The noise of geese flying over head has been a feature these past few weeks. I often think of them as waddling nuisances, but something about their call this morning gave me a feeling of nostalgia. Were the geese to be removed from the scene, were I to travel to a country without geese, I would feel their absence. Hearing them is a feature of spring and fall, across all the years I grew up and all the years I’ve lived here on the prairies as an adult.
Sound ties memory to a place. I picture a multi-lane bridge somewhere near Toronto as we listened to the rhythmic drumbeat of an album by the band Brulé on a family road trip. I see night sky when I hear “I Want to Spend my Lifetime Loving You”. I see my room in Saskatoon when I hear Strauss waltzes. I’m in a car in the province of Quebec when I hear Richard Abel. Yesterday, I remembered how much I enjoyed Steve Hackman’s compositions that mix classical and contemporary music: Beethoven and Coldplay; Brahms and Radiohead.
John Green reviewed Canada Geese in his podcast The Anthropocene Reviewed, describing them as waterfowl “(…) with a song like a dying balloon and a penchant for attacking humans, the Canada Goose is hard to love, but then again, so are most of us.” He draws connections between the geese and humans, admits to considering them pests, like everyone else, but notes: “Even if geese have become mundane, there’s still something awe-inspiring about seeing them fly overhead in perfect formation.” He concludes by rating them less than five stars because of how they represent our species interference with nature. This morning though? I’d have given them five stars just for reminding me to appreciate sound.
