What's for Christmas Dinner? (C0nt.)
Screen 2 of 4So off I went to my paper route I went early on that Christmas Eve afternoon. I delivered the Times Journal each day except Sunday to about a hundred customers living in the northeast section of Bowling Green, in the vicinity of an old Civil War fort known as Reservoir Hill. I covered the route on foot, carrying the papers in a canvass bag over my shoulder. Upper Main, Elm, Chestnut and 10th were some of the streets in the area. Residents of Bowling Green know them well, and the general location is important, because something quite extraordinary--almost miraculous--happened on the first block of Chestnut Street just north of Main. And this happening is the point of my story, which is true, except perhaps for some minor details.
I had almost completed my paper route. It was cold and the afternoon skies were a dull gray. Snow had been predicted, and a few flakes were already falling.
As I was walking past the Ray Claypool family home--just after I had thrown a paper on their porch, I heard a peculiar fluttering noise in the air close above me. It was a sound of movement, but for a moment I could not tell for sure what or where it was.
Then all of a sudden, a huge bird flew just above my head. I didn't know what kind it was, but I knew it was in trouble. One wing was flapping weakly and aimlessly, as though it was broken, the other one guiding the bird awkwardly to the ground in a front yard ahead of me.
I was surprised but not frightened, and almost instinctively began to run toward the bird, which was by then hobbling along the ground, apparently unable to fly any more. I wondered if it had been shot, but of course I did not know. I had not heard any unusual noise before the bird flew down.
For an active twelve-year-old boy, chasing this large bird was fun. It was frantic and ran so fast I didn't know whether I could catch it. Also, I did not stop to think what I would do with this strange creature if I did catch it. But both these questions were soon answered.
After darting here and there in utter fright, it ran into an alleyway and toward and old wooden garage which was open and empty, one of its doors squeaking on its rusty hinges as it blew back and forth in the wind. The snowfall was becoming heavier, and the bird seemed to be attracted to the protection this old garage might offer.
It ran in wildly just ahead of me, flapping its good wing and dragging the injured one. I quickly closed and latched the door. Everything inside was dark and ghostly quiet. There we both were--the bird and I. Neither of us could see the other very well, but it was a small garage and after a brief chase--each of us guided more by sound and guess than by sight--I caught it and held it tightly in my arms. I think both of us were glad the struggle was over. Even the bird was quiet for a moment, but then it began jerking and honking. It was almost as big as I was, and I could hardly keep it from jumping away.
I had to do something immediately, and so I decided on a course of action. I tied its legs together securely with the shoulder strap of my canvass bag, after I had removed the few remaining papers. The tying was delayed somewhat, however, when at first in my excitement I tied my own left arm to one of the bird's legs. But finally I finished and was able to take a deep breath and think about what I would do next. First, I opened the garage door so I could see the bird better. What exactly had I caught? With more light I could tell quickly it was not a turkey, even though it was as large as many big turkeys I had seen. And it certainly wasn't an eagle or hawk. In my quandary I even thought of cranes, swans and albatrosses, but soon ruled them all out.
Then the bird began that honking sound again. "Honk, honk." it repeated over and over.
"A goose! That's it, a goose," I said aloud, but not even the bird heard my announcement. It was too busy honking. I had seen wild geese flying south in formation during the fall months, but I had never been this close to a live goose. And by the sound of its continued honking, I realized it had probably never been this close to a twelve-year-old boy.
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