My father died last fall, November 13th to be precise, and less than 24 hours later a large goose walked up the lane. We named him Palmer, my father’s middle name, and he’s been with us ever since.
Not being too experienced with geese, we really weren’t sure for a while whether Palmer was goose or gander, but time will tell, and a few months later we knew that my father’s continued presence had indeed been ensured by a gander. A gorgeous, mostly white gander who can spread his wings wide and fly in great arks over the field. He always comes back, invariably to stand beside his one true love, Joey the goat. This attachment was established very soon after Palmer’s appearance, and he has remained steadfast, even with the arrival of two sweet female goslings this spring who have grown up to be fair beauties. You can plan love’s perfect path, but the heart goeth whither the heart beats strongest! He is king of the barnyard, and struts about with manly bravado.
The sky unleashed a torrent last night, preceded by streaks of lightning and huge cracks of thunder that sounded far too close. Carson the black lab did his utmost to muffle these exclamations, chiefly by lying down on my head. He is terrified of storms! So, I waited it out with him till it was quiet once more, and the countryside returned to a harmonious slumber.
The dawn chorus begins at around 5 o’clock, and it is no wonder that so many composers have been inspired by such sounds, both wild and domestic. Chattering, chirping, whistling, rustling: they all conspire to the morning symphony! When Rae-Bob the rooster starts his crowing, we know the mad collection of hens, chicks, ducks, ducklings and geese are milling in increasing intensity within the confines of the coop, ready to explode through the doors and express their delight in another day. From this cheerful cacophony, one voice stands out, and it is most definitely not the voice to inspire a sweet melody: Palmer exclaims, and it is very, very loud. He seems to scream at the day, as though he wants to bring everyone to attention before all semblance of fowl control is beyond his grasp.
Where there is life, there will be music. Always! Whether we summon it forth or not; life makes music. Where there is a heart beat, there will be rhythm.
I like to think of Palmer as the Schönberg of the yard (atonal and discordant!), but the chicks move around like a happy chorus of children singing their favourite songs, all in slightly different keys…
Impossible to ignore. Just like life, really.
Sarah