie's last duck had been flattened by an automobile outside, on the corner. He immediately dispatched a driver to City Park to scoop up a replacement.
* * *
We sometimes drank beer with Ruthie. And laughed with her. And, truth be told, at her. She was amusing, and -- dare we say it -- an odd duck we are better for knowing.
We met her boyfriend, Gary Moody, after Hurricane Katrina.
That French bike was stolen by a newly released ex-con you said you knew and hated. He noticed our casual, below Canal Street, lifestyle and jumped over the fence and plucked my Motobécane and its collection of prized travel stickers. We mourned those stickers -- an irreplaceable collection -- more than the bicycle itself.
You said, "Get a duck. I got a duck. Ain't nobody ever stole no duck."Maybe, though sometimes they ran them over.
* * *
When dumpy, comical Feather Bike replaced my elegant French Motobécane, Ruthie looked at its boisterous yellow feathers, and said, "Looks like Bigbird."
"You ought to know, Ruthie," we said. "Don't they call you the Duck Lady?"
Ruthie sometimes sat on her stoop, a traditional downtown New Orleans pastime, watching clouds ("gathering cotton"), contemplating the weather, Life and, maybe, her next Budweiser and Kool Cigarette.
"You got a little beer, for later? A little cigarette, "for later" was Ruthie's way of offering to accept a beer and cigarette, but not that she expected to return the favor. Ruthie was a no-strings, free citizen of the neighborhood.She enjoyed sitting atop bar stools at Pat O'Brien's, on Saint Peter, and Crazy Shirley's, on Bourbon. We met for the first time at Crazy Shirley's. It was that era when the Fabled Sixties were morphing into the 1970s. Our best friend from college was a reporter for the Associated Press newly assigned to New Orleans. I had come from late-Winter Illinois to pen an early Spring story. I walked through a magical barroom door at Crazy Shirley's ~ and there sat Ruthie with a big white duck.
She accepted a beer from the bartender. Complete with a saucer for the duck. She got a little cigarette, "for later" from a man wearing a white-and-red striped shirt, standing just outside selling Lucky Dogs. He also gave Ruthie's duck a piece of bun.
At a dinner party that night my friend spoke to the table of Ruthie, the Duck Lady of New Orleans. One of Big Swamp City's most admired parade misters. After hearing? How could anyone of spirit live anywhere else? Within the year I signed off from my Yankee past and splashed down in New Orleans.
* * *
Ruthie had a voice like Donald Duck's Cajun cousin. She was born Ruth Grace Moulon, at Governor Huey Long's Big Charity Hospital, in New Orleans, of parents from Plaquamines, a small town West of the Mississippi River near Baton Rouge. As a child she was sickly and lonely. As an adult she was not.
She died at seventy-four, September 6, 2008, from cancer, in Our Lady of the Lake, a residential care facility in Baton Rouge, where she had been evacuated for Hurricane Gustav.
Many are the pure fallen to an earlier grave.
* * *
Ruthie befriended most people, and all ducks. Easter was a big day on her liturgical calendar. Many ducklings began their relationship with Ruthie as an Easter offering from friends and tourists who passed the little balls of fluff into her welcoming hands in Jackson Square in front of Saint Louis Cathedral.
She lived a careless life, and so did her ducks. None of whom lasted as long as she did. Most ducks did not make it to the next Spring. But they all seemed happier for their journey with Ruthie.
Any one who knew Ruthie knew some colorful version of her car-smashed-duck story. They all ended with Ms. Ruthie bending over the carcass telling the fallen fowl to stay on the sidewalk next time.
The sweetest version came from her friend, David Michel, a New Orleans Police Officer who was working off-duty detail, at Pat O'Brien's when informed Ruthie's last duck had been flattened by an automobile outside, on the corner. He immediately dispatched a driver to City Park to scoop up a replacement.
* * *
We sometimes drank beer with Ruthie. And laughed with her. And, truth be told, at her. She was amusing, and -- dare we say it -- an odd duck we are better for knowing.
We met her boyfriend, Gary Moody, after Hurricane Katrina.
We had all grown older, and she had moved Uptown, to the Saint Charles Health Care facility. It was from there she was evacuated to Baton Rouge.
Gary Moody had been a sailor on shore leave, in 1963. They met once, on Bourbon Street, and kept up a lifetime postcard correspondence.
Ruthie referred to him all the rest of her life as her boyfriend and, sometimes, her husband. Many felt she had made him up. Until he flew down from Minnesota to dance at her sixty-seventh birthday party, at Rock ‘N’ Bowl, on January 20, 2000. The party was organized by friends as dear as any on this side of Judgement Day.
Videographer, Rick Delaup has an excellent film of Ruthie in a collection done of free souls of old New Orleans. There you can again see Ruthie, her small body bent over, roller skating down Bourbon Street, wedding veil flying, a white duck cradled in her arms.
Once, my Mother, a stern Illinois-German, came to visit. On a walking tour of the French Quarter we happened upon Ruthie, who asked for a little cigarette for later, then skated off.
My Mother listened to the story of Ruthie's admirable self reliance and neighborhood color. Then said, "Someone should put her somewhere where she could be better looked after."
The week after that visit, we saw Ruthie walking along Conti with a briefcase-toting woman in a severe black suit. "A state social worker?" I thought, "my Mother done dropped a nickel on Ruthie!"
Later that same day, we again found Ruthie sitting at the bar at Crazy Shirley's. Over a beer we asked, "Ruthie, who was that woman we saw you with, earlier today?"
'What, who?" she said in her Donald Duck accent.
"I don't know who. Some woman in a black suit with a briefcase. You were crossing Conti, at Royal."
"Naw," she said, "must'a been someone who looked like me." The bartender and two flies at the trough laughed.
Ruthie smiled her flap jaw snaggle-toothed grin, and lifted her beer.
How we could use that laugh again today.
Oh, God, in your ultimate good humor, please let it be Ruthie who brings them the word.
Gary Moody had been a sailor on shore leave, in 1963. They met once, on Bourbon Street, and kept up a lifetime postcard correspondence.
Ruthie referred to him all the rest of her life as her boyfriend and, sometimes, her husband. Many felt she had made him up. Until he flew down from Minnesota to dance at her sixty-seventh birthday party, at Rock ‘N’ Bowl, on January 20, 2000. The party was organized by friends as dear as any on this side of Judgement Day.
Videographer, Rick Delaup has an excellent film of Ruthie in a collection done of free souls of old New Orleans. There you can again see Ruthie, her small body bent over, roller skating down Bourbon Street, wedding veil flying, a white duck cradled in her arms.
* * *
Once, my Mother, a stern Illinois-German, came to visit. On a walking tour of the French Quarter we happened upon Ruthie, who asked for a little cigarette for later, then skated off.
My Mother listened to the story of Ruthie's admirable self reliance and neighborhood color. Then said, "Someone should put her somewhere where she could be better looked after."
The week after that visit, we saw Ruthie walking along Conti with a briefcase-toting woman in a severe black suit. "A state social worker?" I thought, "my Mother done dropped a nickel on Ruthie!"
Later that same day, we again found Ruthie sitting at the bar at Crazy Shirley's. Over a beer we asked, "Ruthie, who was that woman we saw you with, earlier today?"
'What, who?" she said in her Donald Duck accent.
"I don't know who. Some woman in a black suit with a briefcase. You were crossing Conti, at Royal."
"Naw," she said, "must'a been someone who looked like me." The bartender and two flies at the trough laughed.
Ruthie smiled her flap jaw snaggle-toothed grin, and lifted her beer. How we could use that laugh again today.
Ever since Hurricanes Katrina and Rita gave a one-two near-death blow to our Paris of the Swamps, we have walked her battered streets remembering friends who have gone before. Friends who once lived here, above that shop,
and there, beside that bar. We wonder where they are now. 
And do they know about the Storm? We pass Ruthie's old place. She lived next to 1313 Dauphine, an address that once belonged to Clay Shaw, the man New Orleans District Attorney, Jim Garrison, accused of conspiracy to murder John F. Kennedy.
And do they know about the Storm? We pass Ruthie's old place. She lived next to 1313 Dauphine, an address that once belonged to Clay Shaw, the man New Orleans District Attorney, Jim Garrison, accused of conspiracy to murder John F. Kennedy.Both Shaw and Garrison are long gone to their rewards. Do they sit somewhere in The Great Beyond chewing over who killed JFK? We wonder if any one has told them about The winds of '05?
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© 2026, Leonard Earl Johnson / All Rights Reserved
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