The Lone Goose
What determines the arrival of fall? According to Country Living and Better Homes & Gardens, it is painted pumpkins and elaborately decorated and refurbished farmhouses. For me, it is the return of hundreds of Canadian geese to my lake. More specifically, it is the return of a particular goose that I have named, Squeaker. This poor lone goose returns every fall to my yard where he hunkers down in my reeds or grasses or whatever lake people call the weeds that grow along their lakeshore, until the inevitable freezing of my lake. The first year that I discovered him, I was truly haunted by his pathetic honk and lack of friends. I was positive that he would not survive the bleak winter and loneliness that followed his broken 'voice'. Then one cold dreary winter day, he vanished and with him my anxiety for his sad existence. With his exit, went my worry for his welfare. Much to my surprise, he returned the following fall. I was shocked and elated that he had somehow managed to navigate the tough ruthless life of a migrating Canadian goose all alone. As I listened to his pathetic squeak and watched his solitary existence from my picture window, I once again felt a daily sadness for him. Eventually, he vanished just like the year before. The past had repeated itself and I found myself, once more, relieved that I no longer had to be a witness to his daily plight while I sipped my coffee.
A fortnight ago, I returned from our family beach vacation to a yard and lake full of honking geese. I determined that fall must have arrived while I was away. Yet, despite their presence and the distinct aroma of pumpkin donuts from the local farm/field trip haven down the road, it just didn't seem like fall to me. Then a few mornings ago, through my cracked windows, I heard a high pitched squeak among the hundreds of generic honks that I had already learned to tune out. I didn't have to get up from my morning perch in my favorite chair to know that Squeaker had returned. He had survived yet another winter, spring and fall alone and broken. I tried not to look out at him too often.
He still makes me a bit sad. There is something not right or unnatural in his flock of one. Yet, I can relate to his solitude and brokenness. I too follow the rules that dictate my humanity. I appear to show up at the right times during each season of life. To the outside, I have the boxes checked and the migration patterns memorized. I appear to be just like all the other moms and wives and women of my day. But, if someone with a cup of coffee were to stop and look or listen closely enough, they would see that I am not quite a part of the group and that my voice is a bit broken. But, here is the thing. I like it this way. I like my high pitched squeak that has allowed me to be unique. It took more for me to be here as I am than it took all the others in their groups and flocks. I am proud and grateful for the years and seasons that have passed. So, this fall I hold up my mug and toast Squeaker and our hard-won success.