The first time Cali flew clean, from the hilltop to the pond without clocking me with a wing, she hit the water like a silver skater, skimmed, and turned back to us with that proud, "I did it" honk. We had been yelling “Cali, fly!” for weeks, and that day, she did.
She was not supposed to be ours. Before Cali, the farm already belonged to George and Martha, resident Canadian geese who nested anywhere ridiculous, the archery target, a hay pile, the pond’s edge. We finally built them an island, and by year twelve, a floating island, and they raised brood after brood.
Their sons, Ryan and BRyan Gosling, were trouble from the start. BRyan once wedged himself in a fence post hole while George flapped and honked like I was the villain. I told him if he pecked me I would choke that neck. He thought better of it, and I pulled BRyan free. BRyan and Ryan later paired up and chose the neighbor’s barn roof for a nest, romantic, disastrous. Every spring, the wind returned their nest to the ground.
One year, after another wind tossed mess, two of their eggs survived. The neighbor knew we had been incubating chickens. “Want to try?” Sure, why not. Only one egg hatched. Out slid a wrinkly, platypus looking creature who would become CaliGrl.
We planned to raise her gently and send her to George and Martha’s flock. That lasted five minutes. Cali struggled to eat, so we hand fed her. She hated being alone, so she lived inside my sweater. I slept on the floor with her tucked against me. I sang her to sleep,
“I love you, CaliGrl, oh yes I do,
I love you, CaliGrl, that is true…”
"You Are My Sunshine", "Hush Little Baby", every lullaby I could remember. The songs glued us together. Even now, if I start a tune, she comes running from anywhere in the yard, honking, flapping, flying straight to me.
Early on, she roomed with two chickens, both Aman Ceymani, who accepted their role as minions. Then came Daisy, a scruffy mallard duckling rescued from the park. We meant to take Daisy to wildlife rehab, but under our roof she thrived and fused herself to Cali. Goose and duck, best friends. Wherever Cali went, Daisy waddled.
We decided to hatch a dozen of our own eggs so the odd couple could have a crew. Twelve in, twelve out. Instant chaos. Cali and Daisy became mom and mom, herding fuzzballs while the two original chickens focused on food like it was a full-time job. Four chicks turned out to be roosters, Cali’s sworn enemies. She hated the crowing, the strut, the whole rooster lifestyle. Mornings produced naked butt chickens, their tail feathers plucked by an indignant goose. We rehomed the boys, and the temperature dropped back to peaceful.
Our final flock felt like a sitcom cast, Cali, Daisy, the two originals, and eight new chickens, ten characters in a perfectly chaotic little family. That is when Cali decided walking was not enough. She wanted to fly. Not just once, fly, land, fly, land, on repeat. The afternoon chore route turned into flight school. We would sprint the hill above the pond, chanting, “Cali, fly!” She would launch, sometimes smack me with a wing, crash land, then try again. Little by little, the crashes smoothed into circles, then into the glide I can still see, wings set, water shimmering, a graceful skid and a triumphant honk.
Middays are for picnics. We spread a blanket in the front yard, Cali grazes while I sip water, or sometimes a Monster, and nibble crackers. She talks the entire time, about her day, about the other birds, about the state of the grass, as if I were her secretary.
The grandnephews love it. They hold full conversations with her. Once, after nine neighboring geese invaded the pond, squawking, flapping, making life miserable, Cali screamed for backup. I ran over, “They are not nice. Do not try to be their friends.” Later, Emmett crouched beside her and said, “Girl, why did they do that to you, that is sooo mean, you are beautiful.” I got it on video. Previewing it I laughed so hard I nearly fell over. Emmett is a natural sunshine maker, and I could hear him saying that to any kid at school who needed it. Cali heard it too. She settled, nibbled grass, and kept up her running commentary like a news anchor who had survived breaking news.
Cali came to us from a fallen roof nest, survived and thrived. This little being, a wrinkle of a thing who became a yellow puffball, then a gawky brontosaurus, then a sleek, confident goose. With Daisy and the chickens, she built a neighborhood out of misfits and snacks. She is gardener, guardian, flight instructor, songbird, picnic companion, and family, wrapped in feathers.
When I sing, she still answers. Sometimes she flies first, then lands and tucks herself against my leg while I finish the last line. The farm is richer for it, our island, our hill, our pond, and the chorus we made together,
“I love you, CaliGrl, oh yes I do,
I love you, CaliGrl, and you knew.”
Happy Thursday all,
-srt
