Sharp Dressed Ducks: Beards, Bayous, and the Soundtrack of the Swagger That Raised Us

ZZ TOP: Sharp Dressed Man
TV Show: Duck Dynasty

“Every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man.”

I don’t remember the first time I heard it.

I just remember the way my dad sang it.

He’d step out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder, steam still rising off the mirror, and the song would hit the air before the cologne did. Obsession, by Calvin Klein—that deep, spicy scent that still feels like Saturday nights and Levi 501s. He’d pull on his dress socks with funky little patterns no one else wore yet, throw on a clean black shirt, and give a little shimmy like the world was lucky to have him.

Long black hair tied back. Black mustache trimmed tight. Bright blue eyes that always smiled first.

He was a sharp dressed man, alright.

And he knew it.

The soundtrack wasn’t just in the stereo—it was stitched into the fabric of my childhood.

ZZ Top was like gospel.

And that song? It was my dad’s personal anthem.

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Fast forward almost twenty years.

It’s 2012, and we’re in Monroe, Louisiana, temporarily living out of a hotel room with three dogs, a box of inspection papers, and a heart still raw from the ectopic pregnancy that nearly shattered me. Postpartum depression is strange like that—it doesn’t care how early the loss comes. It still leaves a crater.

Jamie and I were doing property inspections to stay afloat. Not exactly living the dream—just trying to make rent and be together.

Every job felt like a lifeline. So when Monroe came up—long days inspecting abandoned houses in swampland—nobody else wanted it. So we took it—we needed the money. And I’d spent many summers in Lake Charles with my dad. The eerie beauty of the swamps felt familiar—like home. So we packed up and headed to Monroe for a few weeks.

We were barely sleeping. Barely making it. Definitely not praying together—not yet.

Our faith hadn’t left us, but we hadn’t exactly welcomed it into the room either.

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Somewhere in that haze of highway miles and hotel beds, we stopped at a gas station.

A weird little moment—just a pit stop, but it stuck.

Inside, there was a group of people—guys with beards, girls in camo, something familiar in the air we couldn’t quite place. A few looks exchanged. Not rude. Maybe a kind of warmth passed in silence through a smile. We left with snacks and got back on the road.

The next day, I stayed behind at the hotel with the dogs while Jamie kept working. I flipped on the TV—more for background noise than anything. And then it hit me.

That riff. That song. That voice.

“Every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp dressed man…”

I froze. Not because of ZZ Top—but because of what came next.

There he was.

Willie Robertson.

Long hair. Big beard. And the exact same American flag bandana my dad used to hang around his rearview mirror.

Like an echo from my own childhood—suddenly alive on-screen.

I couldn’t look away. Something in me just clicked.

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It was a Duck Dynasty marathon. We were in Monroe.

And I realized—we’d literally seen some of these people the day before. We just didn’t know who they were yet.

A few days earlier, we’d even driven past the Duck Commander / Buck Commander building while out doing inspections—

pointed it out, snapped a picture, and kept moving.

At the time, it was just another local landmark.

But now, it was lighting up with meaning.

Now it almost felt like a breadcrumb—

one of those signs you only understand after the story starts to unfold.

But the real hook wasn’t the beards or the banter.

It was the faith.

At the end of every episode, the whole family gathered at the table and prayed.

Unapologetically.

Gratefully.

Like it was the most normal, beautiful thing in the world.

And something inside me felt like it cracked open.

By the time Jamie came back to the hotel, I was still watching. He sat beside me, and before long, we were in it together. Episode after episode. Prayer after prayer.

We didn’t talk about it at first. We didn’t have to.

Something was happening.

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Not long after we came home from that trip, Jamie and I knelt down together—hands clasped, scared and tired and finally ready to say something out loud.

Our first genuine prayer out loud together as husband and wife wasn’t poetic. It wasn’t planned.

It was real.

And it changed everything.

We started praying together. Talking about God. Turning our faces toward the light.

And life—little by little—started to shift.

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Duck Dynasty might’ve just been a reality show.

But for us, it was a wild and weird turning point.

A strange and holy spark.

A doorway into something deeper.

A duck call summoning us back to our faith.

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As I write this, I want to pause and give thanks—to Phil Robertson, the family’s patriarch, who passed away recently.

A man whose faith was unshakeable.

Whose convictions stood tall in a world that often bows.

His light touched millions, and I count myself among them.

The way he spoke about God, led his family with strength, preached with love and stood on truth—without apology—was rare and radiant.

He wasn’t perfect. But he was faithful.

He left a lineage of light. In the strength of his sons, in his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, in Sadie’s fire for faith and truth, and in the lives he touched, the souls he helped steady.

Phil Robertson built a family who carries the torch with courage and grace—the kind of light that doesn’t flicker when the world gets dark.

I have so much gratitude for him. For Miss Kay. For the whole wild and fun, God-loving crew.

Because in a dark and uncertain time, they helped us find our way back to the light.

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I don’t know if it was the beards,

or the music,

or the prayer at the end of every episode.

Maybe it was all of it.

Maybe it was something deeper.

But something about that trip pulled us closer to each other—and to God.

And I’ve never forgotten it.

We never expected our faith to take root in a hotel room in Monroe, Louisiana after watching a bunch of God-loving, duck hunting Louisiana boys on TV.

We were just trying to get by.

But that’s how grace works, sometimes.

It shows up in the quiet.

And when it does—you listen.

I don't think I’ll ever hear that riff without the feeling of it all rushing back.

Obsession in the air.

A bandana on the mirror.

And a father who taught me—without trying—

that sometimes being a sharp dressed man

starts with standing on something solid.

And now I see it more clearly than ever:

the best dressed men I’ve ever known wore beards, bandanas, and unwavering faith.

They showed up for their families.

They stood tall in what they believed.

And they taught me that true swagger—

the kind that lingers—

comes from living with love, conviction, and light.