PROSE

The Geese Of Wilkins Lake

Goose poop happens

Geese of Wilkins Lake ©Paula Lechten

Three or four times a week, I take my walk around Barnett Park.

I smile at burly men walking with their little floofy pooches. Occasionally, one strains at the leash, hoping to get a scratch behind the ear from me, and I oblige with cooing words: “Aren’t you the cutest thing?” The owner smiles as if he just got his belly scratched.

There are six miles of shaded walking trails. I know the sycamore, the gingko, the cottonwood, and, of course, the oak. I always thank them for their oxygen and shade. There are trees I wish were labeled so I’d know who I was hugging. Once I’ve completed my loop, I take the connecting trail to Shenandoah University over the gushing stream that feeds Wilkins Lake, which is inhabited by a plethora of ducks and geese.

The geese of Wilkins Lake are fat and fearless. Years of handouts have convinced them they own the path. They march toward me every morning, heads bobbing, waddling like plump mobsters collecting protection money. They never hiss or honk, not even at the dog walkers. The piles of goose poop are legendary. Digested pond weeds and grasses produce small green tubes that are easy to step over. But a goose fed a diet of leftover McDonalds leaves me side-stepping with my walking stick like Fred Astaire. I look at their portly breasts and remind them I’m perfecting my orange glaze recipe. If the apocalypse arrives, this practical New Englander will be lacing up her hiking shoes, taking her walking stick, and — well, you know the rest. Spring always brings many fuzzy goslings, but sadly, few survive. They have lost their wildness.

Once I’ve completed my two-step around the Lake, I cross the small highway to Starbucks to get my Matcha Tea. I hear some groans, but I can’t help my addiction. Besides, they employ many students from the University. Sometimes, I sit and people-watch: the portly professor with gray hair and rumpled suit, laptop open, holding court, surrounded by a few students. Somehow, he reminds me of the geese — well-fed, and entirely convinced he owns his territory by the window. Hair seems to fascinate me, dreadlocks, purple hair, the short smooth coif, the wild bed head from the kid who looked like he had a night of smoking weed, and the occasional unkempt homeless man sleeping in the corner. He nurses his donated coffee and keeps one eye open to the door.

What’s nice about my frequent visits is that they know my name. I always get a cheery hello, and I think they mean it. When I exit, cup in hand, they say, “Have a nice day”. I answer, “You too.” I really mean it. I hope they have a happy life and take care of themselves as they take care of me.

A wise friend of mine once said:

Life is short.

Step carefully.

Some hazards are emotional.

Some are goose poop.

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoyed walking with me. Perhaps you would like to read more:

[embed]Tides Of Foam Memories ebb and flowmedium.com

[embed]Squirrels and Grief How a baby squirrel triggered memoriesmedium.com

[embed]Nature Lingers On a rainy morningmedium.com

[embed]Things I Loved Doing During The Summer As A Child. Our cottage on the Capemedium.com

[embed]Summer Greens A conversation with Mother Naturemedium.com