Of Tossed Walls and Broody Birds

We met the new neighbors quite by accident one April Sunday. It was one of those days when, instead of jumping in the car to chase adventure, you opt to stay where you are and let it come to you. And so, after a leisurely dog walk, we lingered outside at an elevated area that, in the spring, offers a clear view of the pond below. The pond, in turn, dazzled us with an unprecedented show. A majestic great blue heron stalked his evening meal in the shallow, unfurling his coiled, elegant neck while patiently wading through shifting mirrors of sky blue and billowing white. A blood-curdling scream soon redirected us to a soaring red-tailed falcon - her impressive span dry brushed in burnt umber and delicate beiges — and the squirming treat dangling from her talons.

Then, I spotted her at water’s edge. A demure, broody migrant so perfectly camouflaged that I strained to distinguish well-feathered tail from twigged nursery. In the lead-up to Mother’s Day, the unexpected apparition readily churned up memories of my own journey into parenthood. Of how a maternal surge upended life as I knew it but, gratefully, carried in a profound understanding of what the exciting (and terrifying) chapter required. What I saw that afternoon was not a wild goose seated on a rock, but a new mom doing all she could to create a secure and happy nest.

Visiting daily, sometimes thrice, I always found Mother Goose as I left her, still but not idle on her stony perch and unwavering in the season’s drenching rains and punishing winds. Bob readily joined my watch; we traded sightings with our concerns about the army of predators — owls, red fox, coyote, snapping turtles, and even, ermine weasels — lying in wait. And happily noted her unwinking watchman, an identically marked, slightly bigger gander patrolling the area, was ready to fight off any visiting toughs.

Our outlook was a strip of tender grass bordered by a freely assembled, shin-high “tossed wall.” These moss-tinged installations of boulders, jagged chunks and quadrilaterals crisscross miles of meadows, woods and roadways. Connecticut’s hardy settlers built them from necessity, as frigid winters and the ensuing “frost-heaving” lifted crops of ancient granite to the surface. Our woods overflow with these and heftier “double walls,” but none would thwart a trespasser, much less a flying one. (https://www.earthmagazine.org/article/history-science-and-poetry-new-englands-stone-walls)

Mother Goose and her clutch.

A few times, as I tiptoed near, she swiveled with a contortionist’s ease to warily glance backward and reinforce our strict surveillance boundary. Another day, finding her on a rare incubation holiday, I glimpsed her magnificent clutch. Five shining vessels, pointier than the norm to accommodate the species’ grand wings, filled her nest to capacity.

I never had great affection for waterfowl. My early infatuation with Misty of Chincoteague’s famed ponies only swelled aloft the smooth-muscled beasts who guided my short-lived riding instruction. Other crushes — wild and domesticated, puppies, cougars and briefly, the Philadelphia Zoo’s charismatic, long-armed Oragantan duo, Pinky and Ivy — came and went.

There were childhood excursions to a Pennsylvania estate, where my brother and I met the residents armed with a heavy sack of stale Pepperidge Farms, but I think I enjoyed the ritual, which allowed me to survey the expansive manse and envision the fancy life therein, more than the interactions. After enthusiastically feeding the rowdy Anatidae, who overwhelmed us with their brash approach and occasionally nipped our fingers, we headed to Dairy Queen for delicacies of our own.

Just before Mother’s Day, Bob rushed in with a fitting announcement: several goslings had pipped and were resting, nestled in Mom’s extravagant curves. Others followed suit and, before long, the plump relocated across the pond in a slow-moving transport of lemon fluff and towering ebony. By then, a lush screen of oak, maple and irrepressible sassafras saplings curtained off my view, bringing my pilgrimage to an abrupt, but cheerful close. I pictured the family afloat on a fancy, local water feature and, with my enhanced knowledge of goose behavior, felt sure they would return soon, or in seasons to come.

Thoughts of wild things and wild nests eventually migrated to the pervasive national conversation about border construction and to our well-partitioned lives. Knowing my vantage point and life experiences dramatically shaped this encounter, I considered anew how these factors influence and impede our relationships with the ones beyond the divide. It was up-close visitation, mother to mother, that led me to embrace the invading gaggle as newcomers seeking shelter and to await the fledglings like an old family friend. A privacy fence would not have altered their story, but it would have changed my perception of it.

The colonists’ pragmatism and the environment conspired, centuries ago, to prepare us for an agreeable introduction.

Proximity doesn’t always magnify our affections. I delight at our plentiful chipmunks, who multiply despite their universal need to shriek while dashing before the very walking and wheeled threats they hope to elude, yet our copious squirrels and lonely coyote elicit no such good will.

Canadian Geese are courageous, organized and tenacious parents; their affection for partner and birthplace is as extraordinary as their legendary flight patterns. Prizing clean water and isolated breeding sites as humans favor safe neighborhoods with good schools, geese form strong family units, divorce rarely, care for the ill, and even mourn in lives of 25 to 30 years. Construction and security aren’t left to chance: the female plucks her down to soften her abode and collects sticks to blanket her brood should she leave, while her sentinel keeps a careful distance to avoid revealing the clutch’s location. Day-old goslings swim, yet remain in their parents’ care for a year.

It’s amazing Branta canadensis do all this and more. A goose lacks a crow’s problem-solving and the macaw’s ability to discern left from right and, unlike cormorants, can not count as well as some kindergarteners. It’s lowly pigeons, who congregate at museums, that learn to distinguish Picasso from Monet. (http://mentalfloss.com/article/55868/11-surprisingly-smart-birds)

I didn’t need to travel to their land of origin or scale a tossed border to finally discover the beautiful and strange ways of Canadian Geese. This backyard tale provides fresh inspiration for the terrifying, exciting empty-nest chapter that lies ahead. I will put a little more faith in unscheduled adventures and wander a little further in search of unobstructed views.When we venture past the partitions, beautiful and strange and surprising people come into clearer focus.

If we are determined to erect new walls, I say, let’s build them low and of ancient stone.

It’s been months since I first spotted my broody friend; her goslings are now taking to the skies above me, falling into a wondrous, but anonymous, formation. My days are full, yet I still find myself pausing at both wall and kitchen window, hoping they will honor me with a visit.

The boisterous, mealtime spectacle, guided by Mother with Father Goose at the rear, is one I won’t forget. Five wingless, spiky-blond bundles with too-big feet and inky eyes peck the ground non-stop, weaving and bobbing like folks leaving a bar well past last call. An incessant howl from within abruptly ended the last grazing to force their remarkably efficient retreat. I watched, wistfully, as the family slipped easily over granite to disappear, again, in our thicketed refuge.

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Rebecca Ridgway Ayars

Written by

I built a career helping organizations and artists share their stories, but lately have been sharing my own. Small movements of grace and courage inspire me.

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