There are a few things you should know about me.

One is that I am a Churchillian.

I admire Winston Churchill.

Deeply.

I’ve spent years reading about him, studying him, and trying to better understand the leadership he provided during one of the most consequential periods in modern history. I’m a member of the International Churchill Society. I attend their annual conferences. This October, I’ll be in Philadelphia for the next one.

So when we were in London, there was no question.

We were going to the Churchill War Rooms.

I’ve been there before. Three times, in fact. And I would go again.

It’s hard to describe the feeling of being in that space. The rooms where Churchill and his staff worked. Planned. Decided. Carried the weight of a war that would shape the future of the world.

It’s serious.

Grounded.

Sobering.

And, in many ways, still relevant today.

Which brings me to something else you should know about me.

I have a thing for rubber duckies.

Yes.

Rubber duckies.

I collect them. Always have. For reasons I’m not entirely sure I can explain. But over time, they’ve become part of my travels—something fun, something light, something personal.

So, while in London, I had a mission.

Find a Winston Churchill rubber duckie.

And I did.

He’s perfect.

A black top hat.
A cigar.
Black suit. Bow tie.
And, of course, his right hand raised with two fingers in a “V” for victory.

A remarkable combination of history and… well… rubber duck.

I loved it immediately.

And then, somewhere along the way…

I lost him.

Or so I thought.

By the time we were well into the next phase of the trip, I realized I couldn’t find my Churchill duck.

Panic might be too strong a word.

But not by much.

I thought back. Replayed the sequence.

And came to a conclusion:

I had left him behind.

At Brown’s Hotel in London.

So I called.

Explained the situation.

Something along the lines of:

“I believe I may have left a Winston Churchill rubber duckie in my room…”

Not the most typical request they receive, I imagine.

But they checked.

And they found him.

Relief.

I asked if they could ship him back to me in the States. They said yes.

A few days later, I received a DHL package. Paid $20 in import taxes. Quite possibly making this the most expensive rubber duck I’ve ever owned.

And then I opened the box.

Inside was my Churchill duck.

Safe and sound.

But that wasn’t all.

There was also a handwritten note.

“Mr. Peterson,
We did not want Mr. Winston Churchill to get lonely during his trip to Denver.
I’ve sent a lovely companion, Beneduck Cumberquack, to keep him safe during this voyage.”

I just sat there for a moment.

Because inside the box, alongside Churchill, was another rubber duck.

Bright yellow.

With a simple scripted “B” on its chest.

Benedict Cumberbatch.

Or rather…

Beneduck Cumberquack.

It was thoughtful.

It was funny.

It was completely unexpected.

And it meant a lot.

Not just because they sent the duck back.

But because they understood something.

They understood that this silly, lighthearted object…

Actually mattered.

That it carried meaning.

That it wasn’t just about a rubber duck.

And somehow, they honored that.

In a way that felt personal.

And kind.

And human.

And for reasons I didn’t fully expect…

it brought tears to my eyes.

Maybe it was the thoughtfulness.

Maybe it was the humor.

Maybe it was simply the recognition that something small—
something light and a little ridiculous—
actually mattered.

Earlier in the trip, I had been standing in the War Rooms.

Thinking about decisions that shaped the outcome of a war.
The weight of leadership.
The resolve of one man in the face of something truly existential.

And now, here I was…

moved in a completely different way.

By a rubber duck.

And a handwritten note.

And maybe that contrast is the point.

Life holds both.

The moments of enormous consequence…

And the small, unexpectedly human gestures
that stay with you just as long.