I’ve got a friend who lives in the Oregon countryside just far enough out of Portland that the roar of the commuter highway is reduced to a harmless moan. Out there the air is sweet, the flowers are thick, and her farm produces bushels and bushels of…geese.
Not just any geese, giant puffballs of curly feathers and disdain called Sebastopols.
Now, most sensible farm folk would go for chickens or turkeys or something practical and easy like that. But Vivian likes things fancy-schmancy. You should see her garden.
Like any high maintenance runway model, all that fabulousness requires constant cleansing, fluffing, and rearranging.
Securing private time at the spa is mandatory for best results.
They seem docile at first but if you spook them, they immediately channel their inner Velociraptor and hiss at you like monsters in a Steven Spielberg movie.
When they’re not posing for Vogue or pretending to be vicious, they actually make excellent parents. However, sometimes rambunctious goslings need time in the playpen.
This is the middle gosling above, just more of him. Amazing what only four days of eating, pooping, and playing in the fresh air can do.
In fact, goslings can double their size in a week. Because everything is potentially edible to a gosling. Even cameras.
The thing about cute little kids, though, is that eventually they become teenagers. Scruffy, disheveled, uncoordinated teenagers.
They join gangs and hang out with the wrong element.
They take over the public pool.
Hold on….cherry tree.
That’s what I’m talking about.
[Insert festival of pie-making with homemade hot fudge sauce. For reasons.]
Where was I? Oh, right, geese.
Vivian has been breeding Sebastopols for years because she is a patient, sweet-hearted masochist with an eye for beauty. I just pet the goslings and let them nibble my shoelaces.
I’ll be back when the blackberries are ripe.
June 21, 2015