How Nice to be Goosed

They came as newlyweds to live next door. We felt we had something in common, this being our first home and, we assumed by the look of them, theirs too. We couldn’t resist the urge to watch as they worked out the location for their abode, and we felt somewhat voyeuristic witnessing their public displays of affection. But it was nice to know our soon-to-be neighbors had a good relationship—even though they were geese.

We had chosen to build our modest home in what’s known as the “quiet corner” of New Hampshire. The beauty of Mount Monadnock was initially striking and as time went on somehow managed to imprint itself on us. No matter where we traveled, we never felt whole until we returned to its shadow.

That must have been what impressed the goose couple, too. They decided to build their home in the reeds of the wetlands behind our house. A golf course had recently been carved out of swamp and granite ledge there and its rolling topography suited both us and the geese. It also seemed coincidental that my husband was writing a piece on geese for Eastern Mountain Sports. His research findings took on more importance now that we could apply them to the couple next door.

“You know they mate for life?” he asked me one evening as we walked down to the waterfront for our daily egg check. (I thought, “That’s because their life span is only 10 to 20 years, not 75.”) “And if one goose dies,” he continued, “the remaining goose finds another mate right away.” However, I later read a piece in which a man recalled watching a goose sit without eating for days by the body of its mate, who had been shot and never recovered.

Our first sighting of chicks came in late spring when the proud mother and father floated their crew of seven out to the middle of the swale. We were smitten with the little grey fluff balls and looked forward to watching them grow throughout the summer.

Early one evening while sitting on the patio, we heard the chilling sound of “our” geese honking hysterically in a manner that could only mean trouble. We quickly grabbed the binoculars and tried, in vain, to figure out what was going on, but could see nothing. The next morning told the story. Only five little goslings followed their mother out on the water that day. I felt terrible for that poor female. All the hours spent sitting on those eggs only to watch two of her babies abducted by a fox or coyote. Surprisingly she seemed quite serene—as though the previous night’s tragedy hadn’t happened.

As the summer wore on we learned that the life of a goose is anything but peaceful. It seemed that both nature and man were working against them from the start. If predatory animals didn’t get them, the golfers would. It wasn’t unusual to hear angry shouts from the course as one of the geese made off with a golf ball that had landed only feet from the cup. At that point the male goose would square off with the golfer, hissing and flapping his wings to protect his newly acquired ball as well as his nest.

On occasion, the male would chase the golfers back to their cart, and we’d watch with glee as they drove off over the bridge, the goose flapping and honking in hot pursuit.

By the end of the summer only two goslings, now scruffy teens, survived the predators and golfers. They were flying by that time and their parents were spending more time away from them—I guess teaching them to be more independent.

Near the end of October, as I was putting my garden to bed, I heard the unmistakable sound of a flock approaching. As the V formation came into view and the honking grew louder, the goose family took off from the water, circled our house twice in what seemed like a farewell salute, then flew up to have a word with the leader before falling in at the rear. It felt as though members of my family were leaving and I choked up as I stood there, waving madly and calling goodbye.

Did they return the next year? They did. And they did so every year for as long as we lived there. Even though we’ve moved to the seacoast, I like to think that one of the flocks I see heading south in the fall holds my old neighbors.

By Susan Ferber, Master Gardener

5/18/07