GROUNDED

A rather damp, dreary day here along the river, with light showers, off and on, since sometime before dawn. Heavier rains are predicted for this afternoon, tonight, and early tomorrow. The temperature is going the wrong way, too; 39˚F currently, which is four degrees cooler than it was at 6:00 a.m.

Actually, this might prove a blessing in disguise, since I won't be able to get out and work in the yard. I'm not sure my back can take another day of raking up winter's debris, restacking firewood, moving stones, or digging new planting beds. I'm already to the point where the pain pills have no effect whatsoever. A weather-induced rest, and time to heal, may be God's way of forcing common sense on an otherwise hopeless case.

The yard geese have just ambled up the bank to see whether I tossed them any tidbits from breakfast. (Nope.) I will give them a scoop of cracked corn as soon as I finish this post. In the meantime, they can pluck at my grass and give me the evil eye through the window all they want—but I'm not going to become their flunky.

An hour ago I looked out the front window and saw a treetop full of turkey vultures. So late in the morning, it was obvious they'd been grounded by the weather. While not exactly early birds, most days the vulture contingent is up and away by mid-morning.

Actually there were several trees with vulture-littered crowns—I counted 73 sitting birds total, among four adjacent trees—plus more in the air, flapping from limb to limb or tree to tree, sometimes making a quick glide circle over the river or around a few additional trees before settling back down among the clan. Occasionally one of the vultures would spread it's wings into a classic drying/sunning pose…but only for a moment, since there was no warming sun and no hope of drying out damp feathers; all a poor buzzard could to accomplish was to chill his wingpits and appear even sillier than normal.

My funereal-cloaked neighbors looked bored by their forced rest—restless, anxious to get a'wing and off, soaring high, on the lookout for a tasty morsel of ripe roadkill. I know the feeling. I'm also anxious to get out and about myself—though I'm hurting too badly to do anything useful. I still want to be on the move, driving along a rural backroad, looking for wildflowers or spring buds, birds, critters, stopping to peer over bridges spanning country brooks and seeing if I can spot fish or tadpoles in the pools.

Spring has sprung, even if the weather has taken a backtrack. I don't want miss a moment.

———————

FUTURE FEATHERED LAWNMOWER?

One crisp afternoon last fall my only working lawnmower decided to self-destruct. I can’t say its death was unexpected, for its life had been long and filled with heavy labor, doing yeoman service well above its small size and original bargain-basement price. Moreover, the poor machine had suffered much early abuse before finding its way into my grateful hands. It is to the little lawnmower’s credit, I think, that its chosen suicide date coincided, more or less, with the last of the grass growing season. Bushels of fallen leaves from the yard’s many trees would conceal any subsequent grass growth from the gaze of an overly-critical neighbor. Out of sight, out of mind. I could therefore wait until spring before purchasing a replacement. So the recently expired mower was hauled to its deserved hereafter at the local scrap dump. Soon thereafter its heftier and originally pricier kin—a good-looking, expensive mower that a friend had given me the year before, which he confessed hadn’t worked well from the day of its purchase, but was making him crazy trying to coax along—was hauled from the shed and bestowed on a neighbor. Along with the full story and a promise that even if he fixed the thing, he wouldn't bring it back. I did this not because I particularly like the neighbor (though he’s okay in his way) but because the still-shiny beast mower wouldn’t run for me either, nor for any shade-tree mechanic or small-engine wizard I knew who’d tried to fix it. However, in its non-working inertness, the cursed thing proved a sure-fire bet for shooting blood pressure and frustration levels through the roof. I knew if I kept it around, sooner or later it would induce violence—though I did temporarily toy with the potential enjoyment I might find in administering various forms of rough justice. The cowboy cure of sixgun lead raised some fear of where any ricocheting bullets might end up. The alternative of a severe clubbing led to worries about hurting my back. Of course I love and respect my river too much to drown bad junk by tossing it into the deepest pool. Nope, the wiser and safer course seemed to be to give the mower to the neighbor and assume he would eventually choose the mower's proper punishment. Having thus divested myself of dysfunctional lawnmowers, I've done nothing from November until now to remedy the situation. Yes, I’ve been looking, pricing, shopping…but have yet to actually put hard-earned cash on the counter. In the meantime, spring is here and the grass is growing, albeit slowly, and I know I must soon find a replacement. I’m now wondering if that replacement didn’t just waddle past my window in the form of browsing Canada geese. Five minutes ago I looked up from my desk and saw this fine feathered fellow plucking his way along—snatching up a beakful of grass here, another there. His more reserved mate followed behind. I know it’s a lot of yard for two geese, but then…if the pair will get to nesting, it won’t always be two geese. Too, I can live with the ragged look of their mowing by simply chalking it up to a more “natural look.” Even better, I’ll no longer have to follow a clattering lawnmower around, breathing its fumes, listening to its racket, sweating and trying to dodge sticks and debris which might occasionally spew from underneath. Plus—and here my Celtic blood possibly skews my viewpoint ever so slightly—I won’t have to invest in a fancy piece of mechanical gear. As to those, um, after-deposits for which geese are rightly famous, I’ll just pay more attention to where I step and not let a bit of fertilizer come between me and my feathered lawnmowers. And if the plan doesn't work out…well, this might be the first lawnmower that ever graced the table as Christmas dinner.

BEGUILED BY GEESE

I am beguiled by geese…mesmerized, enchanted, bewitched—and in no small way, smitten. For me, the sight of flying geese is a natural magic, a cast spell which instantly transforms both moment and mood.

Mostly I’m talking Canada geese. I’ve seen a few snow geese and blues, but was so thrilled by their rarity that I can’t say one way or the other whether it was the geese that caused my reaction, or the unexpectedness of the event.

Not that today’s ubiquitous Canadas were always so common. In fact, I can remember a time when a flight of Canada geese was a rare sight, so noteworthy that it would be talked about for days thereafter among neighbors, recounted at the hardware store, market, and café, and might even make the local paper.

When I was a little boy, Mom or Dad would sometimes call urgently for me to dash outside—“Hurry, Son! Hurry!” they’d cry. “The geese are coming!”

These exciting moments usually took place in spring or fall, when the birds were heading north or south in migration, following their ancient flyways, likely traveling high in the sky. Sometimes their ragged skeins contained more than a hundred birds. There wasn’t much traffic or noise back then, so you could hear the cries of the oncoming flock while they were still a long ways off. Their cries would float down as if from heaven, throaty, angelic, a voice all but disembodied from those moving cross-stitches which eventually appeared, flying almost in the clouds.

And we—my parents and I—would watch, transfixed by the sight and wonder of those passing geese…and we would continue standing there even after the birds had disappeared from view, listening, until the last sound of their passage had also faded into silence.

Perhaps that’s why I still prefer my geese to be flying. Oh, a goose on the ground is interesting enough. And I do like to see a parental pair of geese paddling around a quiet backwater, towing their little flotilla of fuzzy goslings.

But geese on the wing are what stirs my soul.

Come twilight, a ragged string of calling geese cleaving a painted sky is all the proof I’ll ever need of a creator God. Only a force far greater than man and more purposeful than chance could conceive and fashion so breathtaking a creature. There is something about those big birds on the wing that’s both holy and magnificent, a poignant glory that assails my heart like a sweet flame. I never know whether to weep with joy or shout in jubilation.

Lucky for me—lucky for all of us!—the modern history of the Canada goose is a tale of comeback. What might have been a story of unfathomable loss is now one of triumphant plenitude—too triumphant, some might mutter.

It is said Ernest Hemingway had a way with bears. He often admitted to liking bears, and bears seemingly responded in kind—at least so claim several friends who witnessed this reciprocal behavior. An Ojibway acquaintance once speculated that bears might have been his “totem animal,” a sort of kindred spirit that bridges the gap between worlds—animal and man, natural and supernatural, known and unknown.

That’s how it is with me and geese. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a string of geese veer my way, often turning from a different directional line and a fair distance away, to pass directly overhead. (And no, I know what you’re thinking…and I’ve never been “bombed” by an over-flying goose.) Sometimes they flew so low I could hear the rush of wind beneath those great heaving wings.

A skeptic might chalk such anecdotes up to mere coincidence or an overeager imagination. Could be, says the wry ornithologist, those birds were just curious as to why that burly fellow was standing on that riverbank looking up, mouth agape.

Perhaps…

But isn't it just possible all such matters can’t be explained by science or dismissed by skepticism? Much as we like to believe otherwise, we don't yet know it all; answers by the multitudes elude us every day. There is still wonder in the world waiting to be discovered.

I do know that if I believed in reincarnation, I’d like to come back as a goose. I like the way geese talk to each other as they travel, and the way they share the lead during flights. I like how they pick their mate and stick together. They're gregarious, adventurous, boisterous, and will stand their ground if challenged. They're also regal in a flat-footed, silly way—and I like the dichotomy of that; man or goose, we should never take ourselves too seriously.

But most of all, just once, I wish to know what it’s like to lift my wings and fly up there, alongside my brethren, above the trees, in the heady grace of a painted sky.