I gave out a yelp when I heard the news.
“So I shot her.”
A big honkin’ ‘AH!.’ I startled myself, surprised that I’d have such an unguarded reaction to anything anymore, and wondering if anyone walking near me on Eighth Avenue even batted an eye. I was on my cell phone making an early morning call to Richard up in Vermont.
Let me back up a bit. The conversation began with love stuff and “how’s your morning going” and then fairly quickly Richard said:
“I’ve got something to tell you.”
‘Okay’ (Slightly wary)
“I woke up early this morning to the sound of the Canada Geese outside our window. It was such a pleasant soothing sound. And I sat up in bed to look down and there was the family walking along, very calmly, and all the chatter was coming from the injured one.”
To bring you back up to speed, one of the Canada Geese gosling’s has had an injured wing for weeks now. We’re pretty certain this happened during a predator attack it narrowly escaped leaving one of the major feathers of its left wing wrenched out at an odd angle. Both Richard and I had feared for the time when flying lessons would begin, and sure enough this past week it was unable to fly while its brothers and sisters sailed easily from the rise behind our house down to our pond. The parents by turns fretted and coddled “the injured one”, trying to remedy the situation, but to no avail. Richard and I had been going back and forth about what to do, fearing the hurt gosling would hold the others back, that the parents would not leave without it. Friends had recommended killing it. Our most recent option was going to be capturing it by dropping a blanket over it and putting it into one of our pet carriers and then calling VINS, the Vermont Institute for Natural Studies, to come pick it up and attempt to rehabilitate it.
“It had its head craned out in an aggressive way and was chattering. You had mentioned how the gosling still sounded like babies?”
‘Right.’
“It was only her; the other’s voices have changed. The rest of the family were just going along ahead of her, not really listening. I felt she was in pain, something wasn’t right. She shouldn’t have had her head craned out at such an angle.”
‘I saw her doing the same thing the other day while everyone else was just sitting around, paying little or no attention.’
“Right.” A slight pause. “So I shot her.”
‘AH!’
I was so shocked! (I still am.) I could not believe he had done it. And I know I’ve had many issues with the Canada Geese, but suddenly I was washed over by a tremendous sadness.
“The Canada Geese have become so trusting, I was right in among them. He was a little apart from them, so it was easy. I shot him and then I shot him again in the head to put him out of his misery. They all scattered and flew away.”
‘Oh my God. Wow.’
“I just felt it was in pain. And something must’ve attacked it. The wing feather was almost completely stripped and there was a hole in the webbing of one of its feet. It looked like a tooth mark. It was so beautiful, its feathers and all its markings. He was heavy, more heavily muscled then our girls.”
‘Uh-huh. Wow. Wow.’
“I prayed over it, told it how beautiful I thought it had been. I said thank you and then I drove it down to Swamp Road and put it off into the woods.”
I was so amazed and proud of Richard. It must’ve been so hard for him to do that. And me? I felt like a big ole marshmellow, all sad and mushy.
‘You did great, honey. Wow.’
“The rest of them flew back to the pond and for awhile you could hear the parents calling out for the other one; it lasted for about five minutes and then they quieted down. It’s going to be a sad day.”
‘Yeah, I bet.’
I just saw the documentary “Food Inc” the other day – a movie I highly recommend – and what struck me incontrovertibly was the idea that the way we treat animals is directly connected to the way we will treat others and the way we see the world. It makes such sense. You treat animals with disdain and disinterest, even cruelty, then it’s an easy step to be indifferent towards anything or anyone labeled “alien”, it’s easy to see other people as just numbers and figures, it’s easy to turn a blind eye. to not care.
“It just didn’t make sense to me to try and rehabilitate it when they’re trying to kill so many of them off in other areas of the country. And it was in pain, there was something that wasn’t right. Oh, wait …”
At this point, Richard got off the phone to check about Ginger and Mary Ann who were roused up by something in the orchard. When he stepped outside, they came running down to him, wings flapping, honking at the sight of him. He thought they had been scared by something. I wondered aloud if they might’ve caught a whiff of the dead gosling’s blood, but he assured me that the killing had occurred in the side yard quite a ways from the orchard and that they hadn’t been unpinned yet, they wouldn’t have known what had happened. As we were winding up the phone call, Richard was treated to the sight of the “new” family of 5 Canada Geese flying as 1 for the first time. They landed on the pond gracefully and all seemed fine.
Richard thinks he’s going through a “toughen up big baby” phase, to steal one of his mother’s favorite phrases when he was growing up. Earlier this week this phase began with Richard delivering his roosters to be processed and coming upon Rob “the Processor” right there in his barnyard in the midst of the process. (Richard picks up the frozen birds at our favorite truck stop/exchange point later today.) Today the phase continued with putting the gosling out of its misery. Now watch, Richard’ll go get his hunting license and this fall hang out at the general store/snack bar down the road, dressed in blood stained camouflage, bragging about all the big game he bagged that morning. I can just see our walls festooned with the antlered trophies of all his kills. Maybe he’ll take up taxidermy. Just a thought.
I'm still amazed by that "AH!" And I'm wishing that I can plant spontaneous, plugged-in push points in my acting that will elicit such a pure, unthinking, natural response.
‘What a morning, huh?’
“Yeah.”
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Editorial corrections
I have been informed by my chicken addicted husband that the new chicks are Welsummers NOT Wellingtons. AND our friend LISA NOT GAIL was the one that suggested doing in the broken-winged gosling. I stand corrected. Since I've written the recent blog we've also received another option: contact VINS - Vermont Institute for Natural Science; they may be able to find a way to relocate and/or rehabilitate the gosling.
Love and Killing
I’ve been distracted by love this morning. Love of this place, love of Richard, just plain love. It can be very off-putting. We woke at 5 or a little past. Rooster crows stirred us and we decided to get up. And this wasn’t a disgruntled decision, no, it seemed just right. It was a grey morning, still, lightly sprinkling. There was a purity to the air. I think the goose girls were surprised that we were out so early. They seemed grateful and closely observant, nibbling at our boots and pajama bottoms as we let the roosters out of the coop and trudged up to set Nanna and the chicks free. Richard’s chicken addiction kicked in again a couple days ago and he bought 3 Wellington (I’m guessing now) hens. They are sweet and docile with an impressive feather design of various browns and blacks and will be laying brown eggs by autumn. Richard defended his purchase by saying he needed something to counterbalance the roosters that were going to be killed on Monday. I replied that I thought the point had been to thin the flock, but my words were whisked away by the wind, unable to penetrate the force field of Richard’s smile and “oh well” shruggy attitude toward the whole thing.
After setting Nanna free we thinned out the beets in the garden and weeded a bit as the coffee brewed away in the kitchen. It all felt meditative, nothing momentous, just the enjoyment of being up with one another, going with the flow of the morning. Even the continuing rain didn’t dampen our spirits.
I soon went up to write and hadn’t been up there but a few minutes when Richard called me from downstairs.
“The geese are at the top of the rise; they’re going to try to fly again.”
I donned my green Wellingtons (my boots, not one of the chicks, of course) and stepped outside for the aerial show. We’ve been awaiting this time with trepidation. One of the Canada Geese gosling’s wings had been injured for quite sometime and we dreaded the day when the parents would begin giving them flying lessons. That’s what’s been happening the past couple days. The first time, our girls took part. The male Canada goose and his 3 healthy offspring flew effortlessly over the house to the pond while the mother, the injured gosling, and our 2 girls, squawked and waddled quickly down the hill in anxious pursuit. Since then our girls have decided to simply be observers and this morning they stood beside us, awaiting the ill-fated take-off. Something inside me yearned for a miracle while bracing for heartbreak. Then some silent signal was given and the whole family fluttered into the air with a flurry of honks. The 3 healthy offspring flew overhead in a bee-line to the pond, while the injured one canted down to the ground despite his best efforts. Both parents stayed with him, and putting themselves on either side of him, urged him back into the air, and again, he tried, he tried, but couldn’t keep up. The parents continued on to the pond and he went down into some tall weeds and struggled to get out. I turned to Richard and we both shared protruding lower lips with one another.
“Both Royce and Gail say I should shoot it,” Richard said. “It’s just going to make it harder for the rest of the family to leave.”
We’ve been hearing about and playing with different scenarios – calling a humane society, imagining our girls “adopting” her/him after the parents leave, and now, killing him to put him out of his misery. We’re leaning heavily in that direction. The killing would be Richard’s department. He has picked off woodchucks from our upstairs window with the hunting rifle he brought from Arizona, where we had a cabin for years. Out in the southwest he prided himself with being a proficient plugger of jack rabbits. He’s hoping to bring that skill to bear here, but it won’t be a happy undertaking. No. We stood silent and watched the disoriented gosling squawk out from the weed tangle, calling for its parents, trying to find where they had gone, wondering how to best get there as he scurryied this way and that, his injured left wing feather grazing the ground as he dashed around about. Both Richard and I gave little sympathetic “poor baby” moans.
To quell our uncomfortable feelings, I suggested our geese a hug. I think I’ve mentioned before that you have to slowly corner Ginger and Mary Ann in order to hold them. We bill and coo to them as we close in and they finally stand still and hunker down close to the ground, their ultimate defensive tactic. When this happens, we pick them up, holding their wings close to their side as we do, otherwise they will start flapping in their excitement and might injure themselves. We sat down on the side porch and put the girls on our laps. They nibbled and chomped on us, chattering away. It helped to hold them. They smelled so fine, newly laundered. I’m a sucker for attaching human ways of thinking and feeling onto animals. The wave of emotion I felt while watching the broken winged gosling teeter down to earth I felt its parents must surely be feeling too. Not so. They most probably feel nothing at all. It’s all instinct, all part of nature. And now the thought crosses our minds that even a seemingly merciful act as killing it seems intrusive. “Maybe we should just let nature take its course,” Richard opines later as we look out the front windows at the Canada Geese family in the middle of the road, preening themselves. And that is another option, leaving well enough alone. Mom, newly arisen with coffee in hand, provides yet another option. “Why don’t you take it in to be processed with the roosters tomorrow morning. Have a nice goose to cook.” Hmmm.
How this all started out with love and veered into “The Killing Fields” I don’t know, but there you have it. All part of the world here. Love and killing.
And it’s still a grand morning.
After setting Nanna free we thinned out the beets in the garden and weeded a bit as the coffee brewed away in the kitchen. It all felt meditative, nothing momentous, just the enjoyment of being up with one another, going with the flow of the morning. Even the continuing rain didn’t dampen our spirits.
I soon went up to write and hadn’t been up there but a few minutes when Richard called me from downstairs.
“The geese are at the top of the rise; they’re going to try to fly again.”
I donned my green Wellingtons (my boots, not one of the chicks, of course) and stepped outside for the aerial show. We’ve been awaiting this time with trepidation. One of the Canada Geese gosling’s wings had been injured for quite sometime and we dreaded the day when the parents would begin giving them flying lessons. That’s what’s been happening the past couple days. The first time, our girls took part. The male Canada goose and his 3 healthy offspring flew effortlessly over the house to the pond while the mother, the injured gosling, and our 2 girls, squawked and waddled quickly down the hill in anxious pursuit. Since then our girls have decided to simply be observers and this morning they stood beside us, awaiting the ill-fated take-off. Something inside me yearned for a miracle while bracing for heartbreak. Then some silent signal was given and the whole family fluttered into the air with a flurry of honks. The 3 healthy offspring flew overhead in a bee-line to the pond, while the injured one canted down to the ground despite his best efforts. Both parents stayed with him, and putting themselves on either side of him, urged him back into the air, and again, he tried, he tried, but couldn’t keep up. The parents continued on to the pond and he went down into some tall weeds and struggled to get out. I turned to Richard and we both shared protruding lower lips with one another.
“Both Royce and Gail say I should shoot it,” Richard said. “It’s just going to make it harder for the rest of the family to leave.”
We’ve been hearing about and playing with different scenarios – calling a humane society, imagining our girls “adopting” her/him after the parents leave, and now, killing him to put him out of his misery. We’re leaning heavily in that direction. The killing would be Richard’s department. He has picked off woodchucks from our upstairs window with the hunting rifle he brought from Arizona, where we had a cabin for years. Out in the southwest he prided himself with being a proficient plugger of jack rabbits. He’s hoping to bring that skill to bear here, but it won’t be a happy undertaking. No. We stood silent and watched the disoriented gosling squawk out from the weed tangle, calling for its parents, trying to find where they had gone, wondering how to best get there as he scurryied this way and that, his injured left wing feather grazing the ground as he dashed around about. Both Richard and I gave little sympathetic “poor baby” moans.
To quell our uncomfortable feelings, I suggested our geese a hug. I think I’ve mentioned before that you have to slowly corner Ginger and Mary Ann in order to hold them. We bill and coo to them as we close in and they finally stand still and hunker down close to the ground, their ultimate defensive tactic. When this happens, we pick them up, holding their wings close to their side as we do, otherwise they will start flapping in their excitement and might injure themselves. We sat down on the side porch and put the girls on our laps. They nibbled and chomped on us, chattering away. It helped to hold them. They smelled so fine, newly laundered. I’m a sucker for attaching human ways of thinking and feeling onto animals. The wave of emotion I felt while watching the broken winged gosling teeter down to earth I felt its parents must surely be feeling too. Not so. They most probably feel nothing at all. It’s all instinct, all part of nature. And now the thought crosses our minds that even a seemingly merciful act as killing it seems intrusive. “Maybe we should just let nature take its course,” Richard opines later as we look out the front windows at the Canada Geese family in the middle of the road, preening themselves. And that is another option, leaving well enough alone. Mom, newly arisen with coffee in hand, provides yet another option. “Why don’t you take it in to be processed with the roosters tomorrow morning. Have a nice goose to cook.” Hmmm.
How this all started out with love and veered into “The Killing Fields” I don’t know, but there you have it. All part of the world here. Love and killing.
And it’s still a grand morning.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Yes, that's it.
A soggy day in the country. Splattery and drippy out, steady rain. My mom's birthday and she's visiting and that's pretty grand.
I haven't checked into my cross-country bicycle journal for awhile to see what was happening 30 years ago to my 24 year-old self. Opening the pages I found my Fuji bike and me pedaling through the southwest and this morning I'll opt for a visit to that dry, hot weather. After having visited my sister for a week in Houston and having no desire to trek across Texas by myself, I'd packed my bike onto a bus bound for Sante Fe, New Mexico. There I met up with a tour of the American Conservatory Theatre in San Francisco, old friends who were performing "The Circle" and "A Month in the Country" in repertory and I enjoyed reunions of various kinds for a few days. Then off to Albuqurque and along the interstate for awhile before being routed back to 2-lanes. I don't know if it still holds true, but back then they allowed you to bike along the shoulders of the interstates in the southwest due to very few other road options. My feelings during this time were mostly expansive, aided by the sheer expansiveness of the land, I'm sure, which was breathtaking and majestic and challenging. I still battled negativity and looked for looming setbacks, but a great deal of the time I took in all the events, the chance meetings with colorful and generous people, the sights, the simple fact that I was doing this incredible adventure, with a mix of amazement and gratitude. There was some hostility from Indians I met, "warranted" I wrote down in my journal from the horrible treaty-breaking treatment we'd heaped on them over the years. That was the only dark spot, though. The long days were filled with steady ups and fun downs over mesas of various shapes and sizes. I crossed the Continental Divide; I lunched with a Senior Citizens group from Gallup atop a high rest park (they were dear and I have a picture of all of us posed together smiling); the dean of the Navajo school at Ganado, Arizona and his wife held a dinner party for me at their home inviting friends from the community to honor my ongoing achievement - they were so sweet and gave me a bed for the night and a breakfast to boot.
On July 24, 1979 I had 2 entries in my diary. By noon and the first entry, I had cycled 80 miles through Tuba City to Cameron where I had intended on spending the night because they had showers. When I got there and discovered the showers were on the fritz I was debating whether to keep riding for 30 more miles to Desert View and the Grand Canyon. I remember that noontime. It was so hot. I sat in the slim shadow of the side of a gas station and read several chapters from "Shogun", the book I'd brought along for the ride and which I'd rip out pages from after I'd finished them to rid myself of any extra weight. Around 3 or 4 I decided to go on and it was a steady, exhausting uphill for the next 30 miles. By sunset, I was there, amazed, spent, happy. There's an air of disbelief that I had made it in my 7:30 pm second entry. The campsites were all filled, but a kind couple from Vancouver who I had met in a general store a few days earlier between Sante Fe and Alburqurque befriended me and let me pitch my tent in their space. So kind. I was sipping a Coors beer and taking in the gorgeous light fading over the canyon. Glorious. I had done it! What a climb.
The next morning I would get up early in the clear, cool air and ride along the rim of the canyon about 20 miles to the main visitor's building at Grand Canyon Village. It was pristine, the air filled with the scent of pine, the sky clear and blue, all was silent except for the sound of my pedaling. At the Village, I sat on a bench and gazed out at the indescribable beauty of Grand Canyon. As I sat there, a tour bus came to a shushy stop behind me and the tourists disembarked. One rather large woman in tight pants walked to the rim of the canyon in front of me, looked into it for a second or 2, and then exclaimed, "Is that it?!"
Hmmm.
I haven't checked into my cross-country bicycle journal for awhile to see what was happening 30 years ago to my 24 year-old self. Opening the pages I found my Fuji bike and me pedaling through the southwest and this morning I'll opt for a visit to that dry, hot weather. After having visited my sister for a week in Houston and having no desire to trek across Texas by myself, I'd packed my bike onto a bus bound for Sante Fe, New Mexico. There I met up with a tour of the American Conservatory Theatre in San Francisco, old friends who were performing "The Circle" and "A Month in the Country" in repertory and I enjoyed reunions of various kinds for a few days. Then off to Albuqurque and along the interstate for awhile before being routed back to 2-lanes. I don't know if it still holds true, but back then they allowed you to bike along the shoulders of the interstates in the southwest due to very few other road options. My feelings during this time were mostly expansive, aided by the sheer expansiveness of the land, I'm sure, which was breathtaking and majestic and challenging. I still battled negativity and looked for looming setbacks, but a great deal of the time I took in all the events, the chance meetings with colorful and generous people, the sights, the simple fact that I was doing this incredible adventure, with a mix of amazement and gratitude. There was some hostility from Indians I met, "warranted" I wrote down in my journal from the horrible treaty-breaking treatment we'd heaped on them over the years. That was the only dark spot, though. The long days were filled with steady ups and fun downs over mesas of various shapes and sizes. I crossed the Continental Divide; I lunched with a Senior Citizens group from Gallup atop a high rest park (they were dear and I have a picture of all of us posed together smiling); the dean of the Navajo school at Ganado, Arizona and his wife held a dinner party for me at their home inviting friends from the community to honor my ongoing achievement - they were so sweet and gave me a bed for the night and a breakfast to boot.
On July 24, 1979 I had 2 entries in my diary. By noon and the first entry, I had cycled 80 miles through Tuba City to Cameron where I had intended on spending the night because they had showers. When I got there and discovered the showers were on the fritz I was debating whether to keep riding for 30 more miles to Desert View and the Grand Canyon. I remember that noontime. It was so hot. I sat in the slim shadow of the side of a gas station and read several chapters from "Shogun", the book I'd brought along for the ride and which I'd rip out pages from after I'd finished them to rid myself of any extra weight. Around 3 or 4 I decided to go on and it was a steady, exhausting uphill for the next 30 miles. By sunset, I was there, amazed, spent, happy. There's an air of disbelief that I had made it in my 7:30 pm second entry. The campsites were all filled, but a kind couple from Vancouver who I had met in a general store a few days earlier between Sante Fe and Alburqurque befriended me and let me pitch my tent in their space. So kind. I was sipping a Coors beer and taking in the gorgeous light fading over the canyon. Glorious. I had done it! What a climb.
The next morning I would get up early in the clear, cool air and ride along the rim of the canyon about 20 miles to the main visitor's building at Grand Canyon Village. It was pristine, the air filled with the scent of pine, the sky clear and blue, all was silent except for the sound of my pedaling. At the Village, I sat on a bench and gazed out at the indescribable beauty of Grand Canyon. As I sat there, a tour bus came to a shushy stop behind me and the tourists disembarked. One rather large woman in tight pants walked to the rim of the canyon in front of me, looked into it for a second or 2, and then exclaimed, "Is that it?!"
Hmmm.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Farm Visits
I’ve got a quick trip down to New York City today, a development that came upon me yesterday. Expected, anticipated and yet I wish I could Elizabeth Montgomery myself down there instead of having the 5 hour drive. Knowing I’m leaving, even for a day and a half, makes me appreciate our Vermont place all the more. It adds a vividness to everything. I want to be present, see, hear, take in everything. At around 6 or 6:15, with the cats already stirring, I urged Richard to stay in bed and went down to let “the girls” out. Usually they don’t honk until the front screen door slams shut behind me on my way out to them, but this morning they were honking to be let out long before I left the house, inspired, no doubt, by all the roosters crowing. My God, the roosters! We still have 7 roosters of various breeds and colors and they’re forever posturing and crowing and wreaking havoc on the hens. This morning I was appalled by the frenzy whipped up in all those plumed boys. And those poor hens, running for cover, squawking for help, and no help to be found, just a field full of crazed men wanting to hump. And they’re violent about it. They use the hen as a thing, less than a thing. They’re competing with the other guys, trying to get there before the competition – and believe me there’s a lot of competition – so when they get their chance, they grab it. They grip the back of the hen’s neck with their beaks and force her down into position. When I broke up one such rape, the male came away with a hunk of the hen’s feathers in his beak. I know I’ve said it before, but I feel I understand a world run mostly by men after having witnessed the madness of a barnyard with too many roosters. As I stood there watching, I thought this is what a woman must feel like in Africa where the violent rape statistics have gone off the map. Madness. So to alleviate our particular madness we will be “processing” (oh, that euphemism) at least 5, maybe 6 of our roosters next Monday. Once more it’s “Tale of Two Cities” time. Start the drum roll, get out your knitting, a few more heads are going to be lopped off.
My mom’s coming for a visit in a few days. Mom grew up on a farm in southern Indiana and I think she’s getting an odd kick that her son and her son’s partner are dabbling in their own version of farming. She’s interested in seeing all our hens and roosters because in addition to growing up on a farm, her first job after having left the homestead was at Purina’s hatchery in Washington, Indiana, where she helped in the accounting. She tells a very funny story about a group of Japanese men who would descend upon this small hatchery in this small Indiana town in the late ‘40’s to sex the baby chicks. They had a 99% success rate. The men, who had extremely long fingernails, would pick up the chick, spread its legs (I suppose) and with surprising dispatch toss the chick into 1 of 2 bins or chutes, 1 for females and the other for males. Most of the males would be further dispatched with. Mom had more fun hatchery stories too. When she heard about the chicks we had gotten earlier in the year, she told us to dye them for Easter, a practice the hatchery had taken part in annually.
“They were so cute, Dan.”
‘But wouldn’t the dye hurt the chick?’ I queried.
“Oh, I don’t know, Dan. The color grows right out of them. And the kids would just love it.”
‘Okay.’
Mom’s a little bit leery when it comes to our geese, however. She has had some unpleasant tangles with barnyard geese in her day, as well as being hissed at and cornered by some Canada Geese that inhabit a pond area in her condominium development now. She can’t quite get her mind around the idea that some geese are sweet, that their breed lends itself to liking being around human beings. Seeing is believing for her, so we’ll give her a look see when she comes to town.
I’ve been thinking about my grandfather a lot lately. Both my grandpa’s really, for they both took pride in growing things; I find myself talking to them when I’m planting something in our garden, hoping I’ll be given a horticultural hit from beyond the grave. But it’s my mom’s dad that is most vivid these days. I wonder if he’s watching over the goings on on our spread of land with interest. I didn’t really know him. There are memories, a few, but he died by suicide when I was 8, so my image of him has mostly been cobbled together through conversations with my relatives. He was a perfectionist, a driven man whose whole life was work. Most of this work ethic was required, for farming was a tough life, completely dependent on the vagaries of weather, price changes, etc., but, sadly, the rigidity of his idea of work left little time for play or enjoyment or rest. Or love. He was a great farmer, though. He knew what he wanted and he was willing to put the labor in to make that vision happen. And he made other’s toe the line of that vision. It’s been fascinating to see how his work ethic has translated down through my aunts and uncles and mother and on to me. There’s an interesting “at odds” duality that comes with it. For instance, I’m grateful for a sense of discipline, for the willingness to work hard at a task AND I’ve discovered that I’ve defined any experience that hasn’t come through hard work and labor as “less than.” Also, there’s a learned sense that one must always be doing, be moving, be busy. There’s no time for reflection or meditation or stillness. My aunt once said: “(When I was young) If I saw him coming and I wasn’t doing anything, I got myself busy because he’d sure enough give me something to do.” And nowadays she’s said: “I can’t do all the things now that I used to do and when I don’t feel plum wore out by the end of the day, I feel lazy.”
I loved going down to the farm when I was growing up. “Down home” as mom used to call it. It was so different from our home in the suburbs. It was this wonderful, exotic, other place with different smells (Dust; sharp, stinging manure when you’d pass a hog farm; the smell of both perspiration and soap on my uncles after they’d washed up – the smell of labor), different sounds (Quiet; the lazy whirr and drone of cicadas in the summer; the slam of a screen door), and different tastes (Well water; my aunt’s homemade noodles and fried chicken; corn on the cob right from the field!) And the space, the open, open space. Fields forever, of corn, of soybeans, of wheat, almost bleached out white by the glare of the hot July and August sun. It’s so fascinating to me that a place of such stillness and peace could also be the sight of such endless work. I would dabble in work down there and romanticize it since I would only take part in it as a visiting emissary from another place. What an exhausting and invigorating day I had helping them bale hay one day, absolutely filthy and spent by the end of the day and exultant in a job well done. My cousins wearily chimed in “Yeah, do it every day and then let’s see how happy you are about it.”
I think I caught a glimpse of what my grandfather must have felt most everyday of his life last summer when for a week we reconstructed the stone wall out in front of our house. From 8 to 5 for a week, I would be the “rock boy” who would accompany our neighbor’s little bulldozer and load his shovel up with heavy rocks from the old stone wall up above our orchard, then follow it down to the new site and unload and arrange the rocks there. By the end of the day, I was worn out, my shirt sopped, my energy sapped, dirty. I remembered stories my mom would tell of grandpa just sitting out by their water pump, spent at the end of the day, still, grateful for a back scratch if one of his daughters might agree to do it. I felt as if I knew him a little bit better, understood him a little bit better through fatigue. And then my thoughts flew to another generation of farmers that cleared this land and built these first stone walls without the help of motorized machinery. They moved them with horses and levers and brute strength. They often worked themselves to death. I suppose there’s a subtle honoring of all those people that have worked this land, any land, by our carrying on in our own random way our appreciation of this place, our appreciation of the work it takes to maintain it, and also the work of appreciation, to simply be and notice, and be amazed by the views, the incredible produce that grows and comes out of our garden, the eggs that are laid daily, all the cycles of nature and of season. At dusk on those “wall building” days, I did see anew, my weariness gave me little choice. I sat and noticed the work I’d taken part in. I was happy with it. I liked looking at it and how it fit into the larger picture. I wonder if that’s what grandpa felt at the end of his days. Maybe that was his reflective time. I hope so. I hope it gave him some peace.
One of the percs of living out in the country is that you can pee outside whenever you’ve a mind too. It helps if you’re a man, it’s easier, more convenient, and there’s plenty of places to shelter yourself from the odd car or truck that meanders down our road. It gives you a “Live Free or Die” feeling, to borrow our neighboring state’s motto. That’s fine and good, you may be asking yourself, but why are we going down this tangent? I’ll tell you. The only artifact I have of my grandpa’s is a little Plaster of Paris-based souvenir of a plastic naked boy with a rubber cone shaped hat, standing, facing an open shell. When you remove the hat, fill the naked boy’s empty plastic body with water, replace his hat, and then squeeze it, the naked boy pees into the waiting shell. Now no one knows where grandpa got this; it may have been a gift because grandpa never went on a vacation where he might’ve bought such a thing. But this peeing boy cracks me up. And I think it made grandpa laugh too. And that makes me happy.
One of my few memories of grandpa was of him laughing. I must’ve been 5 or 6 and I was telling him about an upcoming family reunion and he asked me if there was anything I’d like him to bring and I answered “Gobs of mustard!” for I loved - and still love - all kinds of mustard. (Interestingly enough, my aroma therapist sister tells me that mustard is a natural antidepressant.) For some reason “gobs of mustard” tickled him and he set off into gales of laughter. That memory makes me happy. With all the stories of work and depression and arthritis, a vision of him laughing seems like a rare occurrence, so I cherish it. And I choose to believe that if he is watching over the goings on down here, down home, he’s getting a kick out of it. Gone are the particulars of how straight the rows need to be, how we ought to pay more attention to weeding, how we should keep our eye a little more closely on “the right way” or “his way” of doing things. All of that way of thinking flew the coop with his old skin and body. Now he’s just sitting back and wishing us well , watching all the barnyard antics, watching me try to bring all these various topics together into one written piece, wondering what the hell a “blog” is, just sitting back and enjoying the view, enjoying the show. Maybe eating a little popcorn. And laughing. Just laughing
My mom’s coming for a visit in a few days. Mom grew up on a farm in southern Indiana and I think she’s getting an odd kick that her son and her son’s partner are dabbling in their own version of farming. She’s interested in seeing all our hens and roosters because in addition to growing up on a farm, her first job after having left the homestead was at Purina’s hatchery in Washington, Indiana, where she helped in the accounting. She tells a very funny story about a group of Japanese men who would descend upon this small hatchery in this small Indiana town in the late ‘40’s to sex the baby chicks. They had a 99% success rate. The men, who had extremely long fingernails, would pick up the chick, spread its legs (I suppose) and with surprising dispatch toss the chick into 1 of 2 bins or chutes, 1 for females and the other for males. Most of the males would be further dispatched with. Mom had more fun hatchery stories too. When she heard about the chicks we had gotten earlier in the year, she told us to dye them for Easter, a practice the hatchery had taken part in annually.
“They were so cute, Dan.”
‘But wouldn’t the dye hurt the chick?’ I queried.
“Oh, I don’t know, Dan. The color grows right out of them. And the kids would just love it.”
‘Okay.’
Mom’s a little bit leery when it comes to our geese, however. She has had some unpleasant tangles with barnyard geese in her day, as well as being hissed at and cornered by some Canada Geese that inhabit a pond area in her condominium development now. She can’t quite get her mind around the idea that some geese are sweet, that their breed lends itself to liking being around human beings. Seeing is believing for her, so we’ll give her a look see when she comes to town.
I’ve been thinking about my grandfather a lot lately. Both my grandpa’s really, for they both took pride in growing things; I find myself talking to them when I’m planting something in our garden, hoping I’ll be given a horticultural hit from beyond the grave. But it’s my mom’s dad that is most vivid these days. I wonder if he’s watching over the goings on on our spread of land with interest. I didn’t really know him. There are memories, a few, but he died by suicide when I was 8, so my image of him has mostly been cobbled together through conversations with my relatives. He was a perfectionist, a driven man whose whole life was work. Most of this work ethic was required, for farming was a tough life, completely dependent on the vagaries of weather, price changes, etc., but, sadly, the rigidity of his idea of work left little time for play or enjoyment or rest. Or love. He was a great farmer, though. He knew what he wanted and he was willing to put the labor in to make that vision happen. And he made other’s toe the line of that vision. It’s been fascinating to see how his work ethic has translated down through my aunts and uncles and mother and on to me. There’s an interesting “at odds” duality that comes with it. For instance, I’m grateful for a sense of discipline, for the willingness to work hard at a task AND I’ve discovered that I’ve defined any experience that hasn’t come through hard work and labor as “less than.” Also, there’s a learned sense that one must always be doing, be moving, be busy. There’s no time for reflection or meditation or stillness. My aunt once said: “(When I was young) If I saw him coming and I wasn’t doing anything, I got myself busy because he’d sure enough give me something to do.” And nowadays she’s said: “I can’t do all the things now that I used to do and when I don’t feel plum wore out by the end of the day, I feel lazy.”
I loved going down to the farm when I was growing up. “Down home” as mom used to call it. It was so different from our home in the suburbs. It was this wonderful, exotic, other place with different smells (Dust; sharp, stinging manure when you’d pass a hog farm; the smell of both perspiration and soap on my uncles after they’d washed up – the smell of labor), different sounds (Quiet; the lazy whirr and drone of cicadas in the summer; the slam of a screen door), and different tastes (Well water; my aunt’s homemade noodles and fried chicken; corn on the cob right from the field!) And the space, the open, open space. Fields forever, of corn, of soybeans, of wheat, almost bleached out white by the glare of the hot July and August sun. It’s so fascinating to me that a place of such stillness and peace could also be the sight of such endless work. I would dabble in work down there and romanticize it since I would only take part in it as a visiting emissary from another place. What an exhausting and invigorating day I had helping them bale hay one day, absolutely filthy and spent by the end of the day and exultant in a job well done. My cousins wearily chimed in “Yeah, do it every day and then let’s see how happy you are about it.”
I think I caught a glimpse of what my grandfather must have felt most everyday of his life last summer when for a week we reconstructed the stone wall out in front of our house. From 8 to 5 for a week, I would be the “rock boy” who would accompany our neighbor’s little bulldozer and load his shovel up with heavy rocks from the old stone wall up above our orchard, then follow it down to the new site and unload and arrange the rocks there. By the end of the day, I was worn out, my shirt sopped, my energy sapped, dirty. I remembered stories my mom would tell of grandpa just sitting out by their water pump, spent at the end of the day, still, grateful for a back scratch if one of his daughters might agree to do it. I felt as if I knew him a little bit better, understood him a little bit better through fatigue. And then my thoughts flew to another generation of farmers that cleared this land and built these first stone walls without the help of motorized machinery. They moved them with horses and levers and brute strength. They often worked themselves to death. I suppose there’s a subtle honoring of all those people that have worked this land, any land, by our carrying on in our own random way our appreciation of this place, our appreciation of the work it takes to maintain it, and also the work of appreciation, to simply be and notice, and be amazed by the views, the incredible produce that grows and comes out of our garden, the eggs that are laid daily, all the cycles of nature and of season. At dusk on those “wall building” days, I did see anew, my weariness gave me little choice. I sat and noticed the work I’d taken part in. I was happy with it. I liked looking at it and how it fit into the larger picture. I wonder if that’s what grandpa felt at the end of his days. Maybe that was his reflective time. I hope so. I hope it gave him some peace.
One of the percs of living out in the country is that you can pee outside whenever you’ve a mind too. It helps if you’re a man, it’s easier, more convenient, and there’s plenty of places to shelter yourself from the odd car or truck that meanders down our road. It gives you a “Live Free or Die” feeling, to borrow our neighboring state’s motto. That’s fine and good, you may be asking yourself, but why are we going down this tangent? I’ll tell you. The only artifact I have of my grandpa’s is a little Plaster of Paris-based souvenir of a plastic naked boy with a rubber cone shaped hat, standing, facing an open shell. When you remove the hat, fill the naked boy’s empty plastic body with water, replace his hat, and then squeeze it, the naked boy pees into the waiting shell. Now no one knows where grandpa got this; it may have been a gift because grandpa never went on a vacation where he might’ve bought such a thing. But this peeing boy cracks me up. And I think it made grandpa laugh too. And that makes me happy.
One of my few memories of grandpa was of him laughing. I must’ve been 5 or 6 and I was telling him about an upcoming family reunion and he asked me if there was anything I’d like him to bring and I answered “Gobs of mustard!” for I loved - and still love - all kinds of mustard. (Interestingly enough, my aroma therapist sister tells me that mustard is a natural antidepressant.) For some reason “gobs of mustard” tickled him and he set off into gales of laughter. That memory makes me happy. With all the stories of work and depression and arthritis, a vision of him laughing seems like a rare occurrence, so I cherish it. And I choose to believe that if he is watching over the goings on down here, down home, he’s getting a kick out of it. Gone are the particulars of how straight the rows need to be, how we ought to pay more attention to weeding, how we should keep our eye a little more closely on “the right way” or “his way” of doing things. All of that way of thinking flew the coop with his old skin and body. Now he’s just sitting back and wishing us well , watching all the barnyard antics, watching me try to bring all these various topics together into one written piece, wondering what the hell a “blog” is, just sitting back and enjoying the view, enjoying the show. Maybe eating a little popcorn. And laughing. Just laughing
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Back Home Again ...
Here is our place. This was taken last summer just after we'd reconfigured the stone wall out front and just before we put the screening and the cedar trim - courtesy of the craftsmanship of our friend and master builder, Chris Mazzarella - around out front porch. The front bank is grown over a bit now due to the soggy weather we've been having. "A bit?" Ha! It looks like a jungle. I'm sure our friend Gail - a tireless and particular gardener who lives just down our road - bites her New England tongue when she drives by or comes over for a visit. She would've cleaned this up a long time ago, hacking the mess into beautifully sculpted areas, cleaned of weed and thistle, color coordinated, the size and shape of each plant and flower thought out so as to make a perfectly complimentary display that would make passersby green with envy. Ah well. Richard and I are self professed "random" gardeners and we'll tend to it soon. Overgrown or not, soggy or dry, everything is still magic to me. I've been away for a week, to New York City, which I love. Vermont was always there, though, in some corner of my thoughts and meditations. It made me smile. I wasn't really pining to be home; I was simply happy knowing it was there. I've decided that Vermont and New York City have come to symbolize the duality in me - town and country; yin and yang; activity and retreat; in the world and detached from it; doing and being; on and on and on. The gift (and challenge) has been to see that it's not an either/or proposition, but an invitation to embrace both equally. It feels good. A friend reminded me the other day that there's a lot of duality these days, people locked in their ways and not giving. I guess it comes from fear. Old ways, old things falling away and you simply defend them because they're familiar. Of course, this is all hypothetical to me. I don't think I've ever blindly or stubbornly held onto any old belief or way of life. No, never. HA!HA!HA!HA!HA!HA!HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! Yeah, right. I used to be called the "wall of NO."
I thought of our place alot yesterday as I drove up 91 from New Haven, where I park my car and take the Metro North into the city, up through Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Vermont. Oddly enough the highway departments of Massachusetts and Vermont in their collective wisdom chose a busy Friday to knock the interstate lanes down to 1 in order to re-paint median lines. Hmmm? It's odd to be in green countryside locked in bumper to bumper traffic from 30 miles south of the Vermont border to 10 miles north of it. My ass feels like it's widening out on a normal drive from New Haven to home - 3 1/2 to 4 hour drive - and this median business added at least an hour of rear end spreading time.
But there were payoffs. I did stop at the fantastic Vermont Welcome Area 5 miles into the state as you're heading north. It's a spectacular structure filled with comprehensive displays of all the state has to offer all year round with specific updates for that week or weekend's activities. I'll include the Welcome stop as one of my reasons for living here. It's imbued with a simple and winning pride of this part of the country. And outside yesterday, a woman's group of vital, happy 70 and 80 year olds, had set up a "coffee break" area filled with homemade cookies and brownies, candy, carrots, water, sodas and, of course, coffee, all for "donations only." Quite a wonderful welcome home, quite a wonderful and welcoming group. It was swell.
So what's going on around here?
Our Canada Geese are growing. We think one of the young was attacked or had some sort of accident because a piece of one of its wings is torn and dragging. This may have happened a couple weeks back when I found all the feathers scattered around the bank of the pond. The gosling doesn't seem to be in pain, but we fear this will affect its flying ability when its parents start giving air lifting lessons on the pond soon. We'll see. Richard and I have decided that we're going to discourage the Canada Geese from landing here next year. They are beautiful, but the amount of excrement is truly prodigious and outweighs the plus column of having them around. (Richard wants it known that he's acquiescing to this decision, not necessarily agreeing with it wholeheartedly. However, he is tired of the amount of poop.) A couple bits of news and trivia. While visiting New York and talking about Canada Geese, I was told that due to the jet crash into the East River caused by geese earlier this year, a whole slew of Canada Geese near the airport are going to be killed. They've been deemed a nuisance and a hazard for they never migrate, they simply procreate and their number has climbed to 3,000. At least, ours migrate. And in the trivia department, according to a friend, the birds are not named after the country, but after a person whose name was "Canada." Hmm. So they are not "Canadian" geese, they are always "Canada" geese. I'll have to do some research on that.
Our garden is burgeoning. The beets aren't doing that well due to the soggy soil and coolish temperatures. Our arugula has blasted ahead, though, and has gone into yellow seed. We've got to eat fast and furious here. Our potato plants are towering and I think we need to cover up another 4 inches else the potatoes, we're told, will be green and tasteless. Some have even said poisonous. Oh, great.
Our field has been hayed by a resourceful gentleman a couple miles down the road. It's been touch and go for people haying this year, trying to find some time in between storms not only to mow it, but then to let it dry out before baling. He did a wonderful job - our field looks as if its been given a crew cut. I'm looking forward to it regaining its length.
We had a tornado warning a couple days ago! That brings a bit of the past home to 2 midwestern boys - me, Indiana and Richard, Illinois. I was still in New York, but Richard was in town at a 4-H fair when a huge storm hit. He wasn't aware of tornado warnings, but he said that the tempest swept in to town and caught people unawares. Everyone was huddled under the livestock tent, running to bring hay in out of the deluge, while the 8 - 10 year olds calmed their calves. Richard claimed the sky opened up like a full force faucet for 15 minutes with tremendous flashes of lightening and rolling, explosive thunder accompanying the water works. He knows I love storms, so he drew the story out delicisouly. It sounded thrilling. We missed thunder and lightning while living in Southern California. They had it, but it so paled to the power of midwestern and eastern pyrotechnics that it seemed almost non-existent to us.
Oh, I need to take a walk. The sky has brightened and I may get one in before the next shower. I think I'll do that. Also, Ginger and Mary Ann are honking and I haven't seen those waddlers for awhile. I hope every one reading this is fine. Have a splendid day.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Chicken contraband - Film Noir at the Filling Station
There I paced in the parking lot outside the P & H truck stop, back and forth in front of the Mobil pumps, my keys jingling nervously in my right hand. Where could she be? She said she was going to be held up for 5 minutes, but that was at 1 o'clock and my ticker said a quarter past 2. It's only a 25 minute drive from up above St. Johnsbury, 30 tops. Something must've happened. I'd had lunch. I'd drawn it out as long as I could without drawing attention to myself. Still I could tell the way Nancy -- that was my waitress's name, Nancy; looks like she'd seen some hard times -- I could tell by the way she asked "Anymore coffee, sir?" that she suspected something. She hid it, but I sensed it, sensed it in the subtle shake of the coffee urn. Also, the way she placed the check on the table, face down, after I gave an emphatic 'No!' to "Would you like some dessert?" That face down had special meaning. The way Nancy pressed it to the table and looked at me seemed to say "I know." I knew I had to get out of there but quick.
And now I was out but quick, but the van wasn't here. The cops must've picked her and her poultry up, I thought, that's what must've happened. And now she was squealing, squealing and sending the coppers my way. There might be a shoot out. But it'd be a one-sided shoot out because I don't own a gun, never have, never will, which sort of blows the whole idea of a shoot out sky high. I should've never had our birds processed. But hindsight's 20/20 and with the time 2:15 I'd give you 4-to-1 my 8 chickens were down for the 9 count 10 minutes back on Interstate 91.
Just when the last vestige of hope was about to drop below the horizon, the purple van came screeching into the parking lot. I made a beeline to my car and grabbed my checkbook. Tamara was out of the van, all smiles, dressed in dissheveled hippie garb. Good disguise, I thought to myself, everything's going to be just fine. But when I got up close her smile couldn't cover up the "Save Me!" screaming out of her eyes. I knew I'd have to make this quick. We opened the van; it was a mess. The plastic containers I'd brought the birds in were stuck, stuck and blocking the frozen birds in the cooler beneath, jammed tight. This can't be happening!! We tugged and jerked and heaved and hoed, but they wouldn't budge. Finally I shoved them out the other way and the cooler was freed. I got to the back of my car and opened up my cooler, ready for the exchange. Then out came the birds, frozen solid, Tamara - that's her name, Tamara, it might be her real name, it might not, I don't know and I don't care, she's the chicken lady to me and if she wants to go by Tamara, that's her business. She kept the smile pasted on her face as she passed icy package after icy package of what used to be Napoleon and Otis and all the other feathered hell raisers who used to strut around our side yard like there was no tomorrow. Well, now there was no tomorrow, literally. The reality of the situation slapped me in the face like a wet salamander. Don't ask me to explain that last simile; suffice it to say that I had to act and talk tough just to get through this. Tamara's eyes might be screaming "Save Me", but I was the one that really needed saving. After all, this was my first run, and it certainly wasn't going to be my last. This processing business was for the birds, I thought. Literally.
I shut the cooler lid and slammed my Outback hatch back door down; Tamara slammed her van's side door shut. There was alot of slamming. 'Who do I make it out to?' I asked, whipping open my navy blue checkbook. "Glenn. Glenn did the job," she said eyeing the 2 heavily gutted truckers that had been spending a little too much time around the Premium pump. I was amazed how convincing her smile looked. 'Glenn who?' I asked, taking the beat-up blue pen she was offering me. "Just Glenn," she snapped. Our eyes met, we both knew what that meant. Either Glenn wanted to remain anonymous OR Glenn had no last name. I decided not to ask. Instead I wrote the check chop-chop and handed it to her; it seemed to disappear into her pocket. "Thanks," and she was back around to the driver's door, inside, and backing out before I knew it. That's when I realized I was still holding her pen. 'Wait!' I yelled. It was the first time I saw her smile waver. I ran to her window and handed it over. There was gratitude in those "Save Me" eyes. "Thanks." 'Don't mention it.' "'See ya next time." 'Yeah.' I hoped she didn't hear the regret in my voice. Then she was gone, headed south to Hanover. I climbed in my Subaru and headed the other way, up the back road, checking the rear view to see if I was being followed, making my way back home, dreaming of dinners made from chicken contraband.
And now I was out but quick, but the van wasn't here. The cops must've picked her and her poultry up, I thought, that's what must've happened. And now she was squealing, squealing and sending the coppers my way. There might be a shoot out. But it'd be a one-sided shoot out because I don't own a gun, never have, never will, which sort of blows the whole idea of a shoot out sky high. I should've never had our birds processed. But hindsight's 20/20 and with the time 2:15 I'd give you 4-to-1 my 8 chickens were down for the 9 count 10 minutes back on Interstate 91.
Just when the last vestige of hope was about to drop below the horizon, the purple van came screeching into the parking lot. I made a beeline to my car and grabbed my checkbook. Tamara was out of the van, all smiles, dressed in dissheveled hippie garb. Good disguise, I thought to myself, everything's going to be just fine. But when I got up close her smile couldn't cover up the "Save Me!" screaming out of her eyes. I knew I'd have to make this quick. We opened the van; it was a mess. The plastic containers I'd brought the birds in were stuck, stuck and blocking the frozen birds in the cooler beneath, jammed tight. This can't be happening!! We tugged and jerked and heaved and hoed, but they wouldn't budge. Finally I shoved them out the other way and the cooler was freed. I got to the back of my car and opened up my cooler, ready for the exchange. Then out came the birds, frozen solid, Tamara - that's her name, Tamara, it might be her real name, it might not, I don't know and I don't care, she's the chicken lady to me and if she wants to go by Tamara, that's her business. She kept the smile pasted on her face as she passed icy package after icy package of what used to be Napoleon and Otis and all the other feathered hell raisers who used to strut around our side yard like there was no tomorrow. Well, now there was no tomorrow, literally. The reality of the situation slapped me in the face like a wet salamander. Don't ask me to explain that last simile; suffice it to say that I had to act and talk tough just to get through this. Tamara's eyes might be screaming "Save Me", but I was the one that really needed saving. After all, this was my first run, and it certainly wasn't going to be my last. This processing business was for the birds, I thought. Literally.
I shut the cooler lid and slammed my Outback hatch back door down; Tamara slammed her van's side door shut. There was alot of slamming. 'Who do I make it out to?' I asked, whipping open my navy blue checkbook. "Glenn. Glenn did the job," she said eyeing the 2 heavily gutted truckers that had been spending a little too much time around the Premium pump. I was amazed how convincing her smile looked. 'Glenn who?' I asked, taking the beat-up blue pen she was offering me. "Just Glenn," she snapped. Our eyes met, we both knew what that meant. Either Glenn wanted to remain anonymous OR Glenn had no last name. I decided not to ask. Instead I wrote the check chop-chop and handed it to her; it seemed to disappear into her pocket. "Thanks," and she was back around to the driver's door, inside, and backing out before I knew it. That's when I realized I was still holding her pen. 'Wait!' I yelled. It was the first time I saw her smile waver. I ran to her window and handed it over. There was gratitude in those "Save Me" eyes. "Thanks." 'Don't mention it.' "'See ya next time." 'Yeah.' I hoped she didn't hear the regret in my voice. Then she was gone, headed south to Hanover. I climbed in my Subaru and headed the other way, up the back road, checking the rear view to see if I was being followed, making my way back home, dreaming of dinners made from chicken contraband.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Morning Emancipations
While fixing coffee this morning I remembered the jingle to a radio show that used to play in the mornings when I was growing up in Indiana, the beginning lyrics were: “In a little red barn on a farm in Indiana … etc, etc, etc” Very homespun, very corny, very “On the banks of the Wabash far away.” Nothing much happened on the show, they’d just talk, a small live audience would chuckle at the marginally humorous stories the host would tell. We did not live on a farm, we lived in the suburbs of Fort Wayne which jockeyed back and forth with Gary, Indiana, as the 2nd largest city in the Hoosier State. My cousins and most of my aunts and uncles, however, did live and work on farms in southern Indiana and the radio show would conjure them up for me. Theirs was a magical world so unlike ours, a world my mother had left and which we’d visit when we’d go “down home.” Everything was different there - the sounds, the smells, the feeling of space. It was primitive and glorious with endless places to play – big barns, abandoned buildings, fields you could run into and get lost in the tall corn stalks that would tower over you and canopy out like something exotic and tropical. Farms are in Richard’s ancestry too, in Illinois in his case. And here we are in Vermont, 2 midwestern boys doing our dilittante versions of farm life. Who woulda thunk it?
As the coffee continued to perk away, Richard and I went out to let our birds loose. The moment they heard our screen door slam our geese started honking. It’s the same honk they give when we drive up after having been away for a while. It’s “hello!”, it’s “where’ve you been?!” or, in this case, it’s “Let us OUT!!”. As we walked into sight around the edge of the chicken coop, the honks increased, interspersed with chirps and chatter and nibbles on the wire mesh that covers their front door. Once I unlatch the door and open it, I must obey goose decorum and back up several steps in order to give the girls their space, and with eyes downcast to spot the edge of the cage floor, they slowly and carefully hop/step down with a dainty plop. That over, they look to us, break into a rapid babble and begin the waving of their wings. I love this. They seem so happy to be free, to be moving and stretching, to be something with wings. They don’t want to be touched or held, oh no, they shy away from that. That will come later in the day when you trick them into coming close or playfully corner them and pick them up. Now though it’s time to cavort, to dash around the open green spaces, wings outstretched, as if they’re playing airplane. Mary Ann has actually left the ground, very fun to watch, but its definitely Kitty Hawk time; I don’t think she’s ever going to gain much height. Ginger, I fear, will never leave terra firma. But it doesn’t seem to matter, they’re just fine with who they are no matter how high they soar, and they look as if they’re having loads of fun. There’s a slightly show-off element to it all, as if they're saying “Look Ma, I’m flying!” It’s infectious. It makes me want to flap my arms and scream “I’m ALIVE!!” What a grand way to start the day. Freedom.
There's one other thing our girls are doing that just cracks me up: they're learning to hiss. I'm pretty sure that’s what you’d call it. They must’ve picked it up from the Canadian Geese on the pond who’ve set firm boundaries around their growing young whenever Ginger and Mary Ann have tried to become part of the family. Our girls would never hiss at us, but they have begun using their new found tool on our chickens and cats. Whenever Astrid or Sofia or one of the chickens come into the girl’s vicinity, they now assume the posture. They bend their necks down and slowly SLOWLY creep toward the offending intruder in an approximation of threatening, sometimes with wings spread for added effect. Then they open their bills wide to hiss, but no sound ever comes out, just air. The chickens scat immediately, which is good because even the sight of a chicken nearby used to send the girls into paroxysms of screaming panic. It was embarrassing. Our cat’s sort of back away from this “threatening posture” with a look you’d give a coo-coo person. But however you cut it, it’s success. The girls stand up straight and wiggle their tails, proud of their prowess, chattering congratulations to one another. And its commendable, we’re glad their learning to protect themselves and all, setting boundaries, but the girls are so sweet that their attempts at acting tough come off looking like Don Knotts on “Andy of Mayberry.”
After setting the goose girls free, we let the chickens out of their coop. We will have heard the muffled rooster cries for hours in bed – it’s just past 7 now. Richard opens the front door and I take the cedar post away from the back door which folds down into an exit ramp. Again, decorum on my part. I back away several steps and they one-by-one flutter and peck out into the new day. Since we processed 8 roosters last week, the testosterone level of squabbling has cut down considerably, though Midas, the very beautiful Buff Orpington rooster who has become cock of the walk, loves to show off his crow and has managed to hump every hen in sight. He’s become especially enamored of the older hens from last year. "Coo-coo-cachoo, Mrs. Robinson." Midas is a trip; he looks like one of those old time body builders with big upper torsos and stick legs. He swells his feathery chest and struts and preens, striding about like he’s walking tip-toe across hot coals. Oh and news! Our young hens have started laying eggs! We’re getting quite and large and colorfully varied haul every day. And if Midas has anything to say about it, they'll all be fertile.
Next up were Nanna and her 7 adopted chicks, all of them growing up quite nicely. She’s a walking one room schoolhouse, teaching them how to get by in chicken life, scratching the ground for feed (very powerful scratches indeed), taking dust baths, foraging through the underbrush, hopping, flying, showing them their world. They’re devoted students and fast learners. Nanna is uber protective. She’ll take any of the chickens on in a street fight. No one gets close to her brood. Even when Richard and I get close she swells her feathers out to twice her size and gives a low growlly hum. Very impressive. As we watched her disappear into the green underbrush we took in our garden, extremely lush from all the rain. Now we could use some good uninterrupted sunshine for awhile. But the potato plants, broccoli, beets, lettuces, turnips, and radishes are all doing quite nicely. We’ve never grown potatoes before and yesterday I had a fascinating study in how they grow. I had to clear out a few plants yesterday to make room for our red cabbage coming up and when I uprooted them I was treated to a picture of the roots and shoots and tiny little potatoes growing beneath the ground. It looked like a science show display of outer space with the tiny white potatoes looking like orbiting planets. Incredible. Just incredible life in all its forms.
To give the Canadian's a nod, last week, seemingly overnight, their goslings turned from drab grey to slightly minaturized versions of their folks, with all the colorings and classy patterns. Miraculous. I swear it was overnight. They're still poopin' up the side of the pond and most of our lawn, but we're keeping it in check. I jet stream spray the green stuff to kingdom come and Richard picks up the harder stuff and makes tree fertilizer from it. Isn't this a lovely topic?
Not much of a point to today’s installment, just a ramble through the morning. After 2 or 3 glorious respites from rain, it looks as if we might get a bit more wetness today and I have to reconfigure the top cover to our wood pile. There’s a leak somewhere that’s drenching some of next winter’s firewood. Not good. Some weeding of the garden is also due and if the weather holds, the chopping down of some tall grass in the orchard. I’m sure whatever outside activity I choose it will be watched with interest by our geese and chickens, who come feathering over for a look see. I like the company.
As the coffee continued to perk away, Richard and I went out to let our birds loose. The moment they heard our screen door slam our geese started honking. It’s the same honk they give when we drive up after having been away for a while. It’s “hello!”, it’s “where’ve you been?!” or, in this case, it’s “Let us OUT!!”. As we walked into sight around the edge of the chicken coop, the honks increased, interspersed with chirps and chatter and nibbles on the wire mesh that covers their front door. Once I unlatch the door and open it, I must obey goose decorum and back up several steps in order to give the girls their space, and with eyes downcast to spot the edge of the cage floor, they slowly and carefully hop/step down with a dainty plop. That over, they look to us, break into a rapid babble and begin the waving of their wings. I love this. They seem so happy to be free, to be moving and stretching, to be something with wings. They don’t want to be touched or held, oh no, they shy away from that. That will come later in the day when you trick them into coming close or playfully corner them and pick them up. Now though it’s time to cavort, to dash around the open green spaces, wings outstretched, as if they’re playing airplane. Mary Ann has actually left the ground, very fun to watch, but its definitely Kitty Hawk time; I don’t think she’s ever going to gain much height. Ginger, I fear, will never leave terra firma. But it doesn’t seem to matter, they’re just fine with who they are no matter how high they soar, and they look as if they’re having loads of fun. There’s a slightly show-off element to it all, as if they're saying “Look Ma, I’m flying!” It’s infectious. It makes me want to flap my arms and scream “I’m ALIVE!!” What a grand way to start the day. Freedom.
There's one other thing our girls are doing that just cracks me up: they're learning to hiss. I'm pretty sure that’s what you’d call it. They must’ve picked it up from the Canadian Geese on the pond who’ve set firm boundaries around their growing young whenever Ginger and Mary Ann have tried to become part of the family. Our girls would never hiss at us, but they have begun using their new found tool on our chickens and cats. Whenever Astrid or Sofia or one of the chickens come into the girl’s vicinity, they now assume the posture. They bend their necks down and slowly SLOWLY creep toward the offending intruder in an approximation of threatening, sometimes with wings spread for added effect. Then they open their bills wide to hiss, but no sound ever comes out, just air. The chickens scat immediately, which is good because even the sight of a chicken nearby used to send the girls into paroxysms of screaming panic. It was embarrassing. Our cat’s sort of back away from this “threatening posture” with a look you’d give a coo-coo person. But however you cut it, it’s success. The girls stand up straight and wiggle their tails, proud of their prowess, chattering congratulations to one another. And its commendable, we’re glad their learning to protect themselves and all, setting boundaries, but the girls are so sweet that their attempts at acting tough come off looking like Don Knotts on “Andy of Mayberry.”
After setting the goose girls free, we let the chickens out of their coop. We will have heard the muffled rooster cries for hours in bed – it’s just past 7 now. Richard opens the front door and I take the cedar post away from the back door which folds down into an exit ramp. Again, decorum on my part. I back away several steps and they one-by-one flutter and peck out into the new day. Since we processed 8 roosters last week, the testosterone level of squabbling has cut down considerably, though Midas, the very beautiful Buff Orpington rooster who has become cock of the walk, loves to show off his crow and has managed to hump every hen in sight. He’s become especially enamored of the older hens from last year. "Coo-coo-cachoo, Mrs. Robinson." Midas is a trip; he looks like one of those old time body builders with big upper torsos and stick legs. He swells his feathery chest and struts and preens, striding about like he’s walking tip-toe across hot coals. Oh and news! Our young hens have started laying eggs! We’re getting quite and large and colorfully varied haul every day. And if Midas has anything to say about it, they'll all be fertile.
Next up were Nanna and her 7 adopted chicks, all of them growing up quite nicely. She’s a walking one room schoolhouse, teaching them how to get by in chicken life, scratching the ground for feed (very powerful scratches indeed), taking dust baths, foraging through the underbrush, hopping, flying, showing them their world. They’re devoted students and fast learners. Nanna is uber protective. She’ll take any of the chickens on in a street fight. No one gets close to her brood. Even when Richard and I get close she swells her feathers out to twice her size and gives a low growlly hum. Very impressive. As we watched her disappear into the green underbrush we took in our garden, extremely lush from all the rain. Now we could use some good uninterrupted sunshine for awhile. But the potato plants, broccoli, beets, lettuces, turnips, and radishes are all doing quite nicely. We’ve never grown potatoes before and yesterday I had a fascinating study in how they grow. I had to clear out a few plants yesterday to make room for our red cabbage coming up and when I uprooted them I was treated to a picture of the roots and shoots and tiny little potatoes growing beneath the ground. It looked like a science show display of outer space with the tiny white potatoes looking like orbiting planets. Incredible. Just incredible life in all its forms.
To give the Canadian's a nod, last week, seemingly overnight, their goslings turned from drab grey to slightly minaturized versions of their folks, with all the colorings and classy patterns. Miraculous. I swear it was overnight. They're still poopin' up the side of the pond and most of our lawn, but we're keeping it in check. I jet stream spray the green stuff to kingdom come and Richard picks up the harder stuff and makes tree fertilizer from it. Isn't this a lovely topic?
Not much of a point to today’s installment, just a ramble through the morning. After 2 or 3 glorious respites from rain, it looks as if we might get a bit more wetness today and I have to reconfigure the top cover to our wood pile. There’s a leak somewhere that’s drenching some of next winter’s firewood. Not good. Some weeding of the garden is also due and if the weather holds, the chopping down of some tall grass in the orchard. I’m sure whatever outside activity I choose it will be watched with interest by our geese and chickens, who come feathering over for a look see. I like the company.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Triptych
TRIPTYCH
ADVENT IN JULY
There’s been a lot going on lately. I feel a bit odd wheeling out an excuse like that to explain why I haven’t written an installment for over a week, but time has been taken up. My sister and her family took a trip out from Indiana for their first visit to Vermont. The day of their arrival I was heavy with anxiety. There was all the preparation and cleaning and it was raining and soggy and I was feeling personally responsible for the crummy weather. I knew this was all ridiculous, but I could not or would not shift my thinking. And I’d rigidly scheduled my day, a sure set up for every plan going haywire. And that’s what had happened. Instead of writing, Richard and I had to chase chickens and put those unlucky few that needed to be processed into pet carriers. Though I liked that the numbers of chickens were dwindling and the cacophonous crows of all the roosters would be diminished, it was still sad, as if we were taking part in our own “Tale of Two Cities” trip to the gallows. I was going to have Richard trek them up to St. Johnsbury where the processing was to take place while I stayed home and got back to writing, but I felt he needed some spiritual support, this being the first experience with thinning the flock and so I went. Along the way, we thanked the birds for the meat they would soon be providing us. Very Joseph Campbell of us I thought.
By the time we got home from that and lunch at the P & H truckstop, my day schedule was way off. (Vermont commercial break. If you are ever in these parts, you must go to the P & H Truck Stop – reason 27 I love Vermont. This place is sensational – great food, great variety, and excellent, fun waitresses. I understand it’s pretty famous in these parts, as well it should be. Come, come; go, go. Commercial over.) My rigidity was biting me hard in the ass. I could not let my plans go. I was hating the chores – the mowing, the cleaning, the not-writing. I needed something to break it up, to snap me out of it, to jolt me back into the land of the living. And that’s when the Bull Moose came running down the middle of our road. I heard him before I saw him, a heavy gallop. ‘A horse?’ I thought. ‘Who’s galloping a horse on the road at this time of day? At ANY time of day?’ And I peered out the window and there he was, the Bull Moose I’d been dying to see for years, a huge set of antlers. And he was being chased by the cute, kind Alaskan huskie pup from down the road. The moose didn’t seem to be having fun, though. He cut off up the side of our pond and cut into the woods with a brushy crunch, the husky in playful hot pursuit. I screamed out ‘Richard! Richard! Did you see that?!’ He was in the backyard and he had seen it and he was screaming for me to look. We caught sight of one another, realized we had both witnessed this incredible thing and we laughed hard and long. And all the rigidity and schedules and anxiety and weight of the day lifted off into space.
JUST MAKING A DEPOSIT
I’d taken a trip down to the bank the other day and entered into a conversation that I’d heard from a few sources over the past several weeks, namely the advantage of planting either strawberries or tomatoe plants in old tires. It’s as if it’s some new Vermont planting tradition.
“Oh her tomato plants are out of this world,” the woman in line was saying “I’ve never seen anything like them.”
‘What is the advantage of planting them in tires?’ I asked.
The woman didn’t know, but she hazarded a guess “Maybe it’s the black in the tire absorbing the heat from the sun and transferring that into the plant.”
‘Hmmm.’ I wasn’t convinced.
“All I know is I’ve never seen anything like them” she carried on.
‘So you fill the tire with dirt and plant the plant inside of it?’ I inquired.
“No. She just plants the tomato in the ground, in the flat earth, and then she places the tire around it as a border.
‘Hmmm.’ I really didn’t know what to say to that. But I was thinking – LOUDLY -Why would anyone want a bunch of tires around their plants?
“And who wants to taste petroleum products going into the roots of their strawberries and tomatoes?” my ecologically minded friend Emily asked with a grimace a couple days later when I told her about this encounter.
‘What is this Vermont thing with tires?’ I put out. ‘It’s everywhere and it’s strange.’
“No one wants to pay $4 a piece for them at the dump.” Our friend Chris, Emily’s boyfriend, chimed in.
Finally something made sense. Of course. It’d have to be frugality to inspire a Vermonter to do such a redneck thing like tire gardening. I guess it does beat burning them, but still … ugh.
30 YEARS AGO ON MY BICYCLE TRIP: JULY 1, 1979 – OPALUSA, LOUISIANA
The day had been humid and frustrating, filled with broken bicycle spokes, an occurrence which for days had been dampening my spirits. Every broken spoke meant unpacking my bike, taking off the wheel, deflating the tire, replacing the broken spoke with a new one and then spinning the wheel to see where it was untrue and trying to the best of your ability to crank the spokes with a special spoke tool (its name escapes me) until they were all well balanced and the wheel spun in a straight, unwobbly revolution. This felt as if it were next to impossible to accomplish – this perfectly balanced state. If you didn’t get it true, chances were - with all the weight of packs filled with equipment and necessities – that another spoke would break. And this was happening with increasing frequency. On top of the broken spokes, there was the heat and the thick Louisiana air and lousy directions. Oh, but I would curse with frustration at the countryside when I realized I had just gone 8 miles out of my way and would have to turn around.
Now there had been compensations. Louisiana, and Mississippi and Alabama before her, had been lush and green, almost Amazonian. I had had my first introduction to kudzu and its encroaching, tangled strangulation of everything around it. There had been ghostly remains of old plantations with only pillars left standing. There had been kind and helpful people, fun encounters. And there had been armadillos and snakes sunning themselves on the roads and long flat stretches of hot, hot weather.
Earlier in the day I had asked for a good place to camp that night and had been directed to the city park in downtown Opalusa, Louisiana. My antennae had gone up when I heard “city park”, but I ignored my misgivings. By the time I pedaled into the park around sunset, I was whipped and ready for rest. Opalusa was a small, quaint town and the city park was alive with well-attended Little League games, their cheers and applause comforting and homey. But as I rode by them I began thinking “they’re never going to let me camp in a place like this” – “they” being the Opalusa police. Still I biked to a secluded part of the park and began pitching my tent as unobtrusively as I could. While I was doing this, a kindly looking tall gentleman in a light cardigan sweater happened by. He reminded me of my great Uncle Ernest. He had been on his evening stroll and was curious about who I was and what I was doing. As I told him about my trip he seemed genuinely interested and impressed and he began asking about my experiences so far, which had been my favorite, what had been my ups and downs, and how I had ever gotten the notion to begin such an undertaking in the first place. It was a pleasant conversation and soon he had wished me well and walked on.
About 45 minutes or so later I was sitting cross-legged in front of my tent writing in my journal, a can of lima beans warming on my little gas stove. It was just turning dark. The Little League games had wound down and the sounds of the neighborhood crowds had been replaced by sporadic bursts of laughter and play in the distance and an underlying hum of summer insects. The frustrations of the day, all the cursing and negativity, the broken spokes, everything had been mended with the coming of evening and I was looking forward to crawling into my sleeping bag for some well deserved shut eye. And then the headlights started coming across the field. And they were coming right for me ‘Oh great,’ I thought with a groan, “It’s the cops and they’re going to make me pack up and leave.’ I just sat there defeated, squinting my eyes in the cars glare, thinking thoughts that sounded like my dad’s, thoughts like “It figures. I should’ve known. What more could I expect?” The car pulled up beside me and the driver’s door opened. It wasn’t the cops at all, it was the soft spoken gentlemen I’d just had the conversation with. Before I could say anything, he handed me a plastic plate with a roast beef sandwich, lettuce and tomatoe, chips and a slice of cake. And then he handed me a coke with a plastic glass full of ice. I was speechless, I don’t even think I got up I was so utterly stunned by his generosity. He said “I’d like to think somebody would do the same thing for my sons if they were in the same situation.” And then with a “Godspeed” he shut the door and drove off. It was the stellar day of my whole trip. Incredible.
Within a couple days, I’d had it with broken spokes, and I packed up my bike around Lake Charles, LA, and took a bus to Houston where my sister was living and that’s where I spent the 4th of July.
ADVENT IN JULY
There’s been a lot going on lately. I feel a bit odd wheeling out an excuse like that to explain why I haven’t written an installment for over a week, but time has been taken up. My sister and her family took a trip out from Indiana for their first visit to Vermont. The day of their arrival I was heavy with anxiety. There was all the preparation and cleaning and it was raining and soggy and I was feeling personally responsible for the crummy weather. I knew this was all ridiculous, but I could not or would not shift my thinking. And I’d rigidly scheduled my day, a sure set up for every plan going haywire. And that’s what had happened. Instead of writing, Richard and I had to chase chickens and put those unlucky few that needed to be processed into pet carriers. Though I liked that the numbers of chickens were dwindling and the cacophonous crows of all the roosters would be diminished, it was still sad, as if we were taking part in our own “Tale of Two Cities” trip to the gallows. I was going to have Richard trek them up to St. Johnsbury where the processing was to take place while I stayed home and got back to writing, but I felt he needed some spiritual support, this being the first experience with thinning the flock and so I went. Along the way, we thanked the birds for the meat they would soon be providing us. Very Joseph Campbell of us I thought.
By the time we got home from that and lunch at the P & H truckstop, my day schedule was way off. (Vermont commercial break. If you are ever in these parts, you must go to the P & H Truck Stop – reason 27 I love Vermont. This place is sensational – great food, great variety, and excellent, fun waitresses. I understand it’s pretty famous in these parts, as well it should be. Come, come; go, go. Commercial over.) My rigidity was biting me hard in the ass. I could not let my plans go. I was hating the chores – the mowing, the cleaning, the not-writing. I needed something to break it up, to snap me out of it, to jolt me back into the land of the living. And that’s when the Bull Moose came running down the middle of our road. I heard him before I saw him, a heavy gallop. ‘A horse?’ I thought. ‘Who’s galloping a horse on the road at this time of day? At ANY time of day?’ And I peered out the window and there he was, the Bull Moose I’d been dying to see for years, a huge set of antlers. And he was being chased by the cute, kind Alaskan huskie pup from down the road. The moose didn’t seem to be having fun, though. He cut off up the side of our pond and cut into the woods with a brushy crunch, the husky in playful hot pursuit. I screamed out ‘Richard! Richard! Did you see that?!’ He was in the backyard and he had seen it and he was screaming for me to look. We caught sight of one another, realized we had both witnessed this incredible thing and we laughed hard and long. And all the rigidity and schedules and anxiety and weight of the day lifted off into space.
JUST MAKING A DEPOSIT
I’d taken a trip down to the bank the other day and entered into a conversation that I’d heard from a few sources over the past several weeks, namely the advantage of planting either strawberries or tomatoe plants in old tires. It’s as if it’s some new Vermont planting tradition.
“Oh her tomato plants are out of this world,” the woman in line was saying “I’ve never seen anything like them.”
‘What is the advantage of planting them in tires?’ I asked.
The woman didn’t know, but she hazarded a guess “Maybe it’s the black in the tire absorbing the heat from the sun and transferring that into the plant.”
‘Hmmm.’ I wasn’t convinced.
“All I know is I’ve never seen anything like them” she carried on.
‘So you fill the tire with dirt and plant the plant inside of it?’ I inquired.
“No. She just plants the tomato in the ground, in the flat earth, and then she places the tire around it as a border.
‘Hmmm.’ I really didn’t know what to say to that. But I was thinking – LOUDLY -Why would anyone want a bunch of tires around their plants?
“And who wants to taste petroleum products going into the roots of their strawberries and tomatoes?” my ecologically minded friend Emily asked with a grimace a couple days later when I told her about this encounter.
‘What is this Vermont thing with tires?’ I put out. ‘It’s everywhere and it’s strange.’
“No one wants to pay $4 a piece for them at the dump.” Our friend Chris, Emily’s boyfriend, chimed in.
Finally something made sense. Of course. It’d have to be frugality to inspire a Vermonter to do such a redneck thing like tire gardening. I guess it does beat burning them, but still … ugh.
30 YEARS AGO ON MY BICYCLE TRIP: JULY 1, 1979 – OPALUSA, LOUISIANA
The day had been humid and frustrating, filled with broken bicycle spokes, an occurrence which for days had been dampening my spirits. Every broken spoke meant unpacking my bike, taking off the wheel, deflating the tire, replacing the broken spoke with a new one and then spinning the wheel to see where it was untrue and trying to the best of your ability to crank the spokes with a special spoke tool (its name escapes me) until they were all well balanced and the wheel spun in a straight, unwobbly revolution. This felt as if it were next to impossible to accomplish – this perfectly balanced state. If you didn’t get it true, chances were - with all the weight of packs filled with equipment and necessities – that another spoke would break. And this was happening with increasing frequency. On top of the broken spokes, there was the heat and the thick Louisiana air and lousy directions. Oh, but I would curse with frustration at the countryside when I realized I had just gone 8 miles out of my way and would have to turn around.
Now there had been compensations. Louisiana, and Mississippi and Alabama before her, had been lush and green, almost Amazonian. I had had my first introduction to kudzu and its encroaching, tangled strangulation of everything around it. There had been ghostly remains of old plantations with only pillars left standing. There had been kind and helpful people, fun encounters. And there had been armadillos and snakes sunning themselves on the roads and long flat stretches of hot, hot weather.
Earlier in the day I had asked for a good place to camp that night and had been directed to the city park in downtown Opalusa, Louisiana. My antennae had gone up when I heard “city park”, but I ignored my misgivings. By the time I pedaled into the park around sunset, I was whipped and ready for rest. Opalusa was a small, quaint town and the city park was alive with well-attended Little League games, their cheers and applause comforting and homey. But as I rode by them I began thinking “they’re never going to let me camp in a place like this” – “they” being the Opalusa police. Still I biked to a secluded part of the park and began pitching my tent as unobtrusively as I could. While I was doing this, a kindly looking tall gentleman in a light cardigan sweater happened by. He reminded me of my great Uncle Ernest. He had been on his evening stroll and was curious about who I was and what I was doing. As I told him about my trip he seemed genuinely interested and impressed and he began asking about my experiences so far, which had been my favorite, what had been my ups and downs, and how I had ever gotten the notion to begin such an undertaking in the first place. It was a pleasant conversation and soon he had wished me well and walked on.
About 45 minutes or so later I was sitting cross-legged in front of my tent writing in my journal, a can of lima beans warming on my little gas stove. It was just turning dark. The Little League games had wound down and the sounds of the neighborhood crowds had been replaced by sporadic bursts of laughter and play in the distance and an underlying hum of summer insects. The frustrations of the day, all the cursing and negativity, the broken spokes, everything had been mended with the coming of evening and I was looking forward to crawling into my sleeping bag for some well deserved shut eye. And then the headlights started coming across the field. And they were coming right for me ‘Oh great,’ I thought with a groan, “It’s the cops and they’re going to make me pack up and leave.’ I just sat there defeated, squinting my eyes in the cars glare, thinking thoughts that sounded like my dad’s, thoughts like “It figures. I should’ve known. What more could I expect?” The car pulled up beside me and the driver’s door opened. It wasn’t the cops at all, it was the soft spoken gentlemen I’d just had the conversation with. Before I could say anything, he handed me a plastic plate with a roast beef sandwich, lettuce and tomatoe, chips and a slice of cake. And then he handed me a coke with a plastic glass full of ice. I was speechless, I don’t even think I got up I was so utterly stunned by his generosity. He said “I’d like to think somebody would do the same thing for my sons if they were in the same situation.” And then with a “Godspeed” he shut the door and drove off. It was the stellar day of my whole trip. Incredible.
Within a couple days, I’d had it with broken spokes, and I packed up my bike around Lake Charles, LA, and took a bus to Houston where my sister was living and that’s where I spent the 4th of July.
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