Sam things

There is a certain grace to winter that I would miss if I lived in a mono season. Winter exposes the land’s shapes; its skin and bones; geological structure undressed of summer, I guess you could say. Somewhat like the nude model; how it is fundamental to studies in life drawing; key to understanding the sculpture; architecture; the mechanics of the human form: a mirrorstudy of us. Da Vinci broke the observations down into math and proportions. I’m not that practical. ‘Sides my proportions seem to ‘alter’ in winter months.

A morning coffee-kitchen-window ramble stalls when the phone rings. It’s Liz. My neighbour a mile down the road wants to know if I can come over to get instructions on Sam. Sam? I ask. “Yes, Sam”, she pauses. “Hoping you’re still able to look after him?” Ahhh?? Is about all I can offer. “Great! We’re leaving tomorrow.” The conversation reverberates through my ‘first-cupppa-coffee’ state of mind: Did she say tomorrow? Away? Sam? Liz had said it twice.

Turns out that on a trail-outing last week when I dropped in to Liz and her husband Chris’s place at the top of the hill, I agreed—Liz used the word offered—to look after Sam while the couple pursued the snow-birds. I reconcile my absent-mindedness to the French camembert and local goat cheese with out-of-the-oven focaccia bread dipped in olive oil and chopped garlic that they offered. Possibly their grape patch vintage Pinot Noir had a thing or two to do with it; whatever it was, something got a hold on me. I had said yes to Sam.

Forgot to mention that Sam is a goose; an everyday white’n noisy kind of backyard goose. But please don’t let on I said so. He can be, well, touchy. You see, Sam has had two wives already, but now at the age of 12, with still good years ahead—geese can live for 20 years—he is content, at ease in his barn-stall abode with ‘three squares a day’ and a clear view of yonder fields. Content, that is, as long as someone pays attention to him on a regular basis. Miss a turn my friends, and he’ll out-complain the loudest and the best.

So these days, I find myself on outings to Sam’s place. Working off the winter proportions at the same time: Honk a honka honk. I mean does he have hearing? He begins to holler when I am not even in sight of the barn, for god’s sake. Honk a honka honk. I undo the padlock on the outside door and follow through the low-lit cavernous insides—honk a honka honk. The sound echoes. I pass empty haystalls on the way to the door of his abode. I now get why police in China’s Xinpang province use geese as watchdogs instead of canines. In fact, geese can be faithful, very similar to dogs. Honk a honka honk. “Everything is ok Sam. Lighten up,” I try to convince him. “It’s only me! Comin’to …” Honk a honka honk. See what I mean? He interrupts. You’d never guess I was just here yesterday. “Sam! You’ll blow your tonsils out,” I mention while opening the door to his sanctum. And there he is: his crepe-paperostrich- resembling neck reaches to about my waist as he stares me down: honk a honka honk. Even his skyblue eyes can be deceiving; a wallflower he is definitely not.

But I do think that Sam’s coming around to accepting me the more I visit. At first he was convinced I was the bogeyman himself. Now he hisses less and is less defensive; lets me pat him; but he’s still noisy as hell. Truthfully, Sam’s mannerisms make it hard to carry on a dialogue exchange. He remains silent when I am; wants to get the first word in the instant I move my lips. Eventually I figure we’ll work things out. See what I mean? Look at him now. Once I’m here for a few minutes, he settles and gets on with self-grooming. I take that to mean that things are cool. Whew. I could be just possibly in?

There is a heating device to keep a large galvanized tub of fresh water on the go in winter. I check that the system is okay. What I have come to know is that water for Sam is more than just hydrating. The next time you watch a goose or other waterfowl in water notice how they immerse their heads far down. They do it apparently to keep their nasal passages clear; sorta like cleansing the valves of a trombone; honker maintenance maybe?

A full-size, dull-metal storage can rests in the corner. I pop the lid and shovel out a few scoops of feed pellets into Sam’s feed trough. He grooms while keeping check on me; like I might run off with his food pellets kinda check.

The straw on the floor is sweet-scented; the light from the east spins bushels of barn-sized spider webs into a fine lace of raw linen. This is authentic patina; the real thing, Martha Stewart might say: but there’s nothing faux about this place. Sam’s space is about old timbers and worn planking and lime whitewash and chicken wire and dust-blanketed porcelain lamp-shades dangling from rafters: what I call organized dishevelment; it’s a goose’s palace, while at the same time spaces like this are for dreamers, regardless of age: A space for true-to-life grounding; of centring. Turns out I’ll owe Liz and Chris a thank-you. Plus, my visits will fill pages of my notebook. Meanwhile, as for Sam—even grouchy ol’ him seems content with the deal.