Nearing the solstice

When I was a kid I always felt a little bit hoodwinked once the dazzle of the holidays had passed and I realized to my horror that the bulk of winter stretched ahead of me, bleak and cold and forbidding, uninterrupted until Spring break. Yech! And midwest winters could be depressing, especially to a kid. Rare it was to have a really swell blizzard. Instead you got crusty, dirty, left-over snow corroding the streets, most often souped up into a goopy mess right where you want to step. Oh woe! Oh endless agony! What a tremendous let down after the build up of ever more enticing holidays and delights from September through December - the heady rush of going back to school, leaves changing, football, Halloween, that first nip in the air, sweater weather, Thanksgiving, food, food, food, my birthday (December 2nd), Christmas! It was all grand! And in my mind's eye, Christmas was the height of winter, life was one big shake up winter scene globe with snow flurries and caroling. It felt like such a gyp when I realized that the winter solstice officially marking the end of autumn and the beginning of winter occured 3 days before Christmas. We weren't any where near the middle or height of winter, we'd just taken a few baby steps in. Sigh.

Maybe that kid realization was the first time I let in the bittersweetness of the season that I cherish so much now. I love both the joy and the sadness of the season, the beginning and ending all at once, a full embrace of both. I'm drawn to Christmas Carols like "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" and "Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming" that have such a sweet, stark, rich sadness to them. I don't know where all this is leading, but that's how I feel.

It's cold here in Vermont, about 10 right now, dropped to 12 below earlier in the week, our very own brand of mercury in retrograde. We're about to embark on some holiday traveling, putting our animals in the care of a friend. I miss being away from them all, they enlarge my life. I guess if I were hard pressed it would be the cats I miss the most. Of course we're around them the most. They sleep with us, they frolic and tease and play and warm our laps. They're my constant teachers. Lessons in taking care of something else, in being present, in how to sleep and nap like an artist, in talking in another (animal) language, in intuition. But the birds are a close second. I never thought I would appreciate them so much, but I do.

The snowfalls have been gentle and just magnificent. Not a lot of depth yet, you can still see the meadow grass sticking through like a toe-headed giant's unkempt hair. The fir trees, though, look as if a professional flocker has come in from New York to design the forest scenes. I admire the trees during my daily walk. I try as best I can take in 4 or 5 miles a day, fine with 2 if time is crunched. I take a book along and a legal pad - I love to read and write when I walk - but I let at least half of the walk be about simply letting it all in. And the forest and the skies and the way always look just a little bit different every day.

Our house is pretty cozy and Christmasy. No tree, but electric sconces in every window, a wreath on our front door and another much larger one on the side of our new gambrel roof, both wreathes constructed by us from boughs of various firs and pines and holly on our property. Most often there's Christmas music going on inside from CD's we've collected over the years and which are forbidden to be played until the day after Thanksgiving. One old cassette of the Robert Shaw Chorale I've carried around with me since the 1970's I now have to play on a dilapidated Radio Shack tape recorder. (This is the only recording I have of "O Come, O Come Emanuel.") All these old favorites remind me of the record collections Goodrich and Goodyear would come out with every year in the 60's and which we'd play on the stereo console in our living room. So weird thinking that the '60's are olden times now. I just watched "Charlie Brown Christmas" last night and remember watching it when it premiered in 1965 at a Methodist Youth Church group meeting. Oh, how times have changed. Now wait a minute, I guess we do have a tree. I put lights on one of our fir trees in back. The lights are times to pop on around 4 pm every day and stay illuminated until midnight. I love coming home down our infrequently traveled road and seeing the tree's light from way down the road like a welcoming beacon, a multi-colored lighthouse on land. When I decorated it the task took much longer than I had estimated and I toiled well into the night. Since the tree is directly down from their house and pen, the geese had quite a lot of comments along the way, some brays and calls, but mostly murmurs amongst themselves. I choose to take their murmurings as appreciative clucks.

No great earth shattering discoveries or events to recount. Just a winter's catch-up. We are actually in mercury retrograde through the 30th if you didn't know, and being a skeptical believer in just about everything, I'll pass on a few tidbits. This is not the best of times to sign contracts or begin new ventures, more a time to go back over old business, finish projects begun, put things in order, clean up files. Very aprospos for this time of year, I think. It's not the greatest time to travel, so expect delays, give yourself time, don't rush. It's a fantastic time to be in touch with friends, reconnect, reach out. Expect communication breakdowns, back up computers. Be grateful. Be appreciative. Be patient. (Those last three weren't exactly associated with mercury in retrograde; I just tossed them in for good measure.) Have a great full moon - the light at night here is eeriely beautiful - and know that the lunar eclipse may just zap you a bit tomorrow. Have a wonderful solstice all you Christians, pagans, Islamists, Hindis, Buddhists, agnostics, atheists, what-have-yous. Be kind, be gentle, have a splendid winter.

Joy to the World!!

A correction to slightly earlier post

Richard reminded me that it's SnowBALL not SnowFLAKE.

What happened this morning. (Wednesday, November 24th)

It was a restless night. I woke at 12:34, 4:10, and then off and on checking the clock each time until we both decided to rise at 6. The wind was whipping around outside, you could hear the metal roofing rattle with the gusts. We opened the curtains from bed and I was surprised to see a bit of light in the sky. "Let's get him while it's still dark," Richard said, reading my mind. We were talking about Mishkin, the young gander, who we were planning to nab quickly, along with his aunt, Ginger, and put into a crate we'd fashioned in the garage the night before. We were hoping to do this before Mishkin could get his bearings and fly over the fence away from us and before his father Shmuel could put up a protective barrage of bites and wing swing punches. Richard and I kept sharing "I love yous" to bolster one another for the task at hand. We had gathered chickens to be processed before, but this time it seemed different, more momentous, a tougher, harder decision, probably because of the geese. We quickly did our inside chores - I made coffee and fed the cats while Richard stoked a nice warm fire - then we bundled up and stepped outside. The geese were striding back and forth in their pen, wings flapping, eager for their customary early morning release to the pond.
'I love you.'
"I love you."
It was chilly, a dusting of snow on the ground, a few flakes in the air. 'Just do it, just do it,' I mantra-ed to myself while sprinkling thanks to the birds for gracing us with their presence. We unlatched the chicken wire surrounding the new goose coop and stepped into their pen. Did they know something was up? They avoided us, scattered. "Corral him into the coop," Richard called out and it seemed to happen of its own accord. But quick as white lightning, he ducked out under the partially fastened fence and flapped away to the backside of the fenced area. The flock struck up a high chorus of protest and he called back as he rounded the coop with Richard in pursuit. Mishkin tried to get back to the rest, pressing himself against the fence, wings flapping, which enabled Richard to pick him up. After a bit of a struggle, Mishkin instantly relaxed, resigned, scared. We pet him and whispered and cooed him to the waiting crate, thanking him. He hunkered down into the crate and sat still.
'Let's get Ginger now,' I suggested and this time I seemed to have read Richard's thoughts as he had mine in the bedroom. Oh Ginger. One of our first pair, hatched by Richard in his man made cooler incubator. Before Shmuel's appearance on the scene, she and her sister, Mary Ann, used to follow us everywhere - uphill, over to the pond, curious about anything we were doing, unless we turned and tried to pick them up, and then they were all avoidance, shivering in place if we did corner them, but relaxing again when we'd place them on our laps to pet them. She was a fearless guard of the brood, crabbing at cars if they got too close to the others. The Annie Oakley of the flock. (Okay, I've got to stop, I'm tearing myself up.) Ginger wasn't that difficult to catch. I grabbed her up in my arms from her crouching shiver against the fence. It felt so good to hold her, I realized it had been a long time. I soothed her, carrying her down the hill to the crate and Mishkin, rubbing her neck and her chest down, cooing my appreciation. When we got to the garage, I perched her on my lap and let her nibble on my fleece shirt and wedding ring before putting her in with her nephew. There was a loud crowing from the chicken coop across the driveway and I looked up to see Richard step out the door with Whitey, his Wheaton rooster, by the legs. He had disturbed him from his perch in between his 2 girlfriends. We knew one rooster had to go. We were keeping Red Barber, our prize rooster who looks as if he stepped off a Kellogg's Corn Flakes box, but it was a coin flip between Whitey and the docile Grey and Orange other Wheaton. Whitey, though, was humping every hen in sight roughly and more often than not was causing a big ruckus, so off he went. I deposited Ginger in the crate with Mishkin as Richard put Whitey in a waiting pet carrier.

Time for coffee. A short break while we talked turkey.
"I'm thinking of keeping Snowflake," Richard said to me about his favorite. I've spoken of the way she would cuddle down into our arms when we'd pick her up, instantly relaxed. But in a moment Richard had reversed himself and was back to his original plan to take Snowflake and Sassie, the limping survivor of an earlier raccoon attack, while keeping Rasputin, a well-formed, proud turkey, ideal for breeding later. Warmed by the caffiene in a cup, Richard went out to gather the turkeys from the coop and within seconds was back outside with Sassie squawking in his arms.
"You'll never believe this," Richard said, a bit stunned. "Snowflake's gone." And it was true, she was nowhere to be found. We thought she had been in the pen last night when we had closed up, but it had been a dark foggy night, we were rushing to fix dinner for friends, we were probably distracted by the impending processing and we hadn't checked closely enough. I quickly checked over in Royce's fields, near his house. No sign of her anywhere. She'd flown the coop. Or is hiding, waiting to return. Or a hunter got her.
'Well, your choice has been made,' I chimed in. Richard agreed and we opted to take Rasputin instead, knowing we had 5 healthy turkey chicks growing bigger everyday to take their place. Done, in, crated.

From this point on, I have to admit, my behavior wasn't of stellar quality. It may have been the combination of what was being done, of schedules to be met, of my controlling manner kicking in to deal with what I was feeling, of Mishkin and Ginger's eyes looking out at me from the crates, but -- there are no buts. It was what it was. "You're driving me crazy!" Richard snapped at me. And I probably was. He took off in a bit of a huff. A quick apology message left on his voice mail to be gotten at some time in the future.

Just before he left, though, he asked me to let the geese up in the coop loose so "I can see some of the geese running free." I unlatched the gate and stepped back for Shmuel, Mary Ann, Daphne, and Felicity to run out. They usually call and caw and flap their wings in excitement. But this time they just walked out, silent.
'Look at them,' I called to Richard.
"They know something's different. They're wondering where the others are."
There were no calls, no wing flapping, nothing. I was dreading hearing them call and Ginger and Mishkin calling to them from inside the crate in the car. But it didn't happen. We had speculated whether it makes any difference, whether they'll miss them. I don't know. I don't know.

I'm sitting in the front of the Village Store writing this. I brought in Richard's car to get snow tires put on and prepare for our upcoming Thanksgiving trip while he's taken our Outback north to the processing site. He must be there by now. No idea how big a crowd of locals will show up, no idea how long it will take. He told me he was hoping it would be quick, that he could go off and busy himself, distract himself, be out of hearing of goose calls.
"They're supposed to be very good," he assured himself and me. And indeed, the processors have been highly recommended by dear friends of ours who have used their services in the past. But still, but still. I was just thinking that Richard has been the one who's unintentionally experienced so much death when it's come to our animals. Beginning with our first cat Chocolate who he took to the vets for a check-up, to see why he had been so lethargic only to be told that he was riddled with Kittie AIDS and needed to be put down. He phoned me from the vets sobbing. And then there was the time he had to put an injured Canada gosling down; another time returning home to find 7 of his chickens slaughtered by a neighbor's dog; and now, this bundle of birds. Me? I've tended to luck into the births of things. There was a time there when Richard would make all the preparations leading up to the hatching of chicks and then be out of town for the hatching itself. It got to be very frustrating. Life and death.

Thursday morning, 5-ish Thanksgiving

I'm sitting beside Richard on the couch of a friend's in Providence. We got up an hour or so ago, unable to sleep. Yesterday when he got home, Richard filled me in on what had happened. A flood of images of the small trailer behind the house surrounded by pools of water and blood, of muscovey ducks sipping from the bloody water. Of the kind woman, Cindy, stepping out from the trailer in her rubber aprons, welcoming Richard, assuring him. Of her husband, assured and business-like in his work, sharing with a customer that the first time he saw a chicken killed he fainted. Of the woman ahead of Richard telling that her husband couldn't do this, that he'd put them in their crates last night and pet them all saying "It'll be alright" and she retorted "No, it won't." Of Richard - my dear, sweet, courageous husband - being scared and emotional and then it all lifting when he had the realization that we all will die and this happens to be their day to die. Of taking Ginger in his arms and covering her eyes so she wouldn't see (that's so dear). Of that gesture calming her. Of handing her off to Cindy and turning his back quickly, knowing though that it was done quickly, painlessly. Of having to wait with Mishkin, covering his eyes too. Of coming back later and Cindy holding Mishkin's head, admiring it, and Richard taking it in, not in horror, in acceptance. Of noticing parts of birds around, a bucket of heads, and Mishkin's white, beautiful head standing out from the other darker ones.
"I hate that I'm so emotional about this," Richard said, recounting all this. "I wish I wasn't so emotional."
And I held him and told him his emotion is what I love about him and that the emotion did not keep him from doing this deed, he took action, he went, he came back to tell me about it.
And then he needed to take a walk, to be outside, to feed the fish in our pond, to search once more for Snowflake, to see our geese swimming in our pond, to see life, living things. And we mused about this whole day not being a big thing to most people around these parts.
"This is like me cleaning fish growing up, no big deal."
And I who have not cleaned fish or cleaned wild game like my cousins and my Aunt Sis, who hasn't yet taken a trip to the processor's, walked along thinking 'I don't care, this was a big day, this was a BIG day. And we've grown through it."
So there.
So there.
So I give thanks to all our birds today, alive and dead. To Ginger and Mishkin, Whitey and Snowflake and Sassie and Rasputin. To Red and Pearl and Lacitia and Dottie and Shmuel and Mary Ann and Daphne and Felicity. To Jasmine and Goldie and Grace. Thanks for the eggs, for the meat, for feeding us in so many ways. For nourishing us with the sheer sight of you, swimming on our pond, flapping your wings, crowing, calling, keening, clucking. You lift our world, elevate it just a little bit off the ground and we are grateful for that.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Some Thanksgiving thoughts

A fog/mist bound day. Despite my misgivings about being gone all day and not being able to look over my flock of geese, I've let them out. This is because their days on the pond seem numbered and, more specifically, this will be both Mishkin and Ginger's last day on the pond, last day of life. I am so wracked by this. At least we have commisserating compatriots. Last night just around 4 our good friends Shirley and Richard (Shirley grew up in our house) stopped by and hearing of the impending deaths, they spoke of how hard it was and is to kill (there's the word, "kill") animals, especially when you've put such care and love into raising them. And I do take some solace also from listening to Barbara Kingsolver's wonderful book "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" when she speaks of her own experiences with the same dilemma of being maternal in one sense, and, I suppose, practical in the other. And I want to buy into the thought that there is a growing of compassion being part of the whole journey of one's food from birth to plate. A gratitude, an enlarging of experience. But still, but still, but still. I feel a little treacherous, a little conniving. More will be revealed.


Richard's going to be the traveler of death tomorrow. The death wagon. Maybe he can wear a black robe with a scythe. 2 turkeys, 1 rooster, and 2 geese. He's traveling north about an hour to a processor who annually offers a service of butchering 1 to 6 birds for their neighbors rather than the big flocks they're usually hired to do. They seem like good people and have quite a menagerie surrounding them. "Lots of animals to gawk at while you wait," was the answer on our voice mail, her reply to our inquiry. I wish I could go with him, but I have my own duties to attend to before we take off on our trek south to Providence, RI, the city that was my first introduction to New England years ago. It provided well. There is good news with the geese, well, 1 of the geese. Cindy, the processor's wife, wants to do a trade for 1 of the geese. It seems someone wants a goose to breed up there. That would be wonderful. We'll keep our fingers crossed.

Buy locally, support your local farmers. Not just now, but all year long. And have a great Thanksgiving.

Processing

It's early here, I've been awake since 3, up since, oh, 4:30 or so. Time is off for me or maybe this is the way it should be, who knows. Richard and I have gone to bed around 9 for 2 night's running due to a combination of long hours working outside building an extended roof to the goose house - we're quite proud of this accomplishment and we used a lot of old wood hanging around the place rather than having to buy new, only the essentials - and the time change which makes 5 o'clock in the evening feel more like 8. So strange feeling the dark coming in around 3. Especially these past few days when the weather has been warm and clear, sunny, hovering close to 60. I was wearing shorts to work in. And the sunsets have been gloriously stunning and colorful. It's wonderful to be outside after a good, productive day and be treated to such splendor. Fantastic. And the sun goes down and the chickens and geese and turkeys are all housed up by around 4:30. Gladly we went out for dinner last night which extended our wake time for a bit, but it's very much early to bed, early to rise here.

I'm sitting in the office on a chaise lounge. Astrid has nestled into my legs. Yesterday was her birthday. We dubbed it yesterday yesterday. We'd always heard that she must've been born mid-November, but didn't have the exact date. But yesterday morning we were listening to a podcast of Garrison Keillor's Writers Almanac (a daily occurence) and heard that it was Astrid Lindgren's birthday, the Swedish author of "Pippi Longstocking" and so November 14th it is. (I hear Richard stirring, he's up.) Astrid's my bed buddy at night, she always starts off laying down on my chest, maybe even licking my nose maternally before we both settle in. During the night she shifts to my side and on cold nights insists through persistent pawing to be let in under the covers. I oblige. And the others? Delilah beaches herself downstairs on the sofa back. Oliver and Sofia are a restless pair. Oliver's back and forth between my side in bed to prowling the house all night. If I happen to get up to go to the bathroom, he's right there with a loud urging to turn on the faucet so he can drink from a flowing water source. Sofia will sometimes settle in between Richard and me on cold nights, but often too is moving from room to room. Around about oh 4, especially in autumn and wintery months, Sofia gives off these mournful keens, so pent up with longing. The cries don't seem aimed at getting us up, they sound more like a yearning. Maybe it's to the flies or mice to come out "to play" but I think it's more of an ineffable, unquenchable longing being sounded.

The sounds of all our animals get to me. I used to be so focused on the mess they were making, their crap all over the place. The crap is still there, prodigious amounts from the geese, but my focus has shifted. I appreciate them, I like them around, they enliven and animate our world. And they move me. Letting the geese go every morning, hearing how excited they get when they see me come out of the house and make my way up the hill to their coop and then their flurry of flaps, almost proud, as if to say "We are who we are, aren't we wonderful?! Look at us!" And they flap their ritual path to the pond. And my heart sings. I love taking care of them, filling their water and feed. Arguing a bit with Richard about the construction of their coop to give a good balance, yes, to the openess of the structure, but to also give enough protection from the coming winter elements. It is a challenge to realize what are my wants and what the geese would actually appreciate. Oh, and speaking of "pond" a few sentences back, it has started to ice over in the mornings, then melt away in the warmer afternoons. Soon it will be frozen solid into March. This is all very perplexing to the geese. They don't know what to make of it all. It's fun to watch them converse amongst themselves about the state of things.

Richard gave a call to "the processor" yesterday. We've been putting it off, giving each other grimacing looks when the subject comes up of doing in our 3 adult turkeys and 2 of our geese. Yes, we made the classic mistake of naming all of them, that doesn't help. Especially Rasputin whose namesake was especially difficult to do in. And the turkeys are so sweet! They're very much independent birds, on their own, scrabbling around for food in the grass all day, but if you come up to them and want to hold them, they let you, they relax into it. Especially Snowball. (Again, the name!!) She cradles into your arms, let's you carry her around, and then nods off in your arms. And then there's Sassy, the survivor of a raccoon attack, limping gamely about, yesterday flying to the crest of the new goose house we were building and sliding back and forth trying to keep her balance.

Okay, since I wrote the above paragraph, several things have occured. About 4 to 5 hours have gone by. My writing was interrupted by a cry from the geese in the dark in back and I swore I something behind the house. We went to go outside and found that our woodpile on the back entrance porch had been upset and toppled over and the door to the chicken house had been messed with. A raccoon? A bear? No other signs of damage, no foot prints. Something must've gotten on top of the woodpile and tipped it over. I cleaned it up, did some more errands and catch up things. Richard's at work. And the processor's wife returned our call announcing that on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving they offer a service to all those around the area that only have a few birds or so. Gulp. I don't know how I feel about this. I don't know if Richard will be able to either. "We've given them a good life," he intones, trying to gird our loins to the task at hand, but I just don't know.

I'm going to have to bring this to a close, but more later.

Can't make me

A wet cold day. Damp. Surprising stepping out into it. It didn't look wet from the inside. And the geese are loving it, whether out on the pond or on the edge of the road feasting on the still green grass, Shmuel standing resolute, on guard. I love them.

I have this thing that when I'm not really moved by some deep abiding quest I get locked into making innocuous, everyday things weighty. For instance, earlier this morning Richard and I were in this ongoing discussions about the goose house and its construction and whether they'll be protected from the rain and the snow and various predators and blah and blah and blah. And I was extremely passionate and stubborn, defending myself and my point of view staunchly, very Ants and the Grasshopper cautionary tale, 'we have to do it now or it'll be too late.' And Richard responded, "I'm glad you're taking an interest in all this, but really, aren't you making this all a bit too important." And he's right. Yes, I am. I have found myself in that Bermuda Triangle of stirring up distraction. I am procrastinating on a project that needs to be done, I've committed to do it, and I really don't have any interest in - no scratch that, I do have interest - I just have no wherewithal to do it. I don't want to. For the moment. And I know when I start it I will most probably have a surge of fun and commitment and renewed spirit, I've experienced this many times, and it will probably dispel this head banging disconnected feeling I'm in, but for right now, I don't want to. At least I've disconnected from the goose house importance, that's a step in the right direction. And if you observed me, you'd never guess that I was not attending to something that ought to be done. I've always been the most industrious procrastinator going. I take on jobs and chores and undertakings like no one's business. I keep myself busy, even in the backwoods of Vermont. You'd never know that all this enterprising impressiveness was to delay sitting down and doing work that would probably bring me joy. Ah well. This too shall pass.

Time Change

I have a host of scabs on my head this morning. On the top, the sides, several hidden in my hair. I had a veritable bash fest yesterday. My head has been prone to scrapes and scars from the first time I started losing my hair. On certain days, the top of my head seems absolutely magnetic. If there's a sharp object nearby, a low hanging branch or metal sign or car door frame, a sloping ceiling, a nail protruding from a board above, most anything that's reasonably bump-able within an, oh, 50 foot vicinity of me, it had better run for cover. On these certain days when I do hit something, I choose to see it as a sign that I'm not paying attention, that I need to be more aware, that some God somewhere is trying to WAKE ME UP! Well yesterday the God's had a field day. I bashed and slammed my head all day long. There are skin deposits all over our property. It was as if I had been walking around with a gunney sack over my head. Granted, the day was filled with a lot of labor and construction, sometimes in very tight, squashed quarters, but still. If this was a message from the Gods, they must've been rolling around on the marble floors of Mt. Olympus screaming "He never learns!! He never learns!!" Well, the manufacturers of hydrogen peroxide and neosporin should be happy. And today maybe Max Factor as well. Oh, I'll wear a cap. Or say I got caught in a meteor shower. If there's a bright side to this, I didn't get really mad about it as it was happening -- as can be my wont. I just couldn't believe it. It was stupifying in its frequency. I felt like such a dolt. Maybe the coming time change threw me; I wasn't in any one place, just hovering between the two. Scarred, marked, branded. This too shall pass. Ugh. Oh well.

I do feel betwixt and between, between seasons, between times. Getting ready for winter. Maybe I'm resisting change, maybe that's it, that's why the head hits happened. I've been traveling a lot. Maybe I haven't really caught up on sleep. Maybe I'm not really here. I've been listening to Pima Chodren's book on the CD in my Outback during the long treks back and forth to New York. The title of the book escapes me at the moment, it has something to do with going to all the "scarey" places of one's life, the basic premise being that the great challenge and invitation of life is to be with it as it is, wherever you are, and that everything and everyone is a teacher especially the uncomfortable, disturbing, embarrassing times. And I say YES! this stuff always sounds good in theory, and then when I step into the world and try to apply it, the opposite state rears up. Like bashing one's head into things. What did strike a deep chord in me, however, was the notion that we'll always wonder who we are, some part of us will always be a mystery, to expect and accept that. This was a solace. And it makes perfect sense because everything and everyone is always changing. No one ever arrives. Nothing is ever for sure. That's a notion I needed to hear. One of those things that when it comes in I want to go "Yes!" and quickly afterwards say "But haven't I learned that yet? Didn't I got that years ago?" Obviously not. And "get" what? It's changing. Years ago it was one thing, now it's the 2010, 55 year old version. And what's to "get" anyway? You get it, let it go, get it, let it go. Over and over and over. Everything's always changing. I guess.

It's very November this morning. Bleak and brown and grey. We're in the midst of refurbishing and reconfiguring out buildings, very much a process. I get impatient with it all, I want it all to be figured out quickly, but it takes time. And the solutions Richard and I come up with in the end are most often worth the wait and the frustration of all the wrangling back and forth of how to best achieve what "we" want. We're trying to get all this construction done before the first real onslaught of winter. Topping our list of redos is the goose house. Until recently it had been the turkey house up in a corner of our orchard. I think it's too big and ungainly and open to the elements. Richard agrees to some of these points. We had an idea of piling straw bales up as a partial wall, but at the end of the day when we put the geese in, it was clear that they didn't like it. "They like to see out," Richard reminded me, "This book I'm reading by this goose expert says that they don't like being closed in, it scares them, makes them uncomfortable." So back to the drawing board. This discussion came as the last light was fading from the sky yesterday and soon after I bashed my head for the final and hardest time. I was disheartened, frustrated, sure that all the work we'd put into it had been for naught. I did not feel good. But as I breathed my harumph away, I could hear Wendell Berry speaking to me about listening to what the land wants, listening to what your animals say they need. Listen to them and they will tell you. And it was clear what they wanted. And from that "reminding" we were able to shift into a new idea of what would make them feel happy and safe and also be pleasing to look at from our kitchen window all winter long and afford the least hassle when we trek up to restock their water and feed in deep snow. So good.

I don't know where all this is going, but that's it for today. Things are good. It's good to write about it. I hope your day is going well. And I hope you use your extra hour well.

don't bash your head.

Goose Report

November 2nd
Up early for the second night running, around 3 or so, and maybe it’s not such a bad thing. Up with the cats, wondering about Mishkin, our young gander, who I discovered had been attacked by something, much like his father Shmuel a month or so back. The good news is that he seems more active and rowdy than Shmuel had been – it took some doing getting him corralled so I could catch him, he put up quite a fuss even though I had noticed him lagging behind the others yesterday morning and on closer inspection I saw the spray of orange-ish blood on his back. Shmuel has also returned to true protective mode, so there was the double obstacle of Mishkin’s athletic evasion and Shmuel’s loud alarms and lowered neck and bites.

November 3
Good morning.
Up early for the second night running, yesterday, 3 am; today, 4 so I guess it’s whittling itself down. I had been traveling for about a week and a half all across the country, so maybe my body’s still acclimating to being back home. I can hear Sofia in the mud room/entrance hall, shoveling sand in the litter box as if she were an excavator. She isn’t satisfied until half the box is on the tile floor.


Friday November 5th
Up early again, it’s 5 or so, Astrid’s on my lap, and the house is quiet save for the quiet hum of the refrigerator, a few drips from the rain outside too. I’m on a bit of a goose watch. I got home from a one day trip to NYC yesterday about 5 and the geese were out on the pond and being dusk it was a little late to lure them back to shore. They know it’s me, a few of the girls call back across the water when I speak to them, but the growing dark makes them distrustful, I guess, for they won’t come, despite the scratch I rattle in the big plastic jar. It’s done the trick many times before, but not last night. Instead, they stay on a sedge mound we call Goose Island for it’s where the Canada Geese nest every year.

Oh, just heard a bark.

I still don’t know what attacked Shmuel and Mishkin. It may very well be two different predators. “If it’s a fox,” Richard opines, “it won’t be back for a week. They move around constantly.” If it’s a coyote, though, that’s another story. They get the taste and stick around. The good news is that they haven’t killed one of them yet. Chances are if they had, they’d be back for more. And maybe with friends. I’ve seen scat up by the goose pen and by the side of the pond, but I haven’t been able to make a clear identification yet. No scat expert I. And the predator could also be a dog, we haven’t ruled that out either. So I’m on a goose watch, waiting for first light to see if they’ve weathered the night. They usually come back to shore in the morning and meander back by the chicken coop where it feels safe. We’ve had a bit of a rearrangement of coops lately – we moved what their coop over by the chicken area and, with the help of neighbors, toted the turkey shelter which had been situated up in the far end of our orchard down to where the goose pen had been. Now it’s in the process of becoming their winter home.

It’s nearly 7. It should be getting light soon. I take it that they’re safe out there. If they stayed on the island, they should be. I think the attacks happened when they were on the shore preening or sleeping. Maybe it’s a rite of passage, surviving attacks. As I said, Shmuel seems back to his old self. Mishkin, though, who was never tough to begin with, shies back from the others now and is nursing a hurt wing as well as bite marks on its neck. And I forgot that Royce offered another theory regarding the injury. An owl. Those could be talon marks on Mishkin. You’ve got to watch every which way. I spent a night or 2 turkey baster-feeding Mishkin as I had Shmuel as well as spiking his drinking water with tetracycline. But he was in much better post-attack shape than Shmuel had been. Mishkin would call for the others when he heard them, in a full high voice. He was spry. He couldn’t quite stay at the others pace when they’d fly ahead. He’d try, but stop almost immediately because of the hurt wing and then give a sort of “wait up!” cry as he waddled to keep up with them. Oh, it broke my heart.

Now I have to say this whole “healing Mishkin” scenario reminds me of EB White’s essay “Death of a Pig” in which he unsuccessfully tries to nurse a sow of his back to health knowing full well that they’re planning on slaughtering it in the fall for meat. We’ve begun “processing talks” about Mishkin and one of his sisters. And the turkeys too, of course. And being around them, caring for them, holding them, staring into their eyes, these living creatures, does give me pause. Richard’s all gung ho about it. In fact, he wants to do the killing himself. He’s asking Royce to help him and he wants to do a trial run with Whitey, our bossy rooster, soon. Whitey won’t be missed, by me or the countless hens he humps continuously and forcefully every day BUT when it comes to Snowball, Sassie, Rasputin (the turkeys), Mishkin and Daphne, it’s a whole other story. The argument for becoming vegetarian or vegan creeps ever closer. Or maybe I’m just a big pussy.

Well things have changed considerably here since I first started writing. Richard’s up, working at his laptop at the kitchen table, the cats are fed and content, a fire’s crackling in the wood stove, we’re half way through our first cup of jo, and the geese have flown/ran over from the pond. They’re standing around outside in the rain, so vulnerable looking (that’s me editorializing), waiting for someone to come feed them. “Let them be,” Richard counsels. And so I have. And as I look up I can see Shmuel slowly leading the others single file up to their new home where fresh water and a bin full of grow pellets awaits. “They look like they‘re Amish,” Richard says. “Especially the girls.” I’d say pilgrims, because of the girl’s grey. But whatever. All’s well.

Away from home thoughts.

I’m on a job in Baltimore, Maryland, as I write this. Grateful for the work, grateful I can be part of a friend’s dream, grateful to meet new people, to travel. The place that I’m staying, however, gives me a creeping claustrophobia. It’s not unclean, the service is fine, all the people who work here are kind and attentive. It’s the surroundings. I’m in a Marriot Hotel nestled on the outskirts of Baltimore, a community called Hunt Valley. Just down the hill from where I’m staying is the Hunt Valley Mall and between the hotel and the mall are peppered buildings, constructions of cement and glass identical to many other communities across the nation. In fact, if I woke up with amnesia this morning and walked out side, I’d be hard pressed to tell anyone where I was. It could be Indianapolis, Indiana or Burbank, California. The architecture is all THE SAME. The malls stores are all THE SAME as they would be in Arizona or Utah – Best Buy, Panera Bread, California Pizza Kitchen, Regal Cinemas. Maybe for some people, maybe most people, I don’t know, comfort is gotten from such homogenized surroundings, but I find it hard to breathe around it. I feel a creeping claustrophobia by the SAMENESS of EVERYTHING!! ‘Am I crazy?!’ I wonder. No one else seems bothered by this robotic life style creeping into every arena of their lives. And I don’t want to get all Cassandra/Chicken Little about all of this, but it seems to have some kind of relationship to all the deadening that surround us more and more and more – processed foods, chemical fertilizers, Monsanto, genetically modified whatevers, industrialized agriculture, fossil fuel dependency, consume, consume, consume. Okay, I am getting all Cassandra about this and I really just wanted to note it and put it down. It does make me miss Vermont where, for the most part, there’s a chance at holding on and preserving some of the old ways, making them new and renewable again. Being closer in touch with the natural, the sustainable. Some times I do feel I live in a mad world where the solutions to certain problems or challenges seem so obvious and easy and nevertheless are ignored. The challenge is how to first, breathe, breathe, become aware of whatever it is I’m upset about, then to accept the situation, hold back anger and reactivity, and, taking in everything, decide upon a plan of action. How can I best help the world I live in? How do I wake up more to the challenges that surround me? How can I best use my talents to bring about change? And not confrontational, in your face, I know better and you’re an unevolved idiot change, but a kind, gentle, calm, and many times indirect change that may take years to bring about. To intend patience and commitment and clarity to a cause. It’s easy to rail. It’s easy to get riled up and blame and bluster. I can certainly fall prey to that. It’s also easy to hide away and not be part of the world. How to be part of the world and not at the mercy of its whims and seductive mood swings. Hmmm? How to be fully alive to it all?

A bit of a Catch Up

“The leaves are all off the trees,” Richard announced from our bed this morning as he peered out the upstairs window into the splattery day. “The rain’s brought the rest of them down.” You can barely hear the rain in our bedroom with its many layers of solid insulation, but here in our newly (almost) completed part office/part den/part “to be determined” there’s a constant, hushy ebb and flow on the roof, the insulation not quite as thick here in order to expose old barn beams. The winter rye grass I sewed in the garden yesterday must be enjoying this thirst quenching soak, as are the geese, out on the pond. I’m a little blue today what with the rain and the news of the barrenness of the trees and the thought of winter coming soon, long, long sterile winter, it seems like a prison sentence today. This too shall pass, I know, but there you have it. I’ve sat composing several entries to the blog over the past couple weeks, but never took that final step to get them in, so I’m going to bunch them together here as a kind of “catch up.”

A Touch of Displacement. (October 4th, 2010)

Just back from a trip overseas, to Italy, and back now, a full day of travel yesterday, back to see that peak color has passed, plunked down in our home, welcomed with purrs and nudges by our cats, glad to be back and yet feeling a stranger here. Some part of me feels as if it’s still over the Atlantic Ocean, trying to catch up. I’ve had this feeling countless times in my life after any number of journeys, but inside it always feels like the first time. A displacement. Where am I? Who am I? There are chores to do, some having to do with the recent trip - putting things packed in bags back in drawers, the cleaning up after animals after having been away - and then there are the chores of the season – screens coming down, storm doors up, patching up, mulching, there are bulbs to plant, calls to be made, deposits, activity. I was scurrying about the house, fueled by coffee, getting things done, yes, but not connected or grounded, just a buzzing around like the fly behind me in the kitchen, banging against the window, flying, buzzing, making noise, moving. So I sat, the last thing I wanted to do, and began writing, the thing I yearned to do but my mind kept telling me there wasn’t enough time. Odd, that. Especially in Vermont, in the country, in the woods. Not enough time. So to ground myself I sought out a little Henry David Thoreau. There’s a daily site I go to where you can read journal entries of his from various years. In today’s entry from October 4th, 1851 Thoreau had honored a neighbor farmer he admired and this phrase flew out to me:

“he is paid by the constant satisfaction which his labor yields him.”

He went on to describe a man never focused on what pecuniary value his crops would yield. No eye focused rigidly on the future, or on present worry or anxiety. A man, it seemed, fully present in his life, patient, grateful, happy, at ease, making labor effortless and graceful, abundant in the life he had chosen to live. Aware, awake. Thank you Henry David for that sweet praise of a good man. “A constant satisfaction.” Being satisfied for some reason has such an onus around it. Satisfied. Something has equated it with standing still, not moving, not achieving. “Divine dissatisfaction,” that praise of the artist’s constant restlessness coined by either Agnes DeMille encouraging Martha Graham or vice versa is a phrase that has stuck with me for years. I know that DISsatisfaction intimately. Its good side compels me on; its dark side oozes with perfectionism and impatience, not enoughness, and finally with “why even try?” And it shuns and scorns satisfaction, and I guess, by extension, contentment. I may be oversimplifying. Why can’t both states live together without the exclusion of one or the other? Does there have to be an either/or? I love the picture of that farmer taking sheer delight in his life. A state of satisfaction devoutly to be wished. I hereby place it at the top of my list of chores.– “Enjoy the day.” And welcome myself back to this place.


Letting the Geese Out (October 10, 2010)

There was a frost last night, you can see its hoary five o’clock shadow icing the grass and the brown maple leaves on the ground. They see me coming, the geese, Shmuel especially, standing in the window looking out, all excitement and hopping up and down where he used to start biting the glass, trying to get “at me.” All this has changed since the coyote attack. He’s still “the boss” of the group, but he’s a kinder, gentler gander. I guess that’s good. I do miss his brashness, his braying, but bottom line, I’m just glad he’s around and healthy.

I’m clad part pajamas – colorful flannel bottoms with a thick orange gap shirt above – and part proper outer gear – a taupe fleece jacket and black “Stormy Kromer” cap and, of course, boots, WARM boots, for its still in the 30’s this morning (though it will rise to the 60’s later.) I have my poetry book and a white legal pad and pen just in case I decide to hike up the rise for an early morning look see of the final bits of color after I let the geese out. And there’s my cup of coffee too.

Oh, the hose is frozen. Of course. It’s stretched out from the house up the hill. I’d wanted to give them fresh water, but that will have to wait now until the sun melts the ice inside. I’ll have to store it soon and oh, pictures of those long mornings coming up the hill, toting the water from inside. It’s really not that bad, it’s just that the idea of winter coming is not a welcome thought this year. I dash it from my mind and get present in the day for it’s gorgeous out. Oliver, our orange and white tabby, hops up on the slabs of granite half way to the goose house. These used to be foundational stones for the chicken barns that used to be here ages ago. Now they form a sort of Stonehengey arrangement. He’s awfully affectionate this morning, it’s sweet, good to have his company, but I bet he’s wondering now why he had begged to be let outside because fur or not, it’s cold out here. I pet him, lay my coffee cup and pad and pen down, and continue on uphill.

Shmuel’s excitement is catching, the general chatty hum has increased, anticipating freedom. I come up around the far side of the garden, the garden I hoed yesterday, getting the soil ready for planting rye grass several days from now to help the nitrogen level of the soil. Since the coyote attack, I’ve designed to sections of goose lounging areas. The first is their smaller pen where they are now, clamoring for release, and the second larger area – when they’re not let loose to the pond – includes the garden and above. They’ve been wonderful at eating down the last remnants of plants and fertilizing the ground and soon, once the grass has been sewn, I’ll have to reconfigure the area since they won’t be allowed down in the garden proper. Keeps things hoppin’. I unclasp a jerry rigged section of fence and sweep it back behind an apple tree to give them a wide exit out into the meadow and down to the pond. Then I cross to their smaller pen. They shy back momentarily while I reach in to unclasp the latch and then bow back to encourage them out. Honks, flapping wings, Freedom!! I run ahead a bit to show them that the piece of fence is indeed down. Shmuel’s cry is not as high as it used to be, but it’s still authoritative. He leads the wing-flapping bunch down the hill, proud, erect, keeping them in line. He’s assimilated his injuries into a new style. For instance, his neck doesn’t stretch out quite the same way it used to, there’s a bump or 2 in it, and when he flaps his wings and “flies” he’s not as graceful as before, a tad cattywampus. But still, he works it. If the other’s go off on their own flight path, he honks them back, no questions asked. All of this sends a huge smile across my face. It’s the morning to me, seeing them fly free, make their way to the pond. And then on the pond, they’re like kids, racing about, doing somersaults, adventuring anew to various spots. I love them.

Oh, and we – we meaning Richard and me and our dear visiting friend Jean – planted daffodil and crocus bulbs all over yesterday – the shore of the pond, by the stone wall, all over. Surprises that will pop up out of the snow come Spring. Hooray.

Shmuel could use your good thoughts

I wrote this mid-week last week, I think it was Tuesday or Wednesday. It gets hazy in my mind:


“It sounded different this time, their cry. I’m used to hearing the geese giving off clarion calls throughout the day and if Richard’s home he’ll rush to see if anything’s amiss. I usually know nothing’s wrong. But this time it was different. I was upstairs in bed for a quick power nap, I’d just gotten off the phone with Richard 5 minutes before. I heard a squawk rustle on the grass below and though it sounded as if it should be the chickens I knew it was the geese. And I knew something was wrong. I bolted up in my bed and looked down out of the window. There were all 5 except Shmuel, standing there, looking back toward the road. They didn’t look especially troubled. Then Shumuel flew in and when he got to them, he stumbled, lost his balance. ‘Something’s wrong! He’s been in a fight with something! He’s hurt!’ I flew out of bed, grabbing some clothes, anything near, and catapulted down the stairs. As I tore through the living room I could make out an animal just across the road peering up over the rise which leads up from the pond. It was stocky, not a fox, too big. It reminded me of a prarie dog who’d been working out. What was it? A coyote? A dog? And if it were a dog, is this the new one the people down the road got to replace the huskie who killed 7 of our chickens the day before it was shot this past April? I quickly fantasized striding down the road to pick a fight with the guy. Richard had kept quiet about it, but I wasn’t above bringing up past history because his new dog just bit our gander! God, fantasies of revenge come quick. I dashed across the kitchen, and screamed out some frustration of powerlessness as I barreled through the screen door onto our front lawn. The animal, whatever it was, took off, then just as quickly circled back. It must be a coyote, I thought. But it doesn’t have a tail. It looked so different from California ones. Who cares! I wasn’t letting go of the neighbor’s dog idea, not yet, but first I needed to take care of Shmuel. I needed to get some more clothes on too.

Clothes on and I was out the back in search of the geese. I saw Shmuel trying to get a drink of water from the grey litter box turned into a drinking receptacle. He leaned forward, wobbled, caught his balance. Couldn’t do it. He looked like a drunk. Poor baby. I grabbed the white water bucket and raced over, my intention to either fill the grey box higher with water or to give him the bucket, something much closer to his head so he wouldn’t have to bend down so far. That’s when I saw the blood. It was splattered across the snow of his white feathery back. I choked back a gasp of tears. Poor baby, poor baby. And this was the animal I had intended on getting rid of. Pissed he was such a pisser, pooping all over the place. Oh Shmuel. Was he still bleeding? It didn’t look like it. There’s some blood on his neck, it must be a neck wound.

I quickly decided to gather them and corral them up by their coop. Shmuel was very obedient, dazed, the others were recalcitrant, chatty. I was pulsing with panic and anger. I couldn’t take seeing him wounded like this. He had defended them against a coyote. And I flashed at how he’d never really been tested. He’d bitten humans, thrown punches with his wings and maybe a punch had loosed the coyote’s/dog’s jaws from around his neck, but that “sticking your neck out” (just got the source of that saying) to intimidate someone else is all theatre. There’s nothing behind it but show. It makes you so vulnerable. Ah sweet Shmuel.

I got the group to the coop gate door and of course one of the young girls over shot the entrance and was separated from the group (On purpose? Who knows. Oh, I doubt it. What, Dan, do you think she was starving for attention?!) She began screaming and I’m going ‘Oh, great, now Shmuel will get all worked up wanting to be the father defender and he can’t now and everyone else will flip out too. Argh!’ I circled her back and by then, of course, everyone else was out again. I circled them around once more, poor ole Shmuel stumbling along with them, and we get back to the coop gate and the same thing happened again! Fuck. And now the turkeys came over for a look see. This was not going well. I kicked the turkeys out of the way (no, not literally) and erected a barrier that would force direct ALL the geese into their pen when I circled them back a third time and this time -- success. Everyone safe and sound.

I calmed myself. They were looking at me. I was looking at them. I needed to see where Shmuel was injured. I was able to separate him from the others and I embraced and soothed him (I hope) He nibbled on me softly and I knew that if he had his full strength back those nibbles would be leaving bruises, but for now they felt like soft kisses. Despite the circumstance, I loved being able to pet his soft white neck. I’d wished many times to be able to do this; I hadn’t wanted it to happen like this though. I combed through his feathers and thought I saw bite marks, but wasn’t sure. Shmuel was struggling a bit and I let him go. What to do? What to do? I decided to go in and get some Aloe Vera healing gel we’d had for years for a cat injury long ago back in LA. I got inside and went to where I knew it should be and couldn’t find it. Anywhere. And I searched lots of places. Especially the places where I knew it MUST be. Because I’d PLACED it there. I flew into a rage and yelled out to the empty rooms as I strode through them: “Why can’t people (namely Richard) put things back where they’re supposed to go?!!” I could picture it in my mind’s eye, but no matter how many times I went back to the places I KNEW it should be it never showed up. I was beyond livid. And at the same time, a side of me could see the assinie ridiculousness of my behavior and that side of me knew it was going to turn around and bite me in the ass. And sure enough, I became the culprit, hoisted on my own petard. There the Aloe Vera gel was on the bottom shelf of my bedside table where I must’ve MISplaced it. I thanked God/Universe/whatever that Richard hadn’t been present for my embarrassing “blowing off steam” tirade and swore to him/it/whatever that I would learn some great lesson of humility from this.

I returned to Shmuel a chastened man with the Aloe Vera gel and a rag to wash away the blood from his back. The rag worked somewhat. I slowly unfolded his wings to check to see if they’d been injured at all. No sign of damage. Then I carefully parted his neck feathers. High up the neck, there they were, 2 hefty puncture holes. A little bit of meat stuck out of one of them. Cradling Shmuel, I slowly removed the cap from the Aloe Vera, dipped my finger inside, and lightly applied the gel to the wounds. ‘You get better big guy’ I whispered. I longed to hear him bray out or bite me, but all I got now were slight wheezes and wobbles. He had t be in shock. He must be whipped. And I left him again. I would return a couple more times to observe him.“

The next day I contacted a vet who urged me to wash the wound with hydrogen peroxide and gave me a prescription for tetracycline to be dissolved in the water he drinks. “The most important thing is to get him to eat,” the vet said and so over the past few days I’ve very imperfectly turkey baster fed Shmuel with baby food while also syringe forcing the tetracycline mixture down his throat. He has drunk it from his bucket too, but it’s so hard keeping him separated to do that and not letting the others drink it as well. I’ve gone back and forth keeping him from the rest of the flock – the act breaks my heart - and bringing them together, continually judging whether I’m doing the right thing, wondering whether or not I’ve been giving the right amounts of medicine, giving him enough rest, on and on. It’s hard to know. He has shown signs of improvement everyday and I’m reminded by Richard that he is a wild animal and we’ve seen animals make miraculous recoveries here on their own. “He may never be the same,” Richard opined last night before bed after seeing Shmuel that day, “and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Gone may be the days of his constant territorial-ness with his neck out stretched in defiance, blue eyes piercing through me, bill ready to bite and bruise, warning the others that we’re no good, that they should run for cover. Who knows. Time will tell. I feel as if he’s a war veteran back from the front, never to be the same, not quite.

The last few mornings I have let them all out on the pond for a couple hours. I’ve spoken of the silly way of “flying” they have, very serious, barely getting off the ground, sort of like kids playing airplane, flapping their wings while running. Shmuel’s flying is a bit off right now, his neck isn’t completely healed and I think it sends his balance off, as if he’s not going where he intends to be going, slightly out of control. Further strengthening may alleviate that maladay. Again, time will tell. I watched very parentally as they swam around and thought Shmuel needed to put just a little bit more effort into his swimming, his body moving more then the others, not the easy, confident, effortless glide it used to have. ‘He’s trying to stay the lead of the pack,’ I thought. Who knows. That said, though, he was the picture of happy playfulness later on. Maybe that’s what was going on, maybe not, but I just sat on the bank at a bit of a remove and smiled and smiled. It made my heart light. Shmuel was near the shore with the 2 older geese, Mary Ann and Ginger, and began doing roll overs in the water with them; they each took turns. Shmuel would dive, butt and feet whirling up in the air, then he’d right himself in a flippy sort of way and flap his wings powerfully. A bit off balance, granted, but it looked grand. Maybe he’ll turn into a big sweetheart. I just hope this whole thing hasn’t broken his spirit. I hope I haven’t had any part in breaking his spirit by turkey baster feeding him, holding him down, separating him from his brood. “You probably have a bit,” Richard said when I spoke of this this morning. I was seeking support – an “oh, don’t be silly honey” not necessarily bald honesty. “But you did the right thing,” Richard added. I hope. Ah well.

I’m going to go check in on him. Think good thoughts for a swell gander.

Let me tell you about our wedding day.

It happened just before 5 pm on September 12th 2010 in the Newbury Town Meeting House, built in 1839. In attendance were the presiding Justice of the Peace, Wayne Richardson, and a gathering of 9 of our “most local” friends. Richard and I had contemplated extending the invitations out not only to a wider circle of Vermont friends but to those friends in other parts of New England and New York, if only as a gesture. However it got to be a complicated endeavor and we were very clear that simplicity was to be the hallmark of this event. So we chose to surround ourselves with those within about a 10 mile radius, friends who’d been instrumental in welcoming us here, in helping us restructure our home, working alongside us, being so generous in their giving. 2 of our guests had grown up in our house. Well, here’s the list of the people who were there: Susan Underwood, our town clerk; Shirley and Richard Burroughs (Shirley nee Thompson is one of those who grew up in our house); Gail and Dale Bromley (Dale was representing our house when we bought it and he and Gail, both realtors, have been so kind and fortifying through all times); Chris Mazzarella (an expert finish carpenter who’s designed and built cabinetry and framing throughout our home. He and his girlfriend, Emily, have been good friends for 3 years now. Sadly, Emily couldn’t make the wedding due to a job conflict. Not her fault, we sprung this ceremony on people very last minute.); our neighbors, Royce Thompson and Andy – ugh, I’ve forgotten Andy’s last name! (Royce also grew up in our home and is, as you’ve heard in these blogs, a factotum of not only everything about our house, but the surrounding area’s flora and fauna. A very kind and helpful friend.) And finally, there was a surprise non-local friend at the cermoney as well. Patty Anton happened to be traveling back east from LA for business in the Hartford/Boston area and phoned up to find out what we were up to and found that she’d be able to attend not only our wedding ceremony, but Richard’s 50th birthday party the day before. It was a good group.

The day was cool and grey. I got to the hall a bit early to turn on the little gas stove in the corner. Susan Underwood and Wayne Richardson and I had come to the hall earlier in the week to clear away the old voting canvas booths still up from the August primary to a back room. The room is long and wide with a fine wood enhanced echoe throughout. A raked section of benches, arranged very church-like, sits silent and upright on either side of you as you enter the hall. You can sense the people who’ve sat there over time, all of them watching on now. In front of the benches is a large open space (when cleared of voting paraphernalia) which could easily host a Virginia Reel. There’s a side docket up front to the right, looking somewhat like a small choir section. Two tall doors lead to the back rooms where junk and antiques have been crammed and stacked. On the side walls stretch tall rectangular windows, half lidded by roll down green window shades. The windows offer glimpses into the graveyards that surround the hall, the western most one hosting graves that date back to the early 19th century with the veteran’s gravesites sporting tiny American flags whipping in the wind. The graves suit the hall well. There’s no sense of unease or sadness about the place, more of heritage and time, history, life going on. Very Spoon River or Our Town. It’s all a part of the whole.

Richard and I had the ceremony filmed. Matt Bucy, an excellent filmmaker/editor/ jack-of-all-creative-trades friend, came up from White River Junction with his camera in tow. There was a dual purpose to the filming which was: to get an archive of the event for ourselves and also to include it in a documentary being made about Vermont in which Richard and my story of coming to Vermont as a gay couple will be a part. All our guests were very game with going along with the filming and Matt remained as unobtrusive as possible. As we milled about beforehand, nudging our guests not to forget to sign the release forms for the film, we learned a few new things. One was that Richard and Shirley had held the reception to their wedding in this space. “Hasn’t changed that much,” Richard commented. We also found out that the hall is unofficially overseen by Doris, a rather dour woman whose house can be seen out the western windows beyond the graveyard. Her “overseer” capacity is fully self-appointed. She was not asked or voted in. Still she makes her opinion known if any changes are inflicted upon the space not to her liking, such as a new lighting system, replastering the ceiling, moving the old cast iron/porcelain stove from the center of the room, general upkeep and sprucing. “No change!” is her battle cry. She’s lost most of those skirmishes, but she still keeps a close siege over the proceedings here. She wasn’t around on Sunday, but I’m sure she knew what was going on.

We began. Wayne stood in the center of the room with Richard and I on either side of him, the three of us facing a wide half circle of our smiling friends. People were so happy to be there, to have been asked. They kept saying how privileged they felt. It was so dear of them. Wayne had told us that the ceremony would last 4 minutes minus the comments both Richard and I would say to one another, which sounded very New England, very no nonsense, right to the point. No frills and furbelows. It suited us, it seemed to suit the hall.

Wayne had a written a little piece himself. Here’s a bit of what he said:

“Dan and Richard as the two of you come into this marriage, and as you this day affirm your faith and love for one another, I would ask that you always remember to cherish each other as special and unique individuals, that you respect the thoughts, ideas, and suggestions of one another. Be able to forgive, do not hold grudges, and live each day that you may share it together – as from this day forward you shall be each other’s home, comfort, and refuge, your marriage strengthened by your love and respect for each other.”

Not too shabby.

And since I was public that day about my comments to Richard, I would like to include them here. Earlier that day we had gone to separate parts of the house to find our muse, Richard downstairs in the kitchen, I upstairs in our new office space. I combed through quotation and poetry books to find some apt passage and the beginning sentence is an anonymous quote that helped kick off the rest of the piece for me. Here it is:

‘”If there is anything better than to be loved, it is loving.” And the great pleasure and privilege of my life is loving you, and being loved by you, Richard Waterhouse. There’s nothing that compares with hearing you say “hon” over the telephone, looking into your gorgeous blue eyes, seeing or hearing or making you laugh, making up, feeling your embrace in the morning, anytime, marveling that there are some things about you that may always be a mystery to me, the way you think, the way you experience something so uniquely in your fashion, so differently from me, and then those moments too when we share something and we seem to be thinking and feeling exactly the same. I love witnessing the great pleasure you get from living here, from our home, from your chickens and turkeys. I love witnessing you, it fills me with such warmth. You’ve won my heart so many times, Richard, and you continue to do so. You turn me on. Everyday, you teach me how to love more deeply. You help me be a better man. Thank you for the rich years we’ve spent together and God or Universe or Great Creator willing, we’ll have many, many more. I love you.’

(Richard’s comments were wonderful, but I’ll let him decide whether or not he wants to share them with a wider audience.)

True to Wayne’s prediction, after our comments, the ceremony whipped right through – the vows, the rings, the proclamation that we were married - the entire event clocked in at 10 minutes. After embraces and congratulations, we invited everyone over to our place for Perrier Jouet (provided by us) and assorted hors d’oeuvres (pot lucked in by our guests, again very New England) and there was much warmth and laughter and hearty conversation. One hilariously humbling story from years ago in LA was told by our friend Patty about her first bringing cats into our lives, an event I staunchly opposed. “The wall of No would come down,” Patty recounted and I buried my head in my hands, laughing, yes, and remembering how I had refused even entertaining the possibility of cats in our lives. “No change!” I feel for ya Doris. I was you. And what a doting felineophile I am now. Four beautiful felines who engage in all the activities that horrified me imagining back then – ripping up furniture, getting sick, pooping, bringing mice and moles and chipmunks, some dead, some not, into our home – they all happen and for now, pretty much all the time, I take it pretty much in stride.

I’m also a Vermonter now, with good Vermont friends.

And I’m a married man. Wow.

Okay, being married has to go onto the list of the reasons I’m here. I didn’t even know it would be important to me. And it is. It found me without me even looking for it. Sort of like Vermont did.

Have a splendid day!

It'll be easy

“It’ll be easy,” Richard said when I told him that he’d set a task for the 2 of us today, meaning his suggestion for us to write something pithy and heartfelt about the other and recite it during our wedding ceremony today at 5. Yes, let it be easy, usually a good maxim for me and my penchant for rigid perfectionism, but hearing Richard saying it this morning gave me the urge to reply “Oh, yeah? Sez you!”

Yes, we’re getting married, we’re making it official, taking advantage of Vermont’s right to same-sex marriage. A lot of people feel that the right to get married was the compelling pull that drew us here in the first place, but no, not true. The pull that brought us and keeps us here is still a bit of a mystery. And marriage has never been a thing I’ve been that excited about, whether it’s heterosexual or homosexual. I do admire those who are passionate about it. I do love being in these heady times where that right may very well be argued in front of the Supreme Court of the United States later this year. I often feel as if it should mean more to me. And who knows, maybe it does. Maybe there’s a disconnect between what I say and what I feel, the head and the heart.

The other day when the Justice of the Peace stopped by to go over the script for the ceremony and I read it out loud, I was amazed by how I potent these simple words were. I thought ‘Oh, this is something important, this thing we’re about to do.’ It was a bit of a déjà vu. I looked over to Richard and smiled, wondering if he was thinking the same thing I was thinking, namely, our commitment ceremony in Los Angeles in March of 1999. It had taken us/me a while to get to that day. We’d been together for 5 years. We’d taken baby steps of commitment - moving in together, buying rings for one another; however, I had balked at the idea of a ceremony to cement the relationship. Cold feet? Perhaps. But coupled with that was my indignation that the act had to be politicized, that I couldn’t simply do it because I loved Richard. A future guest at the ceremony would later say, “This had to be about love because you certainly weren’t getting anything from the government by doing it.” But despite all my inner wranglings over whether to do it or not, one morning I surprised Richard by asking him to – what? I didn’t ask him to marry me. What did I say? ‘Wanta have a commitment ceremony?’ It couldn’t have been that, that sounds so lame. And I know it sounded good. It was well thought out for perfect dramatic effect, a nice balance between simple and heartfelt and WOW. The same balance I hope to conjure up for today. Well, I can’t remember exactly what I said back then, be that as it may. Richard was bowled over, happy, and we dove into plans for the big day. And there were invitations and a cake and showers. We decided to have the ceremony at our home, outside, weather permitting, on March 27th. We invited 75 of our closest friends to attend. And we invited our families. My sister was my Best Person. And my mom and dad, divorced for 25 years, both came. “Who would’ve thought that the event to bring mom and dad back together, “ my sister wryly intoned, “would be their son’s gay wedding.” And that’s what many mistakenly called it, a “wedding.” There was a last minute push by our activist minister presiding over the rite, Mel White, to make the day political; he wanted us to publicize it, have tv cameras there, but no, we didn’t feel it was fair to our invited friends (my mom would’ve probably loved it). And it was important to both of us that it be about our love for one another, first and foremost, that nothing over shadow that. The day was exquisite, sunny and warm, perfect. We’d had a spate of soggy weather preceding the day so we really lucked out. We set up chairs in rows on our front lawn which magically appeared around tables for the reception following a quick reception line through our living room. There were a few little snags – our photographer didn’t show up (Richard’s brother Mike came to the rescue and now takes wedding pictures as a profession) and there was an accident out on the Hollywood Freeway which held up the proceedings for an hour, forcing our dear friend Patrick to wear his fingers to the bone playing the same 3 introductory songs on his harp over and over again in slightly different tempos and keys to give a little variety. Finally we began and as we stood there under our huge camphor tree, out under the clear California sky, in front of our supportive family and friends, uttering those words that had been said in so many ways by so many people in love throughout time, the power of the act filled everything around about us. You could see it in the expressions of our friend’s faces, the tears in their eyes, you could feel it in the air, you could almost touch it. This mysterious something. We honored our parents for being there and gave them each a red rose and embraced them. More tears. Various friends spoke passages from plays or prayers, some sang, one smudged our rings with sage invoking a Navajo blessing. And we spoke our love for one another through the agreed upon liturgy. We’d memorized our rites. Richard went up on his lines, just a bit, but it felt good saving him, as if it were a performance, looking into each other’s eyes and giving one another strength, being present in this miraculous day, with our love for one another, aware that we both had decided to take our relationship to another level in the presence of the people most dear to us. At the end of the ceremony we faced the congregation and were introduced as life partners. And then we partied. Richard catered the reception dinner himself. Wine and champagne and cosmopolitans flowed generously. A jazz band played on the side patio. It was a grand day.

So we’ve had our party. We’ve had the presents and the do. And now it seems fitting to New England and to Vermont to have a simple ceremony at the Town Meeting Hall, in the presence of a Justice of the Peace and 9 of our local friends and tie the knot. It also seems appropriate that this desire to get married, like the decision to move to Vermont, came a bit out of nowhere. There’s mystery and magic in it. We were moved by a friendly force beyond our ken and control. We’ve come to expect that here. And that’s fine, letting something be easy. There are enough difficult things that life (or a New England winter say) will bring that we will have to contend with; we don’t have to manufacture difficulty. Why not focus on ease and grace and enjoying the ride. And Richard certainly continues to help teach me that.

I’m going to start writing the words for Richard now. Wish me luck.
No, wish me ease and grace and an effortless simplicity in expressing myself, in expressing my heart.

I intend a fantastic day with my husband and our dear friends.

Snippets from a screening.

A flood of lusty learning about Vermont yesterday seeing the rough cut of a friend’s documentary about Vermont – "The Vermont Story: Freedom and Unity," an epic cornucopia of topics chronicled by many filmmakers, brought together under one embrace by the editing eye of Nora Jacobson. There’s still work to be done, but this was the first grand toss up onto the canvas to see what’s there and there’s a lot. So much of what was up on the screen spoke to me in mysterious ways, inexplicable connections to what drew Richard and me here to live, but here are a few things that stuck (and know I'm a history nerd from waaaaay back):

- Vermont was not one of the original 13 colonies. It was an independent republic with a constitution that predated the United State’s.

- When Vermont was being considered for statehood the stipulations were that there couldn’t be any existing claims on the land, especially by native Americans; in Vermont, this would’ve been the Abenaki tribe. There were many Abenaki here (and still are), that would travel to several camps throughout the year so as not to overtax or deplete the natural wildlife or plant life of any particular region. Ethan Allen and his brother, major proponents for statehood, went to Washington and proclaimed that there were no Indians in Vermont, that they were just “passing through.” Statehood was immediately offered. Settlers were cautioned to honor any Indian encampments, but coming upon these seasonal camps, they thought the Indians had abandoned them, so they set up their own camp and houses and when the next season arrived and the Abenaki’s returned, they found a settlement.

- Both Bill W. and Dr. Bob, co-founders of AA, were born and raised in Vermont and it is supposed that the foundational underpinnings of AA meetings with its egalitarian flavor and concept of “no set leader” was inspired by the traditional town meetings of Vermont.

- Joseph Smith, the founder of the Mormon Church, is from Vermont.

- The Underground Railroad as well as the Abolitionist movement were quite vigorous in Vermont. Vermont judges refused to enforce the Fugitive Slave Act, a law of the land before the Civil War which ordered that escaped slaves caught in the north had to be extradited to their owners in the south. There were many free blacks working and prospering in Vermont before the war. Vermont was the first state to abolish slavery. Inter-racial marriages were common here in the early to mid- nineteenth centuries.

… and so much, much more. It will touch on eugenics, secessionist movements, the hippies, gay civil unions and marriages (Richard and I will be included in portions of that section), farming, and on and on and on. Such rich soil, the indefatigable spirit of the place. I am so proud to live in this place, so grateful to whatever mysterious, synchronistic pull that brought us here. And yesterday we traveled an hour and a half to the screening through some of the most gorgeous countryside you can imagine – hills and valleys with that last burst of green before the colors turn, all basking beneath a clear, blue sky yesterday.

And hearkening back to synchronicity, we get to the gathering, eat with our fellow filmmakers and historians and contributors of many stripes and fashion, and we meet a gentlemen, a political scientist/farmer who is interviewed through one particular section of the movie, and we tell him that we live near Newbury, Vermont, to which he replied that he grew up in Newbury. He asked what road we were on and when we tell him the name of the road, he said, “I know it well. I used to walk 7 miles to see a girl who lived on a chicken farm out that way.” Our reply? ‘That’s our house. That’s where we live.’ “No shit.” Not only that, but his “girlfriend” Susan, we had seen just that morning when Richard borrowed her kayak to go out with me on the Connecticutt River for an early morning row.

It’s a small state.

A small WONDERFUL or WONDER FILLED state.

Dilemmas

I have a bloody scar curving down across my left eyebrow. This wound was delivered with surprising severity earlier this afternoon by Snowball, one of our 3 turkeys. One minute she was cooing at me in a slightly odd voice I’d never heard before – she’d hopped up on a boulder to be near me as I hung a blanket out on the line to sun dry – and as I bent closer, stroking her white feathery breast and asking her “what’s the matter?”, she lunged at me, inflicting the gash. Thinking she was out of sorts, I went around to embrace and hold her – a fairly common practice, nothing out of the ordinary – and she went for the skin between my thumb and index finger. And held on. Tight. Later, as I dabbed peroxide and Neosporin on my slash mark, I concluded that she must’ve thought my eyebrow was a caterpillar and my finger a worm. My next thought was “Well, this makes eating her at Thanksgiving a little easier.”

Okay, wait. Much like the Samarai are admonished not to fight when angry, I don’t want to eat Snowflake for revenge. And I don’t want to cast eating Snowflake for Thanksgiving in a comic light. This is a dilemma. We have gotten close to all the turkeys, we’ve named them (I know, bad move. We were counseled against it, many times.) AND we’ve named our chickens and roosters. “Processing” them will be in their futures too. This is one of the many dilemmas I’ve found about living on some semblance of a farm and raising animals that you intend to eat. I think that’s why I was so against Richard getting chickens and geese and turkeys in the first place because something inside of me knew that I would be the big softie when it came to wrestling with the predicament of to eat or not to eat, to kill or not to kill. Richard’s a sweetie, he loves all his animals, but don’t be fooled by his angelic disposition; he’s got cold steel flowing through his veins. Remember, he shot a Canada gosling in cold blood! A bullet to its head! At close range!! Okay, granted, it was a mercy killing. It had been injured, it needed to be done away with, but still, he did it! You think he’s losing sleep over whether or not to eat one of the turkeys?! Not on your life. This is a man who named a couple of his chickens “Puddin’ Pie” and “Dumpling” last year.

And there’s the geese. Another dilemma. Not that we’re thinking about eating any of them. No, not on your life, we’re agreed on that. BUT we’re seriously thinking of getting rid of them. There’s really no reason to have them. Richard’s had the experience, he sees that he enjoys chickens and turkeys much more. And they serve no purpose, they provide no product like eggs (well, okay, for 2 months. But just try to get one without getting nipped at.). They poop all over the place. Schmuel harangues and scolds us (well, me. He’s sweet as all get out to Richard. Schmuel and I got off on the wrong foot. I try to be nice to him, but he sees me coming, and his head goes down, and his neck goes out, followed by a banshee screech which sets the others off in a crazed sort of Greek chorus. But I digress.) Richard and I made a mental list of pros and cons regarding the geese the other day and we filled the con side, FILLED IT. Not a pro. And yet … our hearts melt seeing them swimming on the pond. They are so beautiful over there, a floating haiku, a meditation. It’s ridiculous. Ugh. We’re suckers. Richard has listed the 3 young uns on Craig’s List, but other than a few nibbles, nada.

And getting back to turkeys, Richard just hatched 6 new babies! And they are adorable and imprinted on us, but where are they going to go this winter? The 3 adult turkeys have been taking up space in the chicken coop ever since the raccoon attack and, yes, will probably be gone come Thanksgiving and Christmas (I just shuddered, honestly), but those 6 are going to take up a LOT of room as they fatten up all winter. And come Spring, who’s going to want them? No one eats turkey in the spring. It’s ham or lamb. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe we could disguise them, cover them in wool, teach them other kind of animal calls and people will be none the wiser.

Richard’s going to a Chicken Swap on Sunday, a quaint get together in these parts. He doesn’t actually “swap” his chickens. He gets in there, sells what he has, and skedaddles. The last two times he’s been there, it’s been a quick success. This time he really is trying to clear some space in the coop AND get rid of a few trouble makers. Too many roosters around. Oh, and I just thought of another dilemma. Today, just before leaving for work, Richard informed me that Pearl, a white hen of ours, was starting to go broody and if ever I saw her on a nest sitting on eggs or spending an inordinate amount of time crouching down on the coop floor, I was to scat her outside. Well, sure enough, when I went out to collect eggs midday, there she was, sitting, hunched over 2 eggs, that glassy, broody look coming over her eyes while outside the weather was glorious. I gathered the eggs and with a “C’mon, Pearl, time to get out in the day!” reached beneath her and tossed her out into the grass. I felt as if I were shoving a depressed person in robe and curlers out the door of an asylum. “Get out there! It’s good for you! Enough shock therapy!!” And to add insult to injury, the moment she hit the ground, still dazed in a broody high, Major, our Australorp, hopped on her and humped her. Sorry, Pearl.

I seemed to have needed to get all this off my chest. I feel much better now. My wound is clotting nicely. The turkeys are busying themselves with some havoc in the backyard. The geese are across the road getting ready for another chapter of their pond choreography. Of course they’ve waited until it’s the most perfect time of day to embark, the sunlight dusting off the leaves that are just thinking of turning color. They’ll ease out onto the surface of the water and barely, imperceptibly create a ripple. And they’ll look as if they’re fully concentrated on what they’re doing, but those geese, they’re tricky, they look at you out of the side of their head, when they’re in perfect profile, and they can see that once more they’ve melted my heart. And there they go.

Okay, they can stay.

Snowball’s days, however, are numbered.

New From the Home Front

A quick catch-up before heading to Hall’s Lake for an early morning kayak. Just cuddled each of our newly hatched turkey chicks to get the imprinting ball rolling. Yes, it’s not the ideal time of year to be hatching chicks of any kind, but Richard was disconsolate over the loss of 3 of his adult turkeys to a raccoon attack a couple months back and I urged him to try ordering more. He assured me that the season to order was long past, but to his surprise this was not true, an oddity, and he found himself bidding for 12 turkey eggs. He won the bidding war, the eggs were shipped, he incubated them, and 6 out of 12 hatched 2 days ago. 2 of the unhatched were fully formed inside their eggs, but didn’t make it. One of them had started pipping the shell, however he or she had gotten themselves upside down and couldn’t pip out through the bottom and died. Richard was saddened by this. They’re such vulnerable, adorable creatures. And none of them have bumble foot (I think I’m remembering the term correctly), an arthritic-looking malady that curves some of the turkey’s “toes” 90 degrees. I had thought this new brood would be fully grown by Thanksgiving, but some quick arithmetic earlier this week put a lie to that. Where and how they’ll be kept over the winter is an issue to be dealt with sometime soon. Tomorrow is another day. And Richard’s already thinking of thinning out his various flocks. There are a couple “chicken swaps” coming up where he’s sold some pullets in the past AND we have prospective buyers for Daphne, Felicity, and Prince Mishkin (our newer geese.) I still feel the older geese will be heartbroken by the separation, though I have to keep reminding myself that idea probably comes from Disney animated features.

Autumn feels as if it’s here, especially in the mornings. We wake to all our cats burrowed in close, with no complaints and calls to get up and fix their grub, they enjoy the warmth. Of course, we get up at 5:30 or 6 so where would the complaint be? Oliver was out all night – we left the porch pet door open for him, while keeping the screen door shut to prevent anyone else from getting out – and is now crashed out on our bed like a teenager who partied hard the night before. The geese have raised their morning ruckus and are in the road, pruning and fluffing their feathers, urging on the last of their molting. They love lining up across the road preventing cars from going by, and giving the drivers “what for” if they deign to honk at them or slowly edge their way through the flock. Audacity reigns.

Yesterday around 4 of a hot day in the high 80’s, I came home with a new kayak. I’d been on the fence about buying one for a while, ever since a blissful time on a friend’s pond a month or 2 back. I’d been paying close attention to the sales price of kayak’s slashing down, down, down. The confluence of the lowering price and my deep yearning for a return to that joyous day on the water came together in a surety yesterday around 3. I pulled into Farm Way, decision made; the salesman was barely able to start into his pitch and I had the kayak picked out, oar, life preserver, and mount rack, all at a percentage of what they had originally been. Fantastic! And yes, the Connecticut River is in my near future, and I’m open to other autumn haunts for these early mornings, but yesterday, the idea of being on our pond, trying the new boat out, paddling back through the swampy areas that only the geese and ducks pad to, seemed like nirvana. The geese were aghast as I portaged this 12’ orange creamsicle-colored plastic thing across the road toward “their” pond. They stood motionless, with just a few whispers to one another as I lowered it into the water beside the pier. Even Schmuel, the ultimate neck craner, was nonplussed. I eased into the boat, pushed off from the shore, and soared out to sea. So beautiful, so still, so perfect. AND the geese followed. This was completely unexpected. Usually when we swim, they hightail it out of there. They might observe from the safety of the bank, but they don’t want to be anywhere close to these splashing, shouting, whooping creatures. Do we become something else to them when swimming, I wonder? But the kayak – the exact color of their bills, by the way – must’ve been something different altogether. They were curious and intrigued. They followed me, so beautiful, this little clutch of goose family, swimming along with slow, sure ease. For the most part it was a dance between the two of us. They’d circle me, come close, confer a bit, all very calmly done. Once Schmuel seemed to recognize the top part of my body sticking out from this orange floating arrow and began to arch out at me, but that was short lived. Mostly it was a pondy meditation on one another. Who are you, really?

When I came to shore, I propped the kayak up against our small willow tree near the pond and went back to the dock to exercise a bit and lay back to take in the gorgeous sky. The geese got out beside me and both Ginger and Schmuel approached the boat as if it were an adversary, their necks craned, bodies low, warning honks and jabbers. The boat didn’t make a move. So they all moved in for a chew and a bite. They couldn’t really gain purchase there and finally resigned themselves to acceptance. Richard soon came home, having heard of the recent purchase, and wanted a paddle out on the pond himself and again, and the curious journey and dance were repeated.

It seems like a poem of a day, light relaxed and easy on the trees. The perfect opportunity to become one with a body of water. I think I’ll go enjoy bird song and beauty from the perspective of a boat on the water.

Have a great day.

Poet's Choice

Poet’s Choice

I feel like such a dilettante when it comes to poetry. And that thought led me to the dictionary for a quick definition and in addition to “dabbler” or “someone who takes up an art or activity merely for amusement, esp. in a desultory or superficial way” (my intended meaning), “dilettante” ALSO means “a lover of an art or a science, esp. a fine art.” And you know, I’m so eager at times, even unintentionally as in this case, to wrap myself in a mildly negative defining of something, that this time I choose the second definition to describe myself, "a lover of fine art" for I am a lover of poetry. I can rush to say I know so little, I’ve read so little compared to others (“compare and despair” as one wise friend reminded me) BUT those poems that I have read I cherish. They stick with me. They stay with me. I love them. Deeply.

Several years ago, let’s say in the 80’s in NYC (30 years ago, geez), I became enamored with Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” There was a chapter in “Prince of Players,” a book about the American actor Edwin Booth, in which young Edwin observes his father, actor Junius Booth, entertain a friend who’d stopped backstage following a performance of some Shakespearean tragedy by reciting the entirety of the “Ancient Mariner” … off the top of his head! “Here’s a little ditty I’ve conned, I think you’ll like it.” IT’S AN EPIC POEM! A LOOOONG POEM! I can just see the friend squirming in his seat, trying to keep an interested, engaged smile on his face. No! It must've been amazing! Mesmerizing! captivating! Another great performance. And this after playing “Othello” or “Macbeth” moments before. It’s what you did! You recited poetry. Well, something about that whole notion grabbed me and convinced me that I had to do it. So I set out to memorize the entire poem. For a moment or 2 I thought that I should also become addicted to opium since it’s alleged Coleridge wrote "Rime" under the heavy influence of that drug, but I quickly dismissed the idea as tangential. I got pretty close to getting the whole poem down too. ("Water, water everywhere; and all the boards did shrink. Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.") I even worked on a piece of it with an acting coach. I think that’s when poetry really grabbed me. I’d done some Shakespeare before, dabbled around a bit with other poetry, but learning “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” was my first experience of a poem really taking hold of me. The epicness of it at least.

Then Ben Okri, a south African poet, came into my life. This would have been in the early 90s. A book of his poetry was prominently displayed in a London bookstore window when I happened to be in that town during a particularly low period of my life. I literally felt it call out to me from the bookstore window, pulling me to pay attention. “Look here! See, buy, read.” There’s a poem within that particular collection “A Letter to an English Friend” which bolstered me then and continues to do so through unfamiliar deserts in my life. A life buoy, an embrace. That mysterious and undefinable magic of art that makes you feel not quite so alone on earth. I highly recommend his work.

And since Okri, Donald Hall, Jane Kenyon, Ted Kooser, Philip Levine, WS Merwin and countless others whose names escape me at the moment have all delighted and uplifted and awakened me. I have a book by Edward Hirsch called “Poet’s Choice” that I bought back in 2006 and have read each year since then. It’s a smorgasboard sampling of his favorite poets, those whose poems, like Okri’s in mine, have come at the exact right time in his life. In the introduction to the book, Hirsch says that he can remember where he was, what he was doing when he first read certain poems. They’ve been companions during hard times. They’ve elucidated and deepened knowing. They’ve “sacramentalize(d) experience.” I love that. I believe that. And he goes on to say something else I believe, that we need poetry in our lives now more than ever in a world rife with dehumanization, with commercialization, materialism, with war, the destruction of nature. Poetry can help challenge us to find meaning in it all. We need it now more than ever because it speaks to our collective hearts. It gives voice to sorrow and anger and joy and doubt, to LIFE, to everyone’s experience, everyone’s voice. It reminds us, even in a reassuring whisper, what is truly important.

I’m so grateful and glad that some voice told me to reach for “Poet’s Choice” this morning and open its pages. Maybe the self same voice that told me to look at Ben Okri’s book in the window of that store in London a few decades back. Maybe a poet’s voice, a dilettante’s voice. To choose poetry. To see life, this day, as an unfolding poem. To see one’s self as a poet. There’s an invitation. And just for today, I choose to see myself as such. To pay attention, to be present in one’s life, to appreciate - fully.

And being a Vermonter, maybe some time today I’ll even pick up a bit of Robert Frost and give it a read.

Have a good poetry filled day, fellow poets!

Tree First Aid

Our mountain ash looks like a cross between a wounded veteran and a Christmas tree, all signs of a battle I’ve been in with a stubborn sapsucker. I was admiring the tree the other evening, bountifully berried with bright orange clusters for the first time since we planted it several years ago. On closer inspection, though, I saw that the bark both around the tree proper at eye level as well as on several of its branches was riddled with holes exposing the phloem or xylem (I’m not sure which, still reading up on that.) Bottom line – it’s serious. The tree’s in danger of being girdled and killed, much like the rodents did to several of our maples this past winter. If the bark’s gone, the flow of water and nutrients up and down the tree is interrupted and from my limited understanding, bark does not reconstitute itself. It can’t grow back. I quick got a can of black tar to fill the holes and as I was doing so Richard spoke of a product called “tanglefoot” which is a sticky substance you slather onto the bark to keep the birds from landing. They can’t stand the feel of it on their feet.

Smash cut: landscaping store, next day. No, tanglefoot is more for insects and can’t go directly onto the bark, it injures it. If you insist on using it, put duct tape over the bark, sticky side out to further discourage the birds, and then smear tanglefoot on top of that. I decided to forego the tanglefoot and got a “wrap” for the tree. Back at the house, I gently and carefully wrapped the tree’s blackened wounds, my own mini-triage unit, and waited to see the outcome.

Next morning I spotted the sapsucker on the tree. It was acting very curious, up and down the wrap, not knowing what to make of the material. I shooed it away, then checked the surface. No further damage. So far, so good. But later, and not much later at that, I returned to see sap seeping out of the wrap. It looked ghoulish, like bleeding wounds, bees hovered around, landed. Obviously, this wasn’t working. I covered the new wounds with more tar, and tried the duct tape backwards, but an hour later I returned, and the sapsucker had drilled through that as well. A few of its feathers were stuck to the tape, but other than that, the bird had not been deterred. I phoned Richard to commiserate and he suggested something he had seen on a neighbors tree, foil or mirrors hung on branches to unnerve the bird. I searched the drawers - no foil, no mirrors, no shiny objects. But wait a minute. The aluminum bottoms to little votive candles we have around the house caught my eye. That could work. I jimmied out the candle carcasses, punched a hole in their aluminum sides, and then, stringing a piece of cooking twine through the hole, hung them on various branches of the tree, about 8 in all. Now, it’s still another morning and I haven’t had the heart to go out and check its success – or failure. Knock on wood. If you have any other suggestions, please don’t hesitate to leave them. It’s felt good, though, to have some hands on care of a tree. They’re well worth it.