When I was little, my mom cleaned houses to support our family. As an immigrant raising three kids on her own, it wasn’t easy — but she worked hard, never complaining, just grateful for every opportunity. Sometimes she’d take me along to her jobs, and that’s where I first met the goose.

One of her clients, a kind older woman, had this ceramic porch goose that I absolutely adored. It wasn’t just a decoration — it wore little outfits! Easter bonnets, Santa hats, raincoats — each one cuter than the last.

Every time I visited, I’d get to help dress it up. I didn’t realize it then, but that silly goose came to represent something bigger in my mind: stability, comfort, and the quiet kind of joy that comes from having your own home — your own porch — your own piece of the American dream.

I used to tell myself, “One day, when I’ve made it, I’m going to have a porch goose too.”

Fast-forward a couple of decades, and life had taken me many places — new jobs, new cities — but no porch goose. Every thrift store trip became a secret mission. I’d scan the aisles, hoping for that one whimsical reminder of my childhood dream.

Then today, while visiting a friend in Waco, Texas, I decided to stop by the local Salvation Army. I wandered through the aisles until I spotted their 4th of July display — all red, white, and blue — and that’s when I saw it.

My goose.

There he was: tall, proud, and perfectly ridiculous in the best way. I squealed out loud and ran over to him like I’d found long-lost treasure. He even had a tiny patriotic outfit — stars and stripes and all! The price tag said $24.99, which was more than I usually spend on thrift finds, but then I noticed the sign — 50% off day.

I carried him to the register, heart pounding, and the cashier — probably amused by my excitement — smiled and said, “You know what? Let’s just call it five bucks.”

Five dollars. For a dream that had been decades in the making.

As I loaded him into the car, I couldn’t help but laugh — partly at how silly it all was, and partly at how happy I felt. A small chip on one wing made him even more perfect. Imperfect, but loved. Just like the story behind him.

So here he is, everyone — Gary Goose, my very own porch companion, proudly standing on my front step with his patriotic outfit.

He’s more than just decoration; he’s a reminder of how far we’ve come — from my mom scrubbing floors to me buying something I once thought only “real Americans” had.

Sometimes, the American dream doesn’t look like a house with a white picket fence.
Sometimes, it looks like a $5 thrift-store goose wearing a 4th of July vest — and the story of a little girl who finally made it home. 🇺🇸