You may have heard it on the street, but apparently it's true. Those Canada geese you see these days almost everywhere, they mate for life. Seriously. And their divorce rate is almost non-existent. Just about this time of year, couples break from the flock and look for a place for the kids. Anyone who lives around them knows it's not unusual for them to choose a spot brazenly out in the open. Sometimes, year after year, they do the whole family thing in the exact same place.
They're here now and in abundance. Yesterday, outside cleaning up the winter mess, I heard them for most of the afternoon as if no more than a wheelbarrow ride away. But they keep their distance. Even if they're along the river, they'll spot you the minute you shut the back door, then grouse a bit about that lousy humanoid across the field.
They're nice to have around, but I don't mind them keeping their distance. They litter with abandon, and their waste is more than droppings. Who hasn't walked among them in some city park and not tippy-toed through the muddy mess?
They're unerringly old-fashioned. When the eggs appear, Mom only keeps the nest while Dad guards the operation, but never changes a diaper. They're fastidious parents. Our bald eagles have been known to kick kids out of the nest if they show no reluctance to leave; geese keep the kids around for a year, as if parting is, in fact, sweet sorrow.
But before you buy them MAGA hats, understand they greatly like Hillary's notion that "it takes a village." When goslings get to early adolescence, families often become flocks.
"Why are they called Canada geese?" our third-grade grandson asked us last week. It seems nobody really knows; after all, they show up in every state of the union and don't necessarily make annual pilgrimages up north to watch hockey. They just are and have been since (so saith the OED) the early 18th century.
If, at your peril, you overlook their fecal matter, they make good neighbors. Out back of our house, they meal on grains and what remains from last fall's harvest. They harm no one nor anything, and only rarely get in the way.
However, they're known to be crabby, even hostile. I don't know anyone who's ever petted one, whether or not they're out with their children. They're just plain mean. And, no, they don't Twitter. Thank goodness.
In case you're wondering, they used to migrate more and farther than many do today. Even as far north as northwest Iowa, some families stay and homestead. Experts aren't sure of the origins of this new behavior, but it's meant an increase in population. Today, they number between four and six million--that's a ton of do-do.
I hate to bring it up, but they're not particularly good singers. Right now, they're flying over the house, and I'm reminded again of what manner of blessing it is that human voices are not designed to honk. Can you imagine what a church council would sound like? A quarter mile away, and you'd still swear they were feeding just beyond the lot line.
It's nice to have them around, on the ground or in the air in their strict triangles. As long as I don't have to clean up their dirt, they're a blessing, a wonder. I'm thankful they're here.
Still, "good fences make good neighbors." Never more true.
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