Gooney Birds

The most influential person in my life is my grandfather.   When I was a child, he tried to teach me many things without actually coming out and saying what I should be learning.  Perhaps he wanted me to find the truth for myself in most things and to avoid the tendency to make broad assumptions; I believe my early education about “gooney birds” is evidence of this.

 My grandfather’s house was situated on the side of a mountain in a most remote section of Scott County, Tennessee.  At one time the county was a hotspot for a few companies that were strip-mining for coal, but by now the coal was all gone, and so were the companies.  Good riddance really. The strip-mining had damaged much of the land there. 

My grandparents lived a simple life without electricity or running water, free from the shackles of modern convenience.  They cooked their food by the fires of a wood-burning stove, read books by the light of a kerosene lamp, and during my stays any wisdom I gained was by the proven experience of my grandfather.  There were but three devices I can recall as being any sort of modern.  The first was a radio, powered by D-cell batteries, which in midday and evenings would report the news and politics of the outside world.  The second was a gas refrigerator, used mostly to keep milk and other perishables cold.  And lastly, there was an old Ford Mustang for the rare trips into civilization. 

As a young boy, I enjoyed a rich life, playing in the woods, investigating Indian caves, reading books, and, during the summer months, swimming in the creek.  In this way, I feel that I had a privileged experience that most will never have the opportunity to know.  Some might think it a boring life without much to offer, but I would argue that the lack of television, movie theatres, and popular culture is what made that experience worth having.  Is there anything more peaceful than being in a place where you can think nothing at all?  When you do choose to have thoughts, you can hear them as they are and without someone else’s overbearing opinion to weigh them down.  Solitude gives way to the individual, and the ideas of others are of little importance.  I don’t believe anything short of living that life will give an adequate frame of reference for what I am describing.  

Occasionally, a stranger would wander onto my grandfather’s property.  Though it was sometimes a lost traveler seeking directions, it was more often a hunter seeking a good spot of land to hunt on.  In all cases, these visitors were greeted by my grandfather and his shotgun, with clear directions on how to leave.  “It isn’t this way,” and “Turn around and go back the way you came” were the two most common responses, for each case respectively.  I had always thought my grandfather should give them more explanation than that, but I suppose the shotgun did most of the talking.  These memories reinforce the idea that my grandfather was a private person, with little concern for the day-to-day worries of others.

Despite the solitary nature of the place, sounds occasionally echoed through the valley, sounds that very much resembled people yelling.  I knew from my own exploration there was no one else living in the valley for quite some distance in any direction, and the sounds I heard certainly came from something much closer.  When I would ask my grandfather what was making the noises, he would tell me it was the “gooney birds.”  Often, I was puzzled, and would suggest that perhaps the sounds were made by people, but he would reassure me that they were certainly the voices of the ever-so-crafty gooney birds, who apparently achieved some monumental pleasure in fooling little boys with their mimicry of human sounds.  I remained surprised that such a creature existed but skeptically accepted it as an elder’s knowledge.

The gooney birds didn’t make their “calls” very often, and for weeks at a time I wouldn’t hear them.  On the periodic odd day, however, I would be audience to their clever game.  I would pay special attention to them, sometimes believing I could almost make out words.  On several occasions, I would walk through the woods, following the sounds, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of these mysterious birds.  Unfortunately, I was never successful.  The gooney birds would always seem to stop their calls whenever I came even remotely close to their apparent location.  Despite the disappointment of consistent failure, I must admit to some enjoyment in hunting the birds.

My grandfather’s mailbox was about a mile from his house, at the end of his driveway.  One day, my little sister and I were walking with him to check the mail.  As we approached the mailbox, we saw a group of teenagers around an old Dodge pickup.  It was uncommon to see anyone at the mailbox, so I asked my grandfather who they were.  He told me they were gooney birds.  After studying them a moment longer, I told him they looked just like people to me.  “Just because they look like people, that doesn’t mean they are,” he replied.  The gooney birds, having seen my grandfather approaching, quickly piled into the truck and left.  I remember wondering if they had left because their disguises hadn’t fooled my grandfather.

Since I’ve become a bit older, I’ve looked for information about gooney birds.  Sadly, the only thing I’ve found is that “gooney bird” is a popular nickname for the Laysan albatross, a bird that lives on open ocean waters and is common in the southern hemisphere.  I have found nothing of the Laysan albatross’s ability to make humanlike sounds, so I must assume these are not the birds I was looking for.  I’m not surprised really, as there aren’t any oceans in the mountains of Tennessee.

If one were to ask me if I truly believed birds made those sounds, I would have to say, even now, that I’m not sure.  I’ve personally heard the calls of owls and bobcats in the night, both sounding somewhat “human.”  It might be safe to say that it was people making those sounds, and the stories of the gooney birds were born of my grandfather’s sense of humor, though that is not an assumption I am willing to make.  To me, those woods and mountains are a magical place, full of mysteries that perhaps only a young boy would perceive.  So why shouldn’t there be gooney birds in the hills, calling through the valley, giggling at a young boy’s puzzlement?

Who knows if there really are gooney birds?  My grandfather seemed to know, and for now, I am willing to accept his knowledge.  Despite my doubts, I would be disappointed to discover that there are no gooney birds.