I’ll bet old Charlie reminds you of someone you know. A friend of my parents’, he was an odd bird, a good-natured feller with a long neck and a red splotch around his mouth. He waddled more than walked and, though no dancer, he did like to wiggle his tail.
Charlie was a wild, white goose.
My parents first spotted him standing vigil in the tall grass of Guntersville Lake, watching over his dead companion who had washed ashore. Geese mate for life, so Charlie wouldn’t leave her, following sadly as my father carried her remains into the woods and buried her. After a while, the lonesome bird returned and continued his vigil, mourning in a way we may never fully understand.
Charlie lost his will to fly after that, never again spreading his wings to reach for the sky. Maybe it reminded him of what he’d lost, soaring in the heavens with his partner, living the good goose life, the clouds no place for inconsolable grief.
One day my parents barbecued with friends, and Charlie finally moved, waddling over to claim a seat on the lawn. Their little dog sniffed and yipped, but Charlie kept a wary eye on the hairy nuisance until both decided they might just get along. Charlie gratefully ate whatever people tossed him, eventually following the kids around as they played, honking his approval, thrilled for a chance to join in the fun.
Charlie became a regular fixture, sleeping near a boathouse and tagging along, like some dignitary’s Secret Service escort, whenever Mom walked the dog. He’d chase a ball, swim out to watch my father fish, even try to help mow the lawn or paint a shed or filet some crappie, offering encouragement and advice, if not useful assistance. He’d chase squirrels from the bird feeder and coots off the lawn, and he liked to relax on the pier at sunset to watch barges float off into the night.
Whenever the Canada geese passed through, Charlie would honk up a gracious welcome, swimming out to catch up on the goose news and swap goose tales with his buddies. They mostly ignored him, though, this gander without a mate, the odd man out, a fifth wheel, leftover sock with no match. He’d watch sadly when they moved on, returning to his spot and waiting for the next dog-walking, watching down the road for weekenders who might bring grandkids ready to play.
For years Charlie stayed at the cove, offering his companionship, patiently hoping for attention, unaware of trivialities like plats and invisible property lines. He spent most his time sitting by the tall grass, his eyes closed, that long neck stretched high, his gentle face turned up toward the warm light . . . those moments when he found his own place in the sun.
Charlie slowed down as he got older, watching the kids more than joining in their play, sometimes skipping the dog-walk to sit quietly in his spot. Toward the end, he disappeared into the woods several times, maybe to be alone, maybe because he understood something many of us would never expect from a simple goose.
The day Charlie didn’t return, my father found him with his head laid gently on his mate’s grave. I hope he spent his last moments imagining again how it felt to soar into the clouds, wing-to-wing with his life’s companion.
Charlie and his mate are buried together now, there by the lake where geese pause in their seasonal migrations, where weekenders still bring grandkids to enjoy life by the water.
Another big white goose showed up last year, acting like he intends to stay. Nobody knows his story, but they call him Clarke. Mom finds him outside the kitchen window every morning, that long neck stretched up to greet her with a howdy-do. He’s a good old bird, too.
I’ll still bet old Charlie reminds you of somebody you know, somebody who’s lost his mate, the odd man out, fifth wheel, leftover sock. Spend some time with him, and you’ll probably find he likes catching up on the news and swapping tales, trying not to show his sadness when it’s time for you to move on.
He might be alone right now, maybe with his eyes closed, face toward the warm light, waiting patiently for attention.
Everybody has a bit of old Charlie in him . . .
We all need to find our own place in the sun.
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