Goose Goose Duck

If you drive up Town Street from the Lake, just before you reach Scoville Road you enter dangerous territory. The Scoville farm house stands on the right, and across from it, in a field on the left, stands the duckpond. The traffic between the house and the duckpond is serious. I don’t know if you’ve ever had to stop your car for the goose parade, but I have. There is no way through.

     The geese belong to Thalia Scoville, widow of my cousin Ralph. Thalia has lived in that house for decades; she can’t remember when she first got the geese. They’re not exactly pets, they don’t have names. But they aren’t used for eating, either – too much grease, says Thalia, and too tough. The eggs aren’t taken, either. “They lay them in such big clutches you never know which egg is fresh,” she says. Really, the geese are kept for parades.

     Thalia’s geese are tall and handsome, brownish grey with darker trim. Their long necks, erect carriage and heavy bodies mark them as domestic; their coloring suggests descent from the European greylag. (This was the goose made famous by its decision to call Konrad Lorenz “mom.”) They move slowly. I won’t use the undignified word “waddle,” because they are nothing if not dignified, but they shift from side to side as they walk.

     There are about fifteen of them now. On a hot day they cluster, squatting comfortably in the dusty barnyard, or on the lawn, under a tree. Some sit, some stand. One of them may balance on one foot, doing goose yoga. They’re relaxed, until, mysteriously, the moment arrives. The geese look around jerkily, giving little bugling trills. They stand and gather, then, honking companionably, they begin the parade, as though an inaudible whistle were blown. Down the driveway they go. The ducks and guineaufowl follow, caught up by the excitement. The honking is  muted and melodious, like jazz musicians, jamming on oboes.  

At the road the geese walk single file. Bobbing heads held high, yellow webbed feet turned in, they march majestically across Town Street. Traffic comes to a halt. Once a police car arrived, during the march. The policeman honked. The geese honked back. He turned on his circling light. The geese ignored him. He turned on his siren. The geese maintained a flawless goose-step. Their mission was to reach the other side of the road, not to get caught up in altercations about right of way.

On the far side they scramble up the bank, surprisingly awkward. A wing or two flaps out, for balance.

The pond is calm and empty. By now the ducks have also gained  the far side, guineafowl scuttling behind them. One by one the geese cross the grass to the pond. With a heavy fluttering rush they launch themselves into the water. Suddenly graceful, they float, their long necks erect, their snobbish heads aloft. They look down at us over their yellow bills, like dowagers looking over their lorgnettes.

They have arrived. They are superior. They’ve accomplished their mission. And we are allowed to drive on up the road.      

                               

                                                                                                             August 13, 2012, Connecticut