It was a humid day in mid-August and I was visiting with my cousin Peggy, who lived on a farm on the outskirts of Caribou. Beneath our feet, a fine layer of hay and dry corn decorated the barnyard floor like long forgotten confetti. As was customary, we were on the edge of some sort of adventure; bored with constant days of bright sun and muggy, sleepless nights.
I was fascinated by the gander in the yard, a rather pompous and flamboyant old fowl. He strutted around the other animals with little fear and an abundance of confidence. He was intriguing to me and to Peggy. After some discussion, we decided this gander just might need some cooling off on this sultry August day. Ice cold water from the spring house would do the trick! We filled up a large, galvanized steel bucket with water fresh from the pump and held back our giggles as we planned our attack.
Peggy and I waited patiently, the bucket of water between us. At last, the arrogant old bird sashayed toward us, his eyes scanning the area for admirers. With little warning, Peggy reached down and grabbed the handle of the bucket, flinging the icy cold water right on top of the gander’s regal head. We held our breath and waited for some sort of reaction. The gander seemed paralyzed; his tiny eyes blinking with disbelief. Peggy and I looked at each other and began to laugh. That old gander was not so tough after all. We turned back toward him just in time to see him unfold his wings, lower his water-soaked head and begin running on his enormous feet toward Peggy.
We both screamed! Peggy turned and ran toward her house, her long legs moving as quickly as possible, with the gander literally on her heels. I ran to the spring house, closing the door and trying to catch my breath. The only sound I heard was Peggy’s wails and the squawk of the disgruntled old gander. I opened the spring house door just a crack and watched as the gander lunged forward, grabbing on to the back of Peggy’s red pedal pushers, pulling the material away from her skin as she continued to run toward the house, calling for her mother, my Aunt Edie. I slammed the door shut once again, leaning my body against it as I waited for the gander to finish with Peggy and then return for me. I prayed. I cried. I prayed some more. The barnyard was silent. No screams. No howling gander.
As I stood there with my back against the spring house door, I heard my aunt calling my name. I opened the door and threw myself into her arms, peeking around her for a glimpse of the demon. Aunt Edie assured me that Peggy was resting at the house and the gander had not broken the skin; it was just a pinch. She told me that we should never have provoked that grand old bird.
And suddenly there he was! Prancing around that barnyard with a tiny piece of Peggy’s pedal pusher waving from his beak like a crimson flag of glory.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette has lived in the Caribou area for all of her 56 years. She presently lives in Connor TWP. with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
