Richard was reading me his latest installment on his blog ("Poultry Chronicles" for all you birdy set) and in my mind I saw one of those old timey movie calendars with days being ripped off, time passing by, and I thought to myself "It's been AGES since I've written something for my blog so sit down and concoct something." The sandman has already sprinkled a goodly amount of magic dust on my eyelids, but before I go to Sleepytime Village, I'll just whip through some of the things that have been filling my days:
- Put together a HUGE vat of Green Tomato Chutney, a recipe from my dear friend Lisa's New Zealand mother, thus putting to good use the many tomatoes I snatched from the jaws of blighty doom last week. Victory! So 10 pounds of green tomatoes into the chutney vat and jars and about 4 pounds I let ripen in the sun on our front porch and then tossed into a spaghetti sauce.
- Attended an inspiring town hall meeting for Health Care facilitated by our independent Senator Bernie Sanders which resparked my desire to champion the cause of Single Pay Insurance. Because our representatives and senators (and, sadly, President) seem reluctant (and afraid) to allow Single Pay to be looked at as an option on the national level, it seems that the state level, especially in Vermont, would be a viable alternative. I'm looking into educating myself much more on this topic and seeing how I can best be instrumental of service in this process. I'm also fascinated about the boogie man fears that are festooned onto the word "socialism." It seems to me that America's brand of democratic socialism has spoken more for the common man and his rights and privileges then any other party. Why would that be demonized? Very interesting.
- Realized from the drop in the temperature to the high 30's at night during this last week that autumn is at hand, so we've redoubled our efforts and energy toward finishing up some building projects before cold weather really sets in. I'm a little bit bummed that fall has fallen when I feel we haven't even had summer yet, but it's hard to not love these gloriously beautiful, nippy mornings. And more warmth is still in store. I can feel it in my bones.
- Writing, working on several projects, letting them have their own time, sometimes down time, and then joying in them anew when they get back on an active track again. I love that I write.
- Delight and gratitude for friends and family visiting, for creativity, for running with our geese, for daily walks up our road, up our rise, for the change of weather, change of season, still feels like "back-to-school" weather to me.
And aprospos of nothing, we've found several piles of bear poop on our land. Good sized piles at that. Wow! Cool!
And 30 Years Ago on my bicycle trip - I was in San Francisco, visiting friends, having a little romance, and looking back over the entire adventure. Wow. On my way back to Providence, RI where I was living at the time, I would stop down in Alabama to see my mom get remarried to my soon-to-be stepdad Joseph O'Hara. It would be a fine time.
San Francisco was swell. It was good to return to the city in which I'd spent 2 years while attending conservatory. And the city was dazzling that August, extraordinary weather. And on one of these days I met a beautiful blond man from Minneapolis, Ron Beese, and we spent a wonderful 3 days together. One of those days we had a picnic in Golden Gate Park. It was a gorgeous, laid back day, we were in shorts, our shirts off, getting some sun, enjoying each other's company, the buzz of a romance we probably both knew would only last for a few days. We started to make-out. And in the middle of making out, I realized "Oh my God, we're in public, there are other people around, kids playing nearby." But for the first time I think, that thought didn't freeze me up. 'This is right,' I thought, "this is natural, I'm having a great time with someone I really like and I'm enjoying being affectionate with him. I'm not doing it to prove anything. I'm not doing it to rub someone's nose in it. I'm doing it because I love it, I enjoy it, it gives me pleasure, and I'm not hurting anyone." That was such a freeing thought. What a gift. What a beautiful gift that was. And after those 3 days were over, I never saw Ron Beese again. I've often wondered what happened to him over the years. I often wished him happiness, a good life. Who knows if he's even still alive. But he brought new life to my life and I'm grateful for that. Thank you, Ron, for a wonderful time. Be well wherever you are.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Then and Now
Then - August 22, 1979 11:00 am Half Moon Bay
Wind blown in 1/2 Moon about 35 miles and 2 climbs from San Francisco. Splurging on breakfast - well earned. I feel lots of memories and good thoughts along the way plus lots of hills. I was just thinking of all the people who have wished me well, safety, and Godspeed along the way ... you can't miss with that many people rooting for you. It's not the end or nearing the end of the trip by any means. Friendships founded, events to come. And now I've got a chronicle and coffee. What could be more serene?
Now - August 22, 2009 7:25 am Vermont Sitting down to write with the hummy churn of the dishwasher to accompany me. The geese are swimming studies in serenity across the road, the cats have had their morning romp and are settling down for their post-prandial snooze, and a grey fog is cloaking everything in a cloudy embrace. Not bad.
Wishing you all a bit of serenity today.
Wind blown in 1/2 Moon about 35 miles and 2 climbs from San Francisco. Splurging on breakfast - well earned. I feel lots of memories and good thoughts along the way plus lots of hills. I was just thinking of all the people who have wished me well, safety, and Godspeed along the way ... you can't miss with that many people rooting for you. It's not the end or nearing the end of the trip by any means. Friendships founded, events to come. And now I've got a chronicle and coffee. What could be more serene?
Now - August 22, 2009 7:25 am Vermont Sitting down to write with the hummy churn of the dishwasher to accompany me. The geese are swimming studies in serenity across the road, the cats have had their morning romp and are settling down for their post-prandial snooze, and a grey fog is cloaking everything in a cloudy embrace. Not bad.
Wishing you all a bit of serenity today.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Hamlet - 30 years ago
30 Years Ago on my cross country bicycle trip I was in Santa Maria, California, visiting a host of friends who were at PCPA (Pacific Conservatory for the Performing Arts) for the summer performing in plays that included "The Front Page", "Fiddler on the Roof", "The Moon is Blue", "As You Like It", and "Hamlet." I had been cycling up the coast from San Diego after helping my friends drive across the desert at Yuma. I felt in shape again, bearded and tan, but I hadn't known that riding south to north up California's coast meant that the wind would be against me most of the day. This had moved me to get up as early as possible for the winds didn't really pick up until around 10 am. And they could be strong.
For the past few days, though, I had taken a break and enjoyed a feast of theatre. Most of it had been very fine. I'd also gotten a slight crush on a dancer in the company, but dancers always had been my weakness. Nothing came of it which was just as well. The theatrical piece de resistance was their production of "Hamlet." The actor playing the title role, Danny Davis, had been one of the main actors in the American Conservatory Theatre where I had been a member of the conservatory from 1976 through 1978. (Most of my friends at PCPA had been my classmates.) Danny had always been kind to me, especially after having seen our First Year production of "The Rainmaker" in which I played the father, HC. The production had tapped into Danny's Texan roots and moved him considerably; he'd seen all our performances. Danny was the last person you'd picture having come from Texas with his deep, resonant baritone voice and nary a trace of dialect. I'd respected his acting at ACT, but had never been moved by it. He'd also been a bit of a prima donna. But as "Hamlet" the night before, he had blown me away. And I loved him for it. Because of its force, I'd decided to spend one more night at PCPA in order to see it again, this time in another venue. At PCPA most productions were shown indoors at the theatre in Santa Maria and outdoors at their other theatre in Solvang. Seeing Danny as "Hamlet" embodied one of my favorite experiences in acting, namely, when I've underestimated someone and been proven wrong. The production, directed by Alan Fletcher, was so exciting and clear and accessible with Danny always at the helm. You could feel the audience on the edge of their seats. And the audience there was quite a cross-section. You had stalwart theatre goers, patrons of the arts, but there were also just regular joes from the community, farmers, local business people, and I could see the power of theatre in their reactions. Here was a production that could be taken on so many different levels. You could focus on the poetry of it, the existentialist struggle going on in "Hamlet", or you could just enjoy it as a murder mystery, a great yarn. Any or all were equally valid and that made the experience so alive. That's what makes theatre great. It still ranks as one of my favorite productions.
There was a melancholy that was starting to seep in to the trip and maybe that's another reason I could relate to the Melancholy Dane. I knew my trip was coming to an end. I could count the days to San Francisco when my great adventure would be history. And then what? There was a sense of moving on simply being around the actors in the company that a little over a year ago I had been taking class with in conservatory. That too had ended. They were different, I was different. We had both moved on. One of my favorite songs at the time was Judy Collins rendition of "Who Knows Where the Time Goes?" and it accompanied my mood perfectly. I felt a little bit alone even when I was in there company. Ah well. Such is life. Adventures and surprises still lay ahead. And the magic of that time and that "Hamlet" still resonate. I wonder what further magic 30 years from now will hold?
For the past few days, though, I had taken a break and enjoyed a feast of theatre. Most of it had been very fine. I'd also gotten a slight crush on a dancer in the company, but dancers always had been my weakness. Nothing came of it which was just as well. The theatrical piece de resistance was their production of "Hamlet." The actor playing the title role, Danny Davis, had been one of the main actors in the American Conservatory Theatre where I had been a member of the conservatory from 1976 through 1978. (Most of my friends at PCPA had been my classmates.) Danny had always been kind to me, especially after having seen our First Year production of "The Rainmaker" in which I played the father, HC. The production had tapped into Danny's Texan roots and moved him considerably; he'd seen all our performances. Danny was the last person you'd picture having come from Texas with his deep, resonant baritone voice and nary a trace of dialect. I'd respected his acting at ACT, but had never been moved by it. He'd also been a bit of a prima donna. But as "Hamlet" the night before, he had blown me away. And I loved him for it. Because of its force, I'd decided to spend one more night at PCPA in order to see it again, this time in another venue. At PCPA most productions were shown indoors at the theatre in Santa Maria and outdoors at their other theatre in Solvang. Seeing Danny as "Hamlet" embodied one of my favorite experiences in acting, namely, when I've underestimated someone and been proven wrong. The production, directed by Alan Fletcher, was so exciting and clear and accessible with Danny always at the helm. You could feel the audience on the edge of their seats. And the audience there was quite a cross-section. You had stalwart theatre goers, patrons of the arts, but there were also just regular joes from the community, farmers, local business people, and I could see the power of theatre in their reactions. Here was a production that could be taken on so many different levels. You could focus on the poetry of it, the existentialist struggle going on in "Hamlet", or you could just enjoy it as a murder mystery, a great yarn. Any or all were equally valid and that made the experience so alive. That's what makes theatre great. It still ranks as one of my favorite productions.
There was a melancholy that was starting to seep in to the trip and maybe that's another reason I could relate to the Melancholy Dane. I knew my trip was coming to an end. I could count the days to San Francisco when my great adventure would be history. And then what? There was a sense of moving on simply being around the actors in the company that a little over a year ago I had been taking class with in conservatory. That too had ended. They were different, I was different. We had both moved on. One of my favorite songs at the time was Judy Collins rendition of "Who Knows Where the Time Goes?" and it accompanied my mood perfectly. I felt a little bit alone even when I was in there company. Ah well. Such is life. Adventures and surprises still lay ahead. And the magic of that time and that "Hamlet" still resonate. I wonder what further magic 30 years from now will hold?
Blight
I joined my Irish ancestors in spirit yesterday as I uprooted all our potato plants riddled with blotches and yellowing with blight. No potato famine for us, though, for I was surprised to find a wealth of well-formed and healthy potatoes buried in the ground like hidden treasure, enough to fill 2 plastic milk crates. This morning though I saw that the blight had indeed traveled to the upper end of our garden and gotten our tomato plants too, so today, into a heavy black construction bag the plants will go and all of the green tomatoes, heavy on the vine, will have to sun ripen on window sills. We’d been hearing about the blight for months in conversations ranging from Epsom, Indiana to Thetford, Vermont. We’d also known that the wet and humid conditions we’ve been having this summer weren’t helping matters any. That said, I thought we were going to escape it, stay out of harm’s way. But there you go; it’s here, we’ll deal with it. And now I understand that we can’t plant nightshade plants in that soil for, well, the stories vary, anywhere from 3 to 5 years to EVER. Now there’s a range for you. It’s nature’s version of a toxic landfill. But taken all in all, not planting tomatoes or potatoes or peppers or eggplant or petunias is not such a blight for us. I don’t really eat many potatoes (a nutritionist once told me to never again let a potato pass my lips for I was getting plenty of starch and carbohydrates from other sources) and Richard eats tomatoes and eggplants sparingly otherwise his arthritis flares up. So there you are. And now we will have 2 huge chunks of garden to plant other vegetables, even spring vegetables again that will be ready to harvest before the autumn frosts begin.
Summer has finally found us. For the past week the weather has reminded me of the dog days of summer in Indiana – hot, sunny, the air thick with humidity. Frequent dips in our pond have been the order of the day. I wish our geese would stay in and swim with us when we dive in, but they quickly hasten to the safety of the bank and observe the weird, splashing creatures from afar. Because of the heat, my daily 4-mile walk down our country lane comes late in the day, sometimes not ‘til around 7. I slather Skin So Soft on to keep whatever bug happens to be around at that time of day away and shoulder my ramshackle pack diagonally across my chest, making me feel like Johnny Appleseed. (Trivia: Johnny Appleseed nee John Chapman also has an Indiana/New England connection – he was born in Leominster, Massachusetts, and is buried in the town I grew up in, Fort Wayne, Indiana.) My shoulder bag is not filled with apple seeds, however. Most often nowadays it has a copy of Ted Kooser poetry in it, as well as whatever paperback I might have a hankering to read along the way. Also, always, there’s something to write on – a legal pad or small steno notebook or several large index cards. The walk is a combination meditation in motion and walking work place. I’m amazed what comes through that might have been blocked or not even thought of working at home, sitting at a desk. And the walk sets me right with myself. It keeps the blights of inertia and over-seriousness at bay.
It feels as if there is an over abundance of blight these days, both real and imagined. I’m so glad we don’t have television, especially with the ongoing health care harangue. Just the tastes of the “debate” I get over the internet are enough. I would think it would be next to impossible to distinguish between what is a blight and what is a boon with all the talking heads and “experts” and newscasters and plain screamers frothing up the waters. Being an actor I know how easy it is to chameleon into someone else’s passion or agenda or life drive. Some times in “real life” I unwittingly do the same thing and am won over by the sheer surety of someone else’s take on anything without taking the time to question whether I really feel and think the same way. It’s seductive. And so often issues are presented as if they should have a simple explanation, black and white, “this is it”, succinct enough to fit into a sound bite, and then NEXT. It encourages one to be a bully; no matter what side of the debate you are on, the other side has to be full of unevolved, pig-headed idiots. “If only they would see (definition: “agree with me”) then the world would be a better place, God damnit!” Being a recovering bully and black and white person of MAJOR PROPORTIONS I speak from experience. Today, much like the geese, when the splashing of controversy occurs, I often opt to head for shore to watch at a safe distance. The geese head for shore out of instinct, to keep their distance from any potential predator. My predators are old ways of acting, a kind of knee jerk “oh yeah?!!” attitude left over from long ago teenage battles with my dad where even if I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about I was going to stay in the battle to WIN AT ALL COSTS. There’s an aspect of that that, sadly, sounds very American. Just win, that’s all that matters. And when the “other’s” viewpoint blotches my skin with rage, it’s very seductive to go on the attack. Again, speaking from experience, living by that kind of blight leads to many airborne infections that take years to heal. With the health care debate and with many issues, I recognize that I need to educate myself. I don’t know the issues thoroughly. I’d love to just take others word for it, many of whom are heroes of mine, but I need to check the facts for myself, no matter how much they may move and inspire me. And I need to take the time it takes to know how I feel and think. This is easier said then done. Sometimes I feel out of it in Vermont and wonder if we’ve decided to move here to keep our distance from any controversy. I don’t think that’s true. It’s just where life has seen fit to plant us for now. And it has afforded me time to reflect on things that I wouldn’t have given myself time to do so otherwise.
It’s nearing noon and heating up. I’m on the front porch with a couple of napping cats, listening to a hen back in Stony Coop push out an egg. Labor pains. The geese are conversing atop our pile of top soil just to the side of the house. The wind’s picking up. And I’m trying to figure out how to bring either the Irish or Johnny Appleseed back into the wrap up of this blight blog. This is going to take a little thought.
Summer has finally found us. For the past week the weather has reminded me of the dog days of summer in Indiana – hot, sunny, the air thick with humidity. Frequent dips in our pond have been the order of the day. I wish our geese would stay in and swim with us when we dive in, but they quickly hasten to the safety of the bank and observe the weird, splashing creatures from afar. Because of the heat, my daily 4-mile walk down our country lane comes late in the day, sometimes not ‘til around 7. I slather Skin So Soft on to keep whatever bug happens to be around at that time of day away and shoulder my ramshackle pack diagonally across my chest, making me feel like Johnny Appleseed. (Trivia: Johnny Appleseed nee John Chapman also has an Indiana/New England connection – he was born in Leominster, Massachusetts, and is buried in the town I grew up in, Fort Wayne, Indiana.) My shoulder bag is not filled with apple seeds, however. Most often nowadays it has a copy of Ted Kooser poetry in it, as well as whatever paperback I might have a hankering to read along the way. Also, always, there’s something to write on – a legal pad or small steno notebook or several large index cards. The walk is a combination meditation in motion and walking work place. I’m amazed what comes through that might have been blocked or not even thought of working at home, sitting at a desk. And the walk sets me right with myself. It keeps the blights of inertia and over-seriousness at bay.
It feels as if there is an over abundance of blight these days, both real and imagined. I’m so glad we don’t have television, especially with the ongoing health care harangue. Just the tastes of the “debate” I get over the internet are enough. I would think it would be next to impossible to distinguish between what is a blight and what is a boon with all the talking heads and “experts” and newscasters and plain screamers frothing up the waters. Being an actor I know how easy it is to chameleon into someone else’s passion or agenda or life drive. Some times in “real life” I unwittingly do the same thing and am won over by the sheer surety of someone else’s take on anything without taking the time to question whether I really feel and think the same way. It’s seductive. And so often issues are presented as if they should have a simple explanation, black and white, “this is it”, succinct enough to fit into a sound bite, and then NEXT. It encourages one to be a bully; no matter what side of the debate you are on, the other side has to be full of unevolved, pig-headed idiots. “If only they would see (definition: “agree with me”) then the world would be a better place, God damnit!” Being a recovering bully and black and white person of MAJOR PROPORTIONS I speak from experience. Today, much like the geese, when the splashing of controversy occurs, I often opt to head for shore to watch at a safe distance. The geese head for shore out of instinct, to keep their distance from any potential predator. My predators are old ways of acting, a kind of knee jerk “oh yeah?!!” attitude left over from long ago teenage battles with my dad where even if I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about I was going to stay in the battle to WIN AT ALL COSTS. There’s an aspect of that that, sadly, sounds very American. Just win, that’s all that matters. And when the “other’s” viewpoint blotches my skin with rage, it’s very seductive to go on the attack. Again, speaking from experience, living by that kind of blight leads to many airborne infections that take years to heal. With the health care debate and with many issues, I recognize that I need to educate myself. I don’t know the issues thoroughly. I’d love to just take others word for it, many of whom are heroes of mine, but I need to check the facts for myself, no matter how much they may move and inspire me. And I need to take the time it takes to know how I feel and think. This is easier said then done. Sometimes I feel out of it in Vermont and wonder if we’ve decided to move here to keep our distance from any controversy. I don’t think that’s true. It’s just where life has seen fit to plant us for now. And it has afforded me time to reflect on things that I wouldn’t have given myself time to do so otherwise.
It’s nearing noon and heating up. I’m on the front porch with a couple of napping cats, listening to a hen back in Stony Coop push out an egg. Labor pains. The geese are conversing atop our pile of top soil just to the side of the house. The wind’s picking up. And I’m trying to figure out how to bring either the Irish or Johnny Appleseed back into the wrap up of this blight blog. This is going to take a little thought.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Let me tell you about my morning
We stir around 5:30. That’s when Sofia comes up for her ritual batting around of things on my desk and general noise making. I get up, take her in my arms – she’s particularly seductive and purry at this time of day – and after a few caresses, I dispatch her PLOP into the attic. Back to bed, her muffled cries falling on deaf, sleepy ears. At 6:20 I’m up again, this time for good, even though I tell Richard I’ll be right back. I’m up to let all the birds out and let Richard sleep a little bit more. (He needs his rest; he’s off to judge Bar-b-que pork at the North Haverhill Whole Hog Festival today. We’re both very proud.) I put on my flannels because it’s been a bit cool mornings, in the high 40’s during the night. There’s a faint protest from the “No, No, not yet” voice inside of me pleading that “We’ve barely had any summer, we can’t have cool weather already!!” But this morning the cool feels comforting and right. I let Sofia out of the attic on my way down the stairs to the kitchen where all our cats congregate and begin a slow swim back and forth in front of the sink and refridgerator, waiting for their food to be dished out. I get it out of the fridge and set it on the counter to warm a bit while I head outside for the freeing.
At the front door, I shimmy into my Wellingtons and slam out the front screen door expecting to hear the goose girls honk out to me, but they’re quiet this morning. It’s a fine day – quiet, clear, fresh. As I pass Stony Coop that Richard’s just painted a fine red to match our barn I hear Mumble Stump and all the hens stirring, ready to be let loose to the world. And I can hear Ginger and Mary Ann nibbling on their wire mesh front door; when I round the corner of the coop they kick into excited chatter. They’re soon out, flapping their wings, stretching, having a good long drink while I open up the back of the the chicken coop, Stony Coop, as well as the back fence door, and the front. They scatter out. All but one and that’s our new broody hen, a Barred Rock like Nanna, but this one’s mean. This one will peck you when you reach your hand to pet her or check the eggs beneath and she pecks hard. She’s a big grump. We’ve decided to call her “Grace” in honor of both of our grandmothers, not that they’d peck at us or that they were particularly grumpy, but the name “Grace” just seems to fit.
Off uphill to the next coop, with chickens and the geese girls parading all around me. The girls veer off to the kiddie pool for a swim and wash. I can hear jays screaming up in the trees. They’ve been like bands of bandits lately, swarming down to feast on chicken feed when no one’s about. The garden looks fine. Our tomato plants have so far avoided the blight that’s been plaguing everyone around here. That’s – knock on wood – good because if it does hit, it takes the plants quickly, ruining all the fruit and turning the stalk and leaves black. You’re then instructed to burn the plants and not plant nightshade plants there for 3 years! Other plants are fine and can be planted in that ground without fear of disease, but not tomatoes or eggplant. Our tomatoes still have a ways to go before they’re ripe. One woman at a dinner we attended last night wryly opined that because of the soggy weather setback, her tomatoes should be ripe “by mid-November.”
I set the second coop free and discover there had been a sleep-over last night, some of the hens that usually roost in Stony Coop came over here, maybe because of Grumpy Grace and her pecking. The sleep over crowd flocks out and the morning predictables begin, namely Mumble Stump humping every hen in sight. He races, darts, flies, grabs, muscles his way to the “woman” of the moment. There’s no cajoling, no sweet talk, not even a little foreplay, no, not in Mumble Stump’s barnyard. There’s no time. There are other hens to hump. Don’t worry girls. Once he gets this all out of his system, peace will be restored. (The name Mumble Stump has been inspired by a combination of “Harry Potter” and a friend’s son’s pithy naming of their own chicken.)
I’m on the front porch now, writing. Peace has been restored. Every once and awhile I can hear a flutter from the back yard and a loud crow - Mumble Stump is an acoustical genius, he knows exactly where to place himself for prime resounding echo effect. And now one of the hens is squawking an egg out in Stony Coop and one of the goose girls is honking in commiseration. Oh, I’m spoiled. I love it. I love the absence of artificial noise - no radio, no television, sometimes music on the i-pod player, but not this morning. Right this moment the sounds surrounding me are an assortment of bird song from the forest, clucks and squawks from the coop, and a little mysterious nibbling from the girls. That’s how they experience most of the world, through nibbling. Morning’s are potent to me, they set the day off on a meditative tone. I find myself more in the moment than I’ve ever been in my life. More present, instead of thinking about what the day holds, what’s next, what am I not doing that I should. And I find myself smiling a lot, inside. There’s a stillness there that I’m enjoying more and more. It’s good. It sparks appreciation. Wow. Dusk and sunset used to be my favorite times of day, the time where I would get back on track, back into myself if I had wandered off, like Peter Pan stepping back into his shadow, a coming home. I still love that time of day, but mornings are edging evenings out. Starting the day out well. Taking time to see and be. Being home. I like that.
It’s just passed 10 and Richard calls from the fairgrounds to say that he’s judging 3 whole hogs at 11:15 and should be free by 12:30 for lunch. So Mike – Richard’s brother who’s visiting us for a week, in from Las Vegas – and I will meet at the ATM truck and venture off for a good pork gnaw. Until then, I’ll enjoy the time remaining here.
This is my life right now. This is my morning. I hope yours is fine.
At the front door, I shimmy into my Wellingtons and slam out the front screen door expecting to hear the goose girls honk out to me, but they’re quiet this morning. It’s a fine day – quiet, clear, fresh. As I pass Stony Coop that Richard’s just painted a fine red to match our barn I hear Mumble Stump and all the hens stirring, ready to be let loose to the world. And I can hear Ginger and Mary Ann nibbling on their wire mesh front door; when I round the corner of the coop they kick into excited chatter. They’re soon out, flapping their wings, stretching, having a good long drink while I open up the back of the the chicken coop, Stony Coop, as well as the back fence door, and the front. They scatter out. All but one and that’s our new broody hen, a Barred Rock like Nanna, but this one’s mean. This one will peck you when you reach your hand to pet her or check the eggs beneath and she pecks hard. She’s a big grump. We’ve decided to call her “Grace” in honor of both of our grandmothers, not that they’d peck at us or that they were particularly grumpy, but the name “Grace” just seems to fit.
Off uphill to the next coop, with chickens and the geese girls parading all around me. The girls veer off to the kiddie pool for a swim and wash. I can hear jays screaming up in the trees. They’ve been like bands of bandits lately, swarming down to feast on chicken feed when no one’s about. The garden looks fine. Our tomato plants have so far avoided the blight that’s been plaguing everyone around here. That’s – knock on wood – good because if it does hit, it takes the plants quickly, ruining all the fruit and turning the stalk and leaves black. You’re then instructed to burn the plants and not plant nightshade plants there for 3 years! Other plants are fine and can be planted in that ground without fear of disease, but not tomatoes or eggplant. Our tomatoes still have a ways to go before they’re ripe. One woman at a dinner we attended last night wryly opined that because of the soggy weather setback, her tomatoes should be ripe “by mid-November.”
I set the second coop free and discover there had been a sleep-over last night, some of the hens that usually roost in Stony Coop came over here, maybe because of Grumpy Grace and her pecking. The sleep over crowd flocks out and the morning predictables begin, namely Mumble Stump humping every hen in sight. He races, darts, flies, grabs, muscles his way to the “woman” of the moment. There’s no cajoling, no sweet talk, not even a little foreplay, no, not in Mumble Stump’s barnyard. There’s no time. There are other hens to hump. Don’t worry girls. Once he gets this all out of his system, peace will be restored. (The name Mumble Stump has been inspired by a combination of “Harry Potter” and a friend’s son’s pithy naming of their own chicken.)
I’m on the front porch now, writing. Peace has been restored. Every once and awhile I can hear a flutter from the back yard and a loud crow - Mumble Stump is an acoustical genius, he knows exactly where to place himself for prime resounding echo effect. And now one of the hens is squawking an egg out in Stony Coop and one of the goose girls is honking in commiseration. Oh, I’m spoiled. I love it. I love the absence of artificial noise - no radio, no television, sometimes music on the i-pod player, but not this morning. Right this moment the sounds surrounding me are an assortment of bird song from the forest, clucks and squawks from the coop, and a little mysterious nibbling from the girls. That’s how they experience most of the world, through nibbling. Morning’s are potent to me, they set the day off on a meditative tone. I find myself more in the moment than I’ve ever been in my life. More present, instead of thinking about what the day holds, what’s next, what am I not doing that I should. And I find myself smiling a lot, inside. There’s a stillness there that I’m enjoying more and more. It’s good. It sparks appreciation. Wow. Dusk and sunset used to be my favorite times of day, the time where I would get back on track, back into myself if I had wandered off, like Peter Pan stepping back into his shadow, a coming home. I still love that time of day, but mornings are edging evenings out. Starting the day out well. Taking time to see and be. Being home. I like that.
It’s just passed 10 and Richard calls from the fairgrounds to say that he’s judging 3 whole hogs at 11:15 and should be free by 12:30 for lunch. So Mike – Richard’s brother who’s visiting us for a week, in from Las Vegas – and I will meet at the ATM truck and venture off for a good pork gnaw. Until then, I’ll enjoy the time remaining here.
This is my life right now. This is my morning. I hope yours is fine.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Glorious!
It's stunning outside today and I intend to get right back out in it. With most of the summer up here being an experience from which one must wring oneself out, sunny days like these are to be appreciated to the utmost. The last few days I've been doing a little yard work and Ginger and Mary Ann have worked right alongside of me. They need a little more training in the chomping department when it comes to discerning gout weed from lilies, but they're assiduous and cheery and good company. I LOVE OUR GEESE!! What is it about them? Their fat person waddle? Their chatter our friend Greg describes as sounding like some English dowager saying "Reginaaaaald?" Their eyes craning up to see you, their head at a tilt? The moaning keen they give out when they know you're leaving? Their wing flapping, happy croak crying when I return home? Oh, I'm such a soft touch.
Not much to report. Wonderful visits with friends. A terrific shoot of my sweetie's short film. A great trip down to Waterford CT and the Eugene Theatre Festival to see the new hatchings from the "title of show" group which was great fun. Most of the time I'm simply enjoying life with a capitol E and L. Right now Richard is across the road swimming in our pond and trying to get Ginger and Mary Ann to join him. They're a bit reticent. They still don't get the idea of this 6 foot "parent" turning into a splashing, flopping suspended head just above the water surface. It must be akin to a goose horror flick. Whatever, they just don't see the pluses in joining in when we're in the drink. Oh it looks so fine out there. I may have to take a dip myself.
30 years ago today on my cross-country bicycle trip I was in San Diego having helped some new found friends from Jerome, Arizona, drive across the desert to California through a lightning ripped night. A few days before I'd been reduced to walking my fuji bike up a long, high hill in the hot Arizona sun and an RV had pulled over to lend a lift up the hill. Soon I was helping this group move a relative in to a new home in Jerome, a former copper mining boom town named after Winston Churchill's American mother and in 1979 a kind of hippie-ish artist colony (now it's an upscale artist's colony laden with all sorts of gift shops). I dined and wined and laughed with them for 2 days and agreed to help them drive over to San Diego. I'd been wondering how I was going to get across the desert on my bike. The only way to do it during the summer is to try and coordinate it with a full moon, so you can pedal through the night by the light of la bella luna. I had not planned or coordinated for that and this ride offer was really a God send. However my perfectionistic side was having bouts of looking this gift horse in the mouth, saying to myself in true purist fashion that I should be riding the whole way. Little did I know that a nice challenging ride up the coast to San Francisco lay ahead with the wind against me the whole way.
My new friends were a colorful lot. The older patriarch of the group had been a musician in the Harry James Band and he regaled us with stories of long ago as we drove all night across the desert with hot, hot 70 mph wind barely cooling us as we sped along. One of his claims was that Hoagy Carmichael had NOT written "Stardust", but had stolen it from one of his buddies. The lightning show outside accompanying this gossip was spectacular with bolts starting high, high in the heavens and zig-zagging down to the desert floor far below, splitting the pitch black sky with flashes that looked like illuminated rivers on ebony maps, seen only for an instant. Glorious. As glorious in its dramatic flash as the wind wafting through the screened in porch is now in its subtle whisper.
The geese are calling me out to play so I must heed my calling.
Hope this finds you all well.
Not much to report. Wonderful visits with friends. A terrific shoot of my sweetie's short film. A great trip down to Waterford CT and the Eugene Theatre Festival to see the new hatchings from the "title of show" group which was great fun. Most of the time I'm simply enjoying life with a capitol E and L. Right now Richard is across the road swimming in our pond and trying to get Ginger and Mary Ann to join him. They're a bit reticent. They still don't get the idea of this 6 foot "parent" turning into a splashing, flopping suspended head just above the water surface. It must be akin to a goose horror flick. Whatever, they just don't see the pluses in joining in when we're in the drink. Oh it looks so fine out there. I may have to take a dip myself.
30 years ago today on my cross-country bicycle trip I was in San Diego having helped some new found friends from Jerome, Arizona, drive across the desert to California through a lightning ripped night. A few days before I'd been reduced to walking my fuji bike up a long, high hill in the hot Arizona sun and an RV had pulled over to lend a lift up the hill. Soon I was helping this group move a relative in to a new home in Jerome, a former copper mining boom town named after Winston Churchill's American mother and in 1979 a kind of hippie-ish artist colony (now it's an upscale artist's colony laden with all sorts of gift shops). I dined and wined and laughed with them for 2 days and agreed to help them drive over to San Diego. I'd been wondering how I was going to get across the desert on my bike. The only way to do it during the summer is to try and coordinate it with a full moon, so you can pedal through the night by the light of la bella luna. I had not planned or coordinated for that and this ride offer was really a God send. However my perfectionistic side was having bouts of looking this gift horse in the mouth, saying to myself in true purist fashion that I should be riding the whole way. Little did I know that a nice challenging ride up the coast to San Francisco lay ahead with the wind against me the whole way.
My new friends were a colorful lot. The older patriarch of the group had been a musician in the Harry James Band and he regaled us with stories of long ago as we drove all night across the desert with hot, hot 70 mph wind barely cooling us as we sped along. One of his claims was that Hoagy Carmichael had NOT written "Stardust", but had stolen it from one of his buddies. The lightning show outside accompanying this gossip was spectacular with bolts starting high, high in the heavens and zig-zagging down to the desert floor far below, splitting the pitch black sky with flashes that looked like illuminated rivers on ebony maps, seen only for an instant. Glorious. As glorious in its dramatic flash as the wind wafting through the screened in porch is now in its subtle whisper.
The geese are calling me out to play so I must heed my calling.
Hope this finds you all well.
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