MING THE MIGHTY GANDER

MING THE MIGHTY GANDER

In 1965, I boarded with Jack Mackie and his wife on their farm just west of Uxbridge, Ontario. The property was a classic Ontario 100-acre lot, featuring a weathered white clapboard farmhouse and a massive timber bank barn now derelict that smelled of dry hay and aged pine. Set in the rolling hills of the Oak Ridges Moraine, but the pastoral peace was constantly shattered by Ming.

Ming was a massive, ill-tempered Chinese gander with a distinctive orange knob atop his beak and an upright, swan-like posture that made him look like a feathered drill sergeant. He commanded a flock of a dozen geese, patrolling the muddy lane like a sentry. Any trip from the car to the porch was a frantic sprint as Ming would charge, wings beating like heavy canvas in the wind. Because he guarded the goose pens so fiercely, the nests went undisturbed, and the farm was being threatened by being overrun by an explosion of fluffy, high-decibel goslings.

One night, while waiting for Jack to finish a night shift, I stepped out into the cool evening air. A brilliant full moon hung over the dark silhouettes of the orchard, casting long, silver shadows across the yard. I was leaning against the porch railing, sipping a cold beer, when I felt a sudden, heavy pressure against my leg. I froze—it was Ming, his white feathers glowing ghost-like in the moonlight. he looked up at me and  I found myself gently tapping his beak with the glass bottle. When he curiously parted his bill, I tipped it up, pouring a golden stream of beer inside. We stood there in the quiet of the  of the night, splitting the bottle—one sip for him, two for me—until we eventually parted  when I ran out of beer.

A short while later, Jack’s truck rattled up the lane. He burst through the door, looking frazzled. "Jesus," he panted, "that old gander is out of his mind tonight! He’s zigzagging across the yard and staggering like he’s got a wooden leg!"

I laughed and confessed to our moonlight happy hour.

 From then on, the farm changed. Ming became my shadow; I could walk through the flock without a worry, and I even started culling the eggs to keep the population in check.

Our bond became a permanent fixture of life on the farm. Whenever Ming heard the screen door creak or the cap pop off a bottle, he’d leave his flock and waddle over, his long neck bobbing in greeting. To the Mackies, he remained a terror, but with me, he was as gentle as a family dog. I could reach down and scoop his heavy, warm body right off the ground, a feat that would have cost anyone else a finger. Even years later, when I think of that summer in '65, I don't just remember the rolling hills of Uxbridge; I remember the moonlit nights when a man and a gander found a common language in a cold bottle of beer.