What's good for the gander ....

gan·der n
1. an adult male goose
2. an offensive term used about or to somebody who is thought to be unserious and frivolous
3. a look or glance at somebody or something (informal)

Interesting definitions. Surprising to me that the word “gander” in addition to the commonly known “male goose” can be an offensive term. “Unserious.” “Frivolous.” Hmmm? I know I’ve locked onto these terms in the past when I’ve considered Richard’s love of poultry from a detached and judgmental position. Well, most of that has gone to the birds, especially of late. The latest development? During my trip back north from a week stay in New York, Richard informed me that he’d found a gander for sale for $45 just across the Rhode Island line in Massachusetts which just happened to be – miracle of miracles! – to be on my route home since I had just been visiting a friend south of Providence. Richard asked me if I would be so kind to stop by, buy him, box him up, and bring him home. Now I may have given an informal look or glance at this idea, but quickly tabled it for the greater cause of health care reform at our household and said a resounding YES to the Public Option of more poultry at our home. After all, Richard does have a legitimate business interest in this. He wants to get as many Pilgrim goose eggs laid as possible and ship them off to interested buyers around the country. And since we have 2 geese of laying age AND since each one of them could produce 30-40 eggs each in the goose laying period from late February through April AND since many major hatcheries have discontinued Pilgrim geese this year, this could be a profitable enterprise. And we could get a few more goslings ourselves. Not a bad proposition; they’re adorable.

So I drove my Subaru Outback Massachusetts way and visited the Berman’s who very kindly gave me a tour of their compound, a glorious and warm menagerie of goats and chickens and geese and dogs and cats. Lovely, lovely. It took me a little while to choose from the male geese, Schmul being the pappy of the other 3 and the larger, obviously. He was dominant and squawky, but I was able to pick him up a couple times and coo in his ear, ducking swipes he made at my nose. And oh what a fine and proud fellow he was. And a protective and fine father I was assured. After about 45 minutes of back and forth, my decision was made, and a box was made up for Schmul with hay and holes a plenty. The packing process went with ease and the box was put into the back for the 3 plus hour drive. Along the way, I would coo to him, give assurances and love. He did well. He even gave a nice hearty and brassy honk at the gas station I stopped at along the way, a fine trumpet to the air.

We arrived home before nightfall, and Richard came out of our house, all smiles, eager as a kid on Christmas morning. We carried the box up to the pen to introduce Schmul to the girls. It was cold, about 14 degrees or less. Chilly. But they warmed pretty quickly to one another, the girls a little stand-offish and proper at first and then Ginger started flirting with a little nibble on Schmul’s tail feathers. Since then Ginger has gone to following him everywhere, granted “everywhere” is a fairly small area, but still it’s pretty sweet. Love is in the air.

I’m sorry this installment is brief, but there are pictures. I’m also writing this from afar, Richard and I are in Tempe through the 27th and our dear neighbor Royce is taking care of our flock in our absence. As always when I’m away, Vermont is in my heart. I'm so glad and grateful that we live there, so grateful for all our friends, and grateful for all the ganders in our life, especially the frivolous and unserious ones that turn into hidden riches, their own version of the goose that lay the golden egg.

Happy Holidays!!

We’re also in the midst of a renaming quandary. I love Schuml, but Richard wants to carry on the “Gilligan’s Island” theme. We may have to go with Professor Schmul. Not bad.

Coaxing Recalcitrant Geese To And From Their Coop

Last night I was shepherding the geese back up to their coop and something happened that has never happened before. Snow covering the ground is a new experience for them, and they had been out in it all day, sticking mostly to the backyard, our covered porch, and around about the chicken coop where they got their exercise harassing the various breeds of poultry that would come out for a brief stretch. Now as the light in the sky dimmed – 4:30 pm, still amazing to me - they pretty much knew it was time to head up hill to their lodgings. They have given me a little trouble in the past, acting like kids that don’t want to go in yet, complaining for a little more time to stay outside and play. This was different. Maybe it was the white of the landscape that had erased all trace of familiarity. Maybe it was the slog of trudging through snow where once there had been firm, shallow earth and grass. Maybe it was an instinctive maternal energy, I don’t know, but after a mild resistance to going uphill, they both stopped and sat down on the snowy ground as if they were on a nest. I urged them on once, cooing encouragement, and they walked a few more steps, only to stop and nestle down again. And it wasn’t a stubborn defiant act; it was restful, calm, “this is where I belong and it is good.” They looked so sweet and content. But the fact remained that they had to get to their coop and they weren’t budging. And so, expecting them to scatter, I reached over to cradle them both in my arms and carry them AND THEY LET ME!! If you have been reading this blog you’ll know how rare verging on impossible this is. Though they’re devoted to and firmly imprinted on both Richard and me and follow us in a quick waddle or arm flapping flurry wherever we go outside, when we do turn directly to them for a bit of affection, a hug or a nuzzle, they scurry dash away, as if we’re trying to look up their skirts or something. Not this time. I bent down and reached around them both and lifted them off the ground. There was a brief flapping of webbed feet straining for earthy purchase in the air, but it was gone almost immediately. They relaxed. I congratulated them on their behavior and enjoyed the cuddle of goose down all the way to their open door. A quick dispatch through the door, a rustle, a quick trip to the galvanized feed pail to fill up their food tray, a water bucket check to be sure that it hadn’t iced over during the day, and then a slow shut of the door, wishing them both a good night. Once the door was shut, I stood there waiting to hear them cluck talk to one another in muffled tones and then the watery sploosh of them submerging their heads in the water bucket before taking a silent drink. It’s the sound of all’s well with the world to me.

Right now, both Richard and I are nestled inside, hunkered down for the 4 to 9 inch snow that’s forecast for today, the eastern version of the storm that’s been working its way across the country. The Vermont edition of said storm looks quite fetching so far. The chickens are staying in today. I went up around 8 to let the geese out, late for us, and Ginger came to the door, immediately assessed the situation and the countryside and with an “Are you kidding?” attitude, retreated back into the house. Mary Ann, who’s become the more adventurous of the 2, came to the door next and almost jumped down, her head down in intense concentration gauging the jump, her right foot doing test waves in the air. But it was not to be. Ginger’s constant chattering in the background may have worn her down for she too stepped away from the door. Plan 2 needed to go into effect. What is Plan 2 you ask? I have no idea. Actually, it would be Plan 3 for Plan 2 would be to just keep them in their house all day, a Plan we discovered Royce had opted for a couple of the days we had been gone recently.

Plan 3! Open their back pen. First step, continue covering the fenced in area adjacent to the coop so there’s a little protection and they can come out and slowly get used to the new climate with a sense of extended shelter. I went down to the now snow covered pile of old barn wood we’d taken off before putting the new pine siding up and placed it over the back entrance and then stooped hobbit-like and walked in the fenced in area underneath the sheltering boards and opened the back door which then turns into a comfortable ramp for them to use. I had to scrape a path through the wood shavings at the door, shavings that cushion the bottom of their coop, a bottom frequently in need of refluffing with a rake. You can figure out why it’s in need of constant refluffing. I was no sooner out of the pen then they both ventured out, curious, seemingly quite comfortable, exploring and poking through the fallen brown leaves and cornstalks on the ground, grateful for an outdoor stretch. I tossed in a bunch of lettuce and cabbage leaves Richard got yesterday from a feed store, compost in place of the grass they usually forage for all day. They liked that. They didn’t much care for the dried timothy grass I tossed in as well. It’s supposed to be good for them, but we may have to soak it before they find it palatable. All in all, though, Plan 3 seems to be working. The only thing we’re wary about are predators. A weasel could easily get in the back pen. We’re banking that it may be a little too early in the season for predators and that geese are much larger than chickens, possibly better able to defend themselves, but what do we know, this is our first winter wintering our poultry; we’ll learn through experience. We’re monitoring the coop from our back kitchen window to make sure they’re fine. So far, so good.

Off to other writing now, just wanted to keep checking in. It’s pretty gorgeous here. I would say about 3 to 4 inches on the ground so far. Not much snow falling at the moment, just a lot of blowing about. It’s good. It’s all good.

Have a great day.

First Snow

This is a picture of Richard and me from last year, oh say around February, when the snow had been hanging around for 3 months in fairly prodigious amounts. Not the record breaking of the year before that, but still impressive. I love this picture, the way the reds in my jacket and Richard's hat and the coop in the background break up the white, white, white of the world around us. I love the joy that comes out of the picture, the joy of being outdoors, alive, with Richard. And there is an exhilaration about being out in the snow here, I don't know what it is, it's gooney sometimes, but it brings a smile to my face. There's a white washed feeling to it, a cleansing, a wipe the slate clean, starting over, let's see what's up next lift to it all.

First snow. There had been a dusting of snow in October that had worried us into "oh no, is it starting already?!!" thoughts, but they had passed and the snow melted away into a sunny and glorious November. I'm not going to count that October fake out as a "real" first snow. Today feels like an official beginning to winter, though it doesn't "officially" begin for a couple of weeks yet. Richard and I had spent a soggy rain to sludge to snow weekend in New York City seeing friends and shows and wondering what was going on weather-wise back up north. Driving back today, with Richard reading out loud to me most of the way from Kenneth Turan's terrific new book about Joe Papp "Free for All," we watched as the accumulation steadily increased from patchy to full cover, until by the time we reached our exit it felt as if we were returning to a completely different country from the one we'd left only 3 short days before. Winter togs had been donned. White is in and it's going to be staying for a while. Maybe for months. And for today, that's just fine. It's new, it's fresh. No gnashing of teeth, no rending of clothes. Well, maybe some periodic gnashing, but no rending. I need those clothes. It's cold now.

We got home just before dark. Royce, our next door neighbor who watches over our birds and cats when we're gone, had put the birds up, so I had missed seeing our goose girl's reaction to the whitening of their world. They hadn't been thrilled by the October dusting, in fact, they'd tried to fly over it. I went up to their house where they were craning into their little side window to look out. They always look like little kids when they do that, looking out of the window for Santa Claus. They tapped on the panes of glass with their beaks as I got closer. They're adorable. (As I'm writing this, Richard has been talking to me about breeding them in the late winter/early spring. We've recently found out that Pilgrim geese are on the endangered list AND lay only once a year, but during that period each female lays up to 40 EGGS A PIECE!! Richard wants to sell the eggs. I think it could work. A Pilgrim goose egg-shipping enterprise, right here, right now.)

Up by the goose house, looking out at our place in the fading light, felt so good. It made me feel as if I were inside one of those perfect Christmas snow globes that someone had just gently shaken. It felt so good to be home, so good to be here, alive, near Richard. He was in the chicken coop at the time, gathering eggs, and scraping up (!!!) Well, you get the picture. At least he kept that kind of activity inside the coop so as not to sully the white perfection of my snow globe, glad to be home, picture.

We're in the kitchen now closing in on bedtime. The fire in the wood stove has embered out, the Christmas music from the living room stereo has faded away, and my eyelids are headed for sleepy time village. It's nice and cozy and the flannel sheets will feel just fine on the eve of this first snow. I welcome it in. Another season shift. So here's to flannel and fleece and scarves and gloves and all nature of wraps and sweaters. Here's to Christmas carols and hot cider and hot mulled wine and warm fires and candlelight and star light and Orion in the sky and the moon in all its faces and silhouettes of tall pines against the indigo skies and birds at the feeder and foot prints in the snow, here's to quiet and bird call and hibernating in all its forms, here's to sleep and dreams and slowing down and taking stock and warm nights reading books and planting seeds of new thoughts and new projects and the hatching of new ideas. Here's to our first snow, blanketing the good earth, covering the mulched, newly planted trees, covering the garden and the pond and the hill, flocking the pines and spruce and firs, giving a little taste of wonder, a dusting of magic, an uplift to our world.