One of the most important attributes of place is the feeling of belonging and love that it brings. Since I was raised close to the farm, I remember sledding down the hill, drinking hot cocoa from the porch, and watching the horses graze in the summer haze. Late autumn always brought some of my finest memories of the farm. I remember taking pictures from the hill while my mother and father made Thanksgiving dinner in the dining room. Our neighbors would always come over to enjoy a glass of wine or some mashed potatoes while I, the only child, played with the farm’s resident goose, Tyrone.
Hell have no fury like an angry Norwegian goose. Busting with testosterone and free-will, Tyrone was easily the prince of the farm. My dad, pictured below, had a strange understanding of such a “spirited” creature. When I would walk into the barn in the morning, Tyrone would flat out scream bloody murder at me and let me know his dissatisfaction. Tyrone really, however, was not fond of my mother. When she put the horses out in the pasture in the morning, he would bite at the horse’s hocks and my mother’s ankles. One time, he managed to grab on to the skin around her calf. She responded by knocking him on the beak and kicking him to the other side of the barn. Tyrone doesn’t bother with her anymore.