Growing up I spent most of my late summers cutting tobacco in the fiels of Southern Maryland.  It’s an industry consigned to History now.  But, it was a big industry at the time.  “Housing” tobacco was as much a cultural touchstone as it was an economic pursuit.  And, oh Brother, was it ever hard work.  One particularly hot day I was spearing plants alongside a great, big, strapping powerhouse of a man inprobably named George Washington.  He could out-work any three other people.  He’s long-gone now.  Cancer.  But, I remember talking to him that one day in particular.  It was just one of those stifling high heat, humidity, no-wind killers.  “George Washington, I cannot wait for fall and get away from this heat.  Fall’s my favorite time of year.  I like it better than the other three.”  “Mista’ Ray, they ain’t but two times of da’ year:  The geese is here, and the geese is gone.”

This week, “…the geese is here. ”   Here in Chesapeake country, the geese come in the big numbers on the Hunter’s Moon, the full moon of October.  These aren’t the nuissance “Resident Birds” that so many golf courses seem to be clueless about…that soil up greens and get under foot.  These are the migrators…”Nothers” we call them.  And, they’re back here in big numbers again.  My home course is dead in the middle of a dense concentration of them.  But, birds don’t sit on the ponds there.  The Superintendent has a dog that he takes to whichever pond as soon as birds settle down.  Dog chases geese…geese leave pond.  But, they fly overhead much of the day trading from water to field.

Their sights and sounds add much to days of golf during the cold months.  It’s a rare day that birds aren’t over head.   They become part and parcel of the golfing experience.  A wonderful bit of background, if you will.  Here at the house, the West River supports a fair number.  Sneaking in some swings in the yard after work, their sound is a pleasant break from the jargon of work.

This week, they’ve come back.  It’s great to see them as we work into long-pants, long-sleeve golf.  Soon, they’ll blend into the background and will be just a part of the equation.  The only thing louder than their plaintive cries is the silence they leave behind when they go North in the spring.   Much like the birds, there are two golf seasons.  This colder version has its own solitary charm.  Days afield are more rare, precious somehow, and in some ways more satisfying.  “Getting in the round” is often the primary goal.  Hours outside, with friends, chasing a pursuit, against odds to a point, and with the beautiful noise of the geese for company.  It’s golf, if not at its best, then certainly at a uniquely fine level.

George knew what he was talking about.