Honk if you're a silly porch goose
a Midwest tradition that celebrates the impact we have on each other
Growing up, I went to church every Sunday. I never particularly liked church, but I did like the greasy-spoon breakfast afterward. And I loved that on our way, we passed a little house tucked back in a neighborhood with a large white cement goose on the front porch, always in its Sunday best. Whoever lived there swapped the goose’s outfit for holidays and as the seasons changed: a poofy, layered red dress with white lace trim and a matching bonnet, a yellow polka-dot getup with bunny ears around Easter, a patriotic red, white, and blue for the 4th of July. The goose always had something on its head. A tidy little bonnet or shamrocks on springs, elastic-banded underneath its bill. I loved her.
Porch geese became popular in the 1980s, originating from the Midwest, where I’m from. Though our town only had one that I can recall, these cement geese gained a loyal following across the region. They're still popular today, with Facebook groups and Reddit threads dedicated to creative ways of dressing and theming them. I’m in a few of them(though just a lurker for now). As a kid, I proclaimed that when I grew up, I’d one day have a porch goose of my own. I’d plan its outfits, swap them out, and be the person on the block that other people walked past, just to catch a glimpse. It made my day every Sunday. A bookend of something enjoyable, with church in the middle and breakfast at the local greasy spoon on the other side, making the middle bit a little more tolerable.
I’ve always loved kitsch. I love trinkets, knick-knacks, bizarre finds, thrift store art that makes you go, “Huh.” I grew up thrifting, pulling other people’s discarded old furniture off the curb to clean up and give new life. I spent plenty of long weekends at estate sales, flea markets, and yard sales, picking through treasures. I love old stuff. I love hand-me-downs and items with history. I love love love to extend an object’s use, to learn about or imagine the role it’s played in someone’s life. Some of the key pieces in my current home are curb finds that my mom and I rescued 20+ years ago.
I love little wonders and busy, goofy, strange, wonderful objects. I’ve filled my life with them as far back as I can remember.
But when I bought my home, I was more reserved when it came to the front stoop. I kept my kitsch inside. The farthest I went were potted flowers, holiday decor, and a pair of flamingos. Then COVID hit, and 2020 kept us tethered to our homes. Inside, I painted walls and hung wallpaper. Outside, we transformed our front space into a destination. Like that house we drove past on Sundays, I wanted our lot to be something people loved to walk past.
A local teacher was selling yard art he was making: records melted into the shape of flowers, then painted to resemble brightly colored blooms. He walked it down to our home and put it in the ground for me.
We looked up DIY yard art projects, made crepe paper wind socks, and strung glass beads in the window to catch the light. We asked our local gardening group if they had any spare flowers and were gifted flats of crimson snapdragons, splits of bee balm, and a mixed bag of bulbs.
The front garden is busy, bustling with sculptures and recycled art. We’ve got little tin creatures climbing up the front tree, lights, and cascading perennials in pre-loved pots. Gnomes hide in the ivy—the ivy I can’t seem to pull up no matter how many times I chop and trim.
Every summer day for four, going on five, years, I hear toddlers walk past on their little rope chain. Their teachers tell them to say hello to each creature. They look to see if they can spot anything new, laughing and squealing when they find something.
And last summer, I finally got my goose. We hunted at garden centers every weekend for a month and finally stumbled on one. We picked out outfits on crafting websites and got ourselves a winner. She sits proudly on our porch.
The other day, I was talking with someone I knew who asked where I live. I gave them the cross streets and mentioned the goose. “OMG, I drive past there all the time! I love to see if she’s in a new outfit.” I’m a part of someone’s routine. I hope she brings them joy. That goose from 30 years ago was a bright spot for me, so bright that it’s carried on. It’s a bright spot for others. At least for one person. Maybe it bookends something they don’t want to do. At least they get to see the goose. I hope she makes someone’s day easier. A breath of fresh air in her sweet little bonnet, her garden hat, or holding her April Showers umbrella.
She may seem like just a silly sculpture, but she’s also evidence of the way we impact others. She’s evidence of how one person’s joy and expression can ripple outward. She’s a symbol of connection, art, creativity, and the power of silliness. She’s a reminder of the passing of time and the threads that bind us. She’s a monument to the power of the porch, where I sit with my kids on summer afternoons, eat popsicles, and say hi to the folks who walk my block. She’s proof that showing up, being present, and being witnessed is a gift. To see and be seen is a necessary and joyful part of existing.
We love our porch goose. And it’s truly a gift to know others love her too.
Obsessed with bikini goose