Photograph by Ryan Miller
During my last semester of college, I put on a photography exhibition. For months, I had been shooting, printing, framing and even building easels. I slept a handful of hours the week before the show to have everything ready once my friends, professors and out-of-town relatives arrived.
An hour into the evening, I noticed an obstruction in the flow of visitors. Some force was drawing attention away from my art, herding people into a giddy pack. The magnet was my aunt, Sally Smith. She had brought a photo album featuring her concrete goose, Lucy, dressed in a different costume on every page.
When I graduated, Lucy appeared on a greeting card in her own cap and gown. I moved to California, and she sported a bikini. I traveled to Russia, and she could’ve been foraging for mushrooms on the outskirts of a Siberian village.
As the catalog approaches 65 custom designs, Lucy enjoys a larger (but more compact) wardrobe than Aunt Sally. Due to a landscaping project, she’s now adjusting to life on the kitchen counter, having spent the first seven of her dressed years on the patio.
“She’s really an outside goose,” Aunt Sally says.
As we sit in her guest bedroom, rummaging through costumes to find our favorites, Aunt Sally mentions an article she read about another goose owner whose neighbors would call her when the weather turned.
“Your goose is getting wet,” they’d say. “You need to put the raincoat on it.”
“That was back in the ’70s, though,” Aunt Sally says.
What started as a belated Mother’s Day gift has led to Lucy’s ascendance in the family hierarchy over an assortment of fallible pets.
“Heather told me there was a surprise out on the back porch,” Aunt Sally says, describing her introduction to Lucy. “And there she was. She came with a cow outfit and a spring outfit, which was blue with bumblebees and a straw hat. It was so kooky. Every time I walked by, I’d smile.”
While showing me a set of goose-specific patterns from the craft store, Aunt Sally revisits a familiar anecdote. I already know that the “Take Our Daughters to Work Day” story nearly ended in tragedy, but I have to clarify something.
“Was Heather upset that you brought Lucy instead of her?” I ask.
“No,” Aunt Sally says, “Heather’s a grown woman.”
Despite her surprising weight, even Lucy, like any animate passenger, should wear a seatbelt. Improperly secured on this particular trip, she tumbled off the backseat and cracked her neck. Aunt Sally was upset, running her fingers over the hairline fracture, but she and Lucy persevered through multiple costume changes to win the adoration of the office staff. The trauma even provoked a new creation: Infirm Goose, a pitiful sight that continues to comfort the injured and unwell. This kind of unexpected inspiration has led to some of Aunt Sally’s most successful designs, including an old umbrella–turned–St. Louis Cardinals outfit and a dragonfly costume made from a windsock.
“The fun part is trying to take scraps of material and make an outfit without spending any money,” Aunt Sally says.
I remove the Elvis getup from a plastic baggie and examine its synthetic lapels.
“Where’d you get the name?” I ask.
“A co-worker came up with ‘Lucy Goose.’ I said, ‘Perfect! Kind of after my mother.’”
My grandmother’s name was Lucille, but for everyone’s sake, I sidestep the temptation to psychoanalyze. I try to appreciate Lucy for what she is—a quirky and impeccably dressed source of joy.
“Since then, I’ve heard that a ‘loosey goosey’ is a person of ill repute,” Aunt Sally adds, tousling a tiny wig. “I guess she’s a little of everything.”
For those interested in owning their own bird, Cara-Tera Landscape and Statuary in Kirkwood sells concrete geese. Kathy Klocke (kklockeblue@yahoo.com) and Sally Smith (sally.lucy@charter.net) can provide the clothes.
