"THE BOYS!"

By DELL ARTHUR

            Memories of growing up on our farm bring back many pleasant and wonderful memories. The smell of surrounding fields, the serine beauty of a rising sunrise, the sight of horses and cows resting and feeding in green pastures recapture times of innocence when life wasn’t so complicated. Even winter had its magic. When the northeast subzero wind would blow down from the Canadian mountains and snow covering the ground, our place would be transformed by to what was called a “silver thaw.”

            This silver thaw would form ice on telephone and power lines, trees and buildings an inch thick or more. When the sun would finally break out in a cloudless blue with the sun brightly shining the ice and snow glistened in a spectacular array of color. The whole countryside would appear as a huge fairyland fantasy and no picture or postcard could do such a sight justice.

My folks were primarily strawberry farmers. Our place was nestled between some pear, apple, cherry and peach trees. This fruit produced the most delicious jelly and jam preserves anyone could ask for. I remember in summer times my mom filling quart after quart of preserves in preparation for the coming winter. The smell of the kitchen had a delicious odor that permeated throughout the old farmhouse.

And there was her cooking and baking; in the wintertime mom would bake cinnamon rolls and donuts and she and my dad and I would sit around the old oil burning kitchen stove and munch on these delicious treats and sip coffee. It was a grand lifestyle.

These were the happy times.

But since strawberry farming is seasonal my dad, at the urging of a neighbor who was a huge chicken farmer, convinced him to go into the chicken business. So, with the help of my uncle Walt they built a large building capable of housing 5000 laying hens. And that is when work really became work!

We would gather eggs morning and night. Then we had to clean and package them ready for market. And then there was the fun of cleaning the chicken house floor—my job!

The result of all of this is, at this point of my life, was my belief the best place for a chicken is in an oven basted with the appropriate spices.

Such was life until I became a teenager and “the boys” came into my life.

On the farm we had several animals. Of these creatures I remember with a particular shudder the four geese my dad loved. There were three ganders and one female. Dad called the males “the boys.” It was with pleasure my father would hand feed them. They would gather around his feet honking and nibble on the grain that fell on the ground. They adored my dad.

As for myself all four hated me. And to be honest the feeling was mutual and for good reason.

On weekend evenings I would get together with my friends and we could go to town, see a movie or go to a dance or just drive around and do the usual things kids did with the freedom of their first car. Usually my dad had a curfew. The magic witching hour was midnight. And like most kids curfew was seldom met. The adventure and excitement of exploration was too much and time passed too swiftly. Usually I got home only a few minutes late but there were times when the clock struck 2 a.m. before I realized I had better get home.

And this is where “the boys” and I had a real run-in. Getting home late I would try to sneak down the driveway with the engine turned off so as not to make any noise. The car would cost to a stop and I would gingerly close the door. As I would sneak towards the back door of the house “the boys” would put up a honking noise that could be heard miles away! And sure enough the light in the kitchen would switch on and there, standing in his pajamas was my dad with a look on his face that spelled disaster!

Caught again.

And as soon as this happened “the boys” would ruffle their feathers, stop their infernal noise and return to their nest gloating, no doubt, “…got ya again kid!”

This went on for about a year. My relationship with “the boys” only degenerated further. Every time I left the house the largest of the group would sneak up behind me, nip my rear end and beat me with his wings. Believe me, a gooses’ slap can get your attention. There seemed to be no justice and I resigned myself to the fact that this experience would continue forever.

And then it happened.

A few months later I returned home late in the afternoon. Pulling into the driveway I got out and, astonishingly no noise from “the boys.” Stepping into the house my mom was busy in the kitchen preparing the evening dinner and causally mentioned that there had been an accident. Our neighbor related what happened: It seems the boss of the geese—the one who liked sneaking up on me—was standing smack dab right in the middle of the road in front of the house. The neighbor, who was watching all of this from his driveway, said in the distance was a pickup truck casually motoring along in no hurry when the driver saw the goose. Honking his horn the goose turned, put his head down to the ground and started hissing and flapping his wings at the truck.

The goose wasn’t about to give up its territory!

The driver tried to avoid the feathered cantankerous spectacle of arrogance and promptly plowed into him. As the neighbor reported; the goose was DOA before he hit the ground!

That evening we sat around the kitchen table and my dad was unusually quiet. Mom brought over a platter with my former adversary beautifully filling the plate to the edges, displaying a lovely brown hew and embalmed with my mom’s delicious bread dressing.

It was the best goose dinner I will ever recall.