Recently, I took my annual road trip with my boys up to the “motherland,” a.k.a., the great state of Michigan.
Not being from the south, I like to impart whatever Yankee culture I can upon them whenever I get the chance — whether that be calling soda “pop,” having a familiarity with the Great Lakes, collecting cans to return for a dime a piece, or the harsh lesson that obeying a 60 m.p.h. speed limit on I-75 in Detroit will likely get you killed — I believe it’s important their mother’s Michigander heritage is preserved.
The usual destination for such lessons is my mother’s house, located firmly in the “second knuckle” area of the thumb. (If I have to explain Michigan directions in relation to your outstretched left hand— this column is not for you.)
It’s a rural area, but a only a 25 min. drive from Port Huron, the Blue Water Bridge, and the St. Clair River (which is a mere stone’s throw from Canada.)
In theory, it’s a 10 hour drive — but that’s only if you Redbull and white-knuckle it. In reality, it’s a solid 12 — especially if you’re travelling with young kids — which is why I typically reserve two days for travel.
When you arrive at my mom’s house, it’s like a breath of fresh air. You’re away from the highway — away from any town really. It’s a gravel road where they know all their neighbors, because there’s only five of them on the whole street — and one of them is their in-law’s.
It’s grassy front lawns marked with ditches and tree lines as property markers. It’s the kind of place that has apple trees your grandpa planted and blackberry bushes that no one did — but you can still make a cobbler from them easy enough, if you can beat the birds to them. You’ve got space for a bonfire, and enough used motor oil in the barn to get it started if it’s been rainy. It’s old tractors and lush gardens and giant weeping willows.
And geese.
Several years ago my mom and her husband decided — for whatever reason — what their property was lacking was a flock of geese. So they bought some.
I never saw them as goslings, so that may go a ways to explain my aversion — but when I see them, I don’t see happy egg-layers, I see terrifying dinosaur descendants that hiss and charge and flap their giant wings at me. In short, I am not a fan. They’re scary.
The last time I was up north, the geese were penned up beside the barn. They had kiddie pools filled with fresh water, they had a warm “goose house” for their feed, and they had soft straw to lay their eggs in. Mom liked to buy them dandelion stems as a treat. Seemed like a good set-up to me …
This year, for reasons that make no sense to me, my mother and her husband decided it was a good idea to “free range” their geese. They set them loose to waddle about where they wanted in the yard.
OMG.
As soon as I pulled up in the driveway, I knew it would be a problem. The majority of the flock waddled off as we exited the vehicle … not Henry. He studied me. He stared.
Henry is a Roman (also called a Roman Tufted) goose, according to whatever website it was that I just just looked up goose breeds on. He’s all white, with an orange beak and feet and a tuft of feathers on top of his head that resemble a Roman centurion’s helmet.
He’s also an a**hole.
The flock itself is around a dozen. Maybe 14? I honestly don’t remember. But only one goose was after me — Henry.
Every time I turned my back outside, Henry was there, sneaking up.
Every time I let my guard down, there he was, peeking around a corner, or worse, making direct eye-contact through one of the barn windows. Henry — with his piercing blue eyes and stupid tufted head — was after me, I was sure of it.
My mom thought I was crazy.
The other geese had no such murderous intentions. Of the dozen or so, only three have names: Stella, who was currently a brooder and rarely left her nest, Eatyourfaceoff, who, despite her name, my mother insisted was a “good girl,” and Henry.
The others, probably because you can’t really tell them apart, haven’t been named. They just sort of of honk and wander around and do their goosey thing. They’re fine.
Henry stood apart.
His role in the flock seemed to be something like middle management. The other geese didn’t really ignore him, but didn’t seem very keen to follow his lead either. If anything, he seemed more interested in eyeing me down, which he did at every opportunity.
Frankly, it freaked me out.
I’d like to wrap this up by saying I’ve always been an animal lover. Dogs, cats, hamsters, Guinea pigs, rats, mice, fish — you name it. But not geese.
Henry-the-murder-goose is where I draw the line.
Foie gras, anyone?