Picked and Plucked: A Tribute to Mr. EJ, Mr. Skip, and the Picking Shack That Feels Like Home

by Colton Kerr -

There’s a certain rhythm to traditions—an unspoken cadence that builds with each season, each passing year. For waterfowl hunters like me, the season isn’t just about the hunt. It’s about the process, the people, the moments between the marsh and the meal. It’s about the hands that turn a day in the field into food on the table—and the souls who make that transformation feel like something sacred.

These hands—rough, worn, and steady—have processed more birds than most people will ever lay eyes on. Mr. EJ and Mr. Skip. Between the two of them, they carry over 60+ years of waterfowl processing experience. But more than that, they carry stories, laughter, and a kind of gritty warmth that can only be earned through time and trust.

Walk with me for a moment—just off the edge of Highway 152 past a sign with a painting of a duck dressed in a suit and tie, and says “Ducks Dressed” where the shack sits. It’s not much to look at. A simple building, leaning into its age, surrounded by the echo of hunts past. But open the door, and you're hit with a smell that’s hard to describe unless you've lived it. Cigarette and cigar smoke, wood seasoned by years. Something sizzling on a cast iron skillet in the corner—bacon, maybe, or maybe some mystery meat that tasted better than you’d expect. It's the kind of smell that tells stories without needing to speak.

In the middle of it all is a butcher block table—at least a hundred years old. You can see the grooves, the cuts, the history written in every dent. You can almost hear the thunk of a cleaver hitting wood, again and again, like a metronome keeping time with tradition.

And then there they are—EJ and Skip. No matter when you walk in, it’s the same vibe. A smirk, a half-joking insult, a laugh that’s half growl, half joy. There’s always a joke waiting—probably at your expense. And always, always, a genuine welcome that makes you feel like you never left.

Some days, I don’t want to leave. I’ll linger as long as I can, sitting on an overturned bucket or a creaky stool, just soaking it all in. You can’t rush time in a place like this. And why would you want to?

Mr. EJ has been part of my life longer than I’ve had memories. Before I was old enough to step foot in the blind, I was hanging around the old green board siding shack we called our hunting cabin, probably sticky with snack food and bundled up in mismatched camo. Mr. EJ was there, part of the background and the backbone of those early days. Hell, he probably cleaned the first birds I ever harvested—tiny hands gripping a shotgun, heart pounding with pride.

Mr. Skip came along a bit later—when my memories started sticking better. He’s the kind of guy who opens his mouth and a joke falls out, usually a repeat, and somehow still funny. His classic line—“You want these ducks picked or plucked?”—got me the first time. I was green, didn’t know better. He still uses it, and I still laugh. We both know it’s the same thing. But in that shack, it’s not just about words—it’s about the shared grin that comes after.

These two aren’t just duck processors. They’re not just old friends. They’re legends in their own quiet way. They’ve taken care of more birds than I can count, sure—but more than that, they’ve taken care of us. My family. Me. Through every season, every story, every stop at the shack.

To explain what they mean to someone who hasn’t met them—it’s tough. How do you explain a friendship that feels like family, that smells like smoke and bacon and laughter? How do you bottle the feeling of walking into a room and knowing you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be?

You don’t. You just tell the story.

And maybe, if you’re lucky, you get to be a part of theirs.

P.S. Picked or plucked—it’s the same thing. But don’t tell Skip I said that. He’d just grin and make me pick the next limit myself.

— Colton Kerr