There is a mostly empty field on the other side of the fence beside our house. Geese like to congregate there, so at certain times of the year it is quite normal to see them coming in for a landing or taking off for parts unknown, honking like angry drivers in traffic.
Seeing (and hearing) this makes me recall an odd phrase from a genealogical document my mother had among her many papers. It was about the O’Driscolls, which are my father’s family, but it speaks well of her that after my parents’ mostly amicable divorce she still saved things like that for me.
Among the various tidbits of O’Driscoll history it said many of my hereditary clan scattered across the earth like “wild geese”. Originally, the term referred to Irish soldiers serving in the armies of continental Europe. Later, the term came to refer more broadly to Irish emigrants that left the emerald isle to seek brighter futures in new lands.
I believe the document meant “wild geese” in this latter sense, O’Driscolls trying their luck in other parts of the globe. We certainly seemed to get everywhere once we left Ireland.
I often think about both the bravery and the desperation of any person willing to uproot themselves from the land where they were born and go somewhere in which they will be a stranger and newcomer. I did it most of my life, dragged by my mother up and down the East Coast, and to Texas and Korea when I was with my father. It isn’t easy being the new kid wherever you go.
Even so, I was always in the United States. I spoke the language and understood the culture. Everything was familiar to one degree or another. Even in Korea, most of my time was spent at the Yongsan, a compound where soldiers and their families lived, and when I ventured outside it most Koreans I encountered spoke English pretty well.
I was no real wild goose. I was just moving from one farm to another.
But I could easily foresee a day when the O’Driscolls or at least my little branch of the family tree might have to take wing once more. I don’t know how or where, but the possibility seems gloomily imminent like a storm grumbling on the horizon.
I have put down roots here in Georgia. My wife was born here. My children were born here. I graduated from a Georgia high school and a Georgia college. I have now lived more of my life in Georgia than anywhere else. Mind you, this isn’t good enough for some Georgians and I will always be an outsider to them, but Georgia is my home.
With the apparent abandonment of the rule of law (done with grim irony in the name of so-called law and order), a rising tide of autocracy and the second Gilded Age upon us, it might not just be advisable, but also philosophically and economically necessary for the geese to spread their wings once more.
If that sad day does arrive, it will be my little goslings I advise to seek greener pastures and clearer skies elsewhere. They will be young enough and strong enough for it. Where they might go, I’m not sure. Humanity seems to be in the midst of one of its periodic Dark Ages, not just here but in many other parts of the globe. Maybe they will be Canadian geese. Maybe they can carve out a home in Brazil. Australia has lots of wide open spaces that surely have room for some wild geese. Perhaps they could even wing their way to the ancestral home of Ireland.
One thing I do know, I won’t be going with them. I am too old and too ornery to just fly away. The forest is on fire. Ravening wolves roam about, seeking whomever they might devour. Lumpen mentalities and brutishness clothe themselves in righteous robes.
But this silly goose won’t be flying away. I’ll be staying put. Here I stand, honking as loud as I can. That might be all this grizzled gander is good for. If the wolves get me, at least it might give the other geese time to get away.
