Stay with me, I have a story. It’s a long one. 

I keep a little goose Beanie Baby in my car. That’s where it lives. Always.  When geese fly overhead I say, “My kin.” I stop what I am doing and I watch them. I fly with them. A suspended moment spent with something that has no sense of the linear. It is time out of time. Growing up in the bitter cold and the long winters of northern Minnesota, the return of the geese was always, and still is, a cause for celebration. A sign of the big spring. Life’s spring. A metaphor for the relief that comes after hardship, like…a rainbow. I moved to New York in 1983, but the geese came with me and this metaphor is one of my life’s guideposts. 

My grandmother Adeline Ellen Flaskerud Haverland, passed away in 1996 at the age of 90. A child of pioneers, the wife of Adolph, and mother to seven girls and two boys in depression era northern Minnesota. The backbone of my mother’s family. It is hard to describe the spectrum of this family in a paragraph, especially my seven aunts (eight if you include the oldest cousin Loretta, who was basically another aunt). My heroes, my role models, mothers to my best friends. Big hearted, intelligent, independent, opinionated and a little crazy, outgoing women. 

Big family gatherings were routine at our house. Aunts, uncles, cousins, Grandma, Grandpa, friends, 15, 20, 30 people all talking at once while my dad, my brother, myself, and cousin Loretta conducted a sing-a-long. There was always a ton of food, a ton of beer, rum for cousin Retta and Aunt Ann, some kind of competition, and a controversy or two. Walking into my parents dining room on these nights was overwhelming and yet incredibly inviting. You were sent into a loud, smart, smokey, boozy, musical, quirky world of loving souls having a good time and enjoying each other’s company. It was, and still is, the most cherished part of my upbringing. 

However, in May of 1996, all of these folks lost their matriarch. There would be a family gathering, including all the accoutrements, the joy and music, and it would be fun, but with a filter of grief. The ominous specter of mourning coupled with the anticipated party, the cigarettes, the noise, and the tears put me in a state of edgy anticipation, like it would be too much. But this thinking made me feel selfish in the face of my grandmother’s passing. It’s not about me. I put it aside and got ready for the trip.

At that time, my daughter Cecelia was 6 years old. I would be traveling alone for this trip and I had never been away from her overnight. Again, it felt self centered having anxiety over something other than my grandma’s passing and again, I stored it away. She and her dad would be just fine. So, I reserved my flight to Minnesota. I packed with anticipation of mosquitos and temperatures anywhere from 20 to 80 degrees, and I tried to get a good night’s sleep. The morning came, I got up, I got ready, and I called a cab rather than go through a dozen goodbyes before the flight. Again, more guilty anxiety. But, it turned out to be a beautiful morning and Cecelia, her dad, and I waited for the cab on the front porch. I was holding her, hugging her, walking around, and generally fighting off all the concern. About two minutes before the cab arrived, five geese approached the southern horizon and flew right over us, honking and moving north. Cecelia got really exited and exclaimed, “Look Mommy! It’s geese! They are going to fly with you to Minnesota! Look!” As she was pointing at the five geese, the cab turned the corner towards our house. I held her and said, in my best patronizing Mommy voice, “Of course they are! Isn’t that awesome? And look at that, there’s my cab, just in time to go with the geese!” I hugged her, kissed her, passed her off to my husband, hugged him, and jumped into the cab. We waved at each other, blew kisses, and I was off to the Albany airport. I pondered the geese for a moment. An odd number of geese in flight is not the norm. Not unusual, but not what you usually see. I though about Cecelia’s prediction, smiled, but returned to the nervous anticipation – did I save my flight info, did I pack the right stuff, will Cecelia miss me? My mom’s mother has died.  

The flight to Minnesota was uneventful, mostly me just ruminating and driving strangers nuts with my need to chit chat. I arrived at the Minneapolis airport, rented a car, grabbed a few sodas and headed north. 190 miles. 

I turned on the radio and after an hour or so of flipping from channel to channel, the Prairie Home Companion Joke Show mercifully appeared. I gave a nod of thanks to the universe, turned off my brain, and made my way up highway 169 to the big swamp that is Northern Minnesota. Somewhere along the way my mom called, worried about me, just needing some confirmation, wishing I was already there. I could only imagine what she was going through. Being in charge and being in such grief. My mom. The family super hero. 

My home town is on the Mississippi River where she bends east to west to meet her source about 60 miles up the road. There are two ways to arrive at my childhood home; drive through town, cross the Mississippi and head out of town, or take the back way past the Isaac Walton park, cross the Mississippi and head on up the hill. Normally, I would take the back way and stop at the park to say hello to the river I spent my childhood on, put my hands in her waters, but I kept thinking of my mother’s phone call. I needed to get to the house as quickly as I could. Never mind the river. But as I approached my hometown, I felt a tug. A need to stop and ground myself for a moment before facing the crowd of benevolent chaos. Five extra minutes would be OK. I took the back road to the Isaac Walton Park. I pulled in, got out of the car and walked directly to the river and stood there, breathing the air like it was medicine. I stooped down and put my hands in the river, closed my eyes, and connected to whatever force it is that kept me grounded as a kid. I heard geese calling in the distance and looked up to see a small gaggle approaching the river. They circled and landed right before my eyes, about 50 feet in from of me. There were five of them. Five geese. All the way from New York. Cecelia was right. The geese had followed me. I jumped up from the water and stood there, astonished, counting and recounting the geese. They just sat there, quietly floating. Looking at me, smugly, as if to say,” I told you so.” 

My grandmother’s funeral was a blessed event. Beautiful, irreverent, full of every piece of discomfort I had anticipated, with my mother being the brave person that she was. But it was OK. I had witnessed a cosmic coincidence, a sign. I received a hug from my grandma. From God. The geese, my perennial sign of hope. And now, something so very profound. I have always been blessed with road signs. I have always looked for road signs. For love. It has never stopped me from failure, never stopped me from embarrassment, or from falling. They just simply show up and say, “You are loved, get up.” And that, my friends, is everything.  

Here’s my song: