My neighbors think I'm crazy.  My wife probably does too; I keep a goose call hanging from a peg on the hat rack by our front door.  In the spring, the Canada geese fly right over our house twice a day as they go from the cornfield down the road over to the pond beside the interstate.

When I hear them coming, I scramble out of my chair and burst through the front door, grabbing my goose call on the way out.  I run out into the front yard and start calling for all I'm worth, while up and down the street I can hear the sound of mothers pulling their kids in and locking their doors.

We live in the suburbs, and the geese are a reminder to me that one day my wife and I will get out of this city and get some land of our own.  Land where I can shoot my bow and arrow without worrying about some parent calling the police on me, land where I can run out and call the geese in my underwear if I want to.