I got my wish and other developments

I’d been having a hankering to hold one of our geese, especially one of the goslings (Prince Mishkin, Daphne, or Felicity), but they’ve been so closely guarded by their folks that this has been a near impossibility. Last year I loved being able to hold Ginger and Mary Ann every once and awhile. Richard reminds me that they probably didn’t enjoy it that much since we’d have to corner them, sending them into frozen, squatting shakes, but what does he know? When we did get them onto our laps and rubbed them under their wing feathers and cooed at them and had something shiny for them to chew on, they liked it fine. Alright, I’m deluding myself. And anyway, ever since Schmul’s arrival and becoming over-protective mothers, Ginger and Mary have become neck stretching harridans, the only thing missing are curlers in their hair and a rolling pin to wave around in the air threateningly. Who’d want to hold their skanky selves now anyway. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I have held Schmul a couple times lately, however that doesn’t count because it was purely for survival since he was coming at me like “Jaws” (or “Bills”) and I’d whipped his neck around and then embraced and lifted him in an attempt to calm him down. Note to self: this doesn’t work, Schmul turns into Hydra, snapping the air in hopes of chomping off my nose.

This morning, though, when Richard and I went up to the pen around 6 to let the geese out, Prince Mishkin and one of the gosling girls inadvertently got themselves on the other side of the pen door and were momentarily separated from the rest of their family.
“Now’s your chance,” Richard uttered.
‘What do you mean?’
“You can go in there, shut the gate, and hold one of them.”
So I did. And there erupted such an agony of distress and panic from parents and kids alike. It was as if I were a Nazi guard in “Sophie’s Choice.” The goslings threw themselves at the fence, screaming and crying, trying to get to their parents who were keening wildly on the other side. I felt horrible. I looked to Richard who gave a shrug with an expression somewhere between “what did you expect?” and “so now what you gonna do?” But did this heartbreaking scene deter me? No, I’d come this far, I thought, the damage is done, full speed ahead. The babies scrambled for cover, darting away from my approaching boots. The parent’s caterwauling continued. Mishkin was breathless with terror, I just couldn’t go after him, but Daphne (or Felicity, I don’t know which one it was) was another matter. I thought that since she had been imprinted on Richard her hatchmeister for several weeks before becoming part of the goose clan, that she would calm when in my arms. Wrong! It was as if she were a pioneer girl the Injuns (so unpc) had kidnapped from a Wagon Train in all those old westerns and when the settlers come to retrieve her they discover that the heathens have brain-washed her into believing in all their heathenish ways, such as “the White Man wants to kill you.” I picked her up – just like John Wayne did Natalie Wood in “The Searchers” - and for the briefest of moments I savored the pleasure of how downy soft she was, how next to nothing her body weight, how my hands went right past all this fluff disguised as substance gone right to a soft inner core. And then her screams ratcheted up in volume and she shat down my right leg. And looked to Richard, helpless, and he said “Get them back together.” And so the scramble to put Natalie, DAPHNE! down and open the gate, and guide the 2 now permanently damaged goslings out to where their parents waited in a flustered, frustrated huff. I got a good scold from Shmul and the girls and they walked off, calming themselves, as I stood, lower lip protruding, as Richard deadpanned, “Well … you got your wish.”

Other developments? I dug all the Burdock root out of our stone wall bank, big elephant eared, deep-rooted invasive things that we later saw people selling at a local market as a root vegetable (You got to be kidding!!) I’ve resewn the bank with white and red clover. It seems to be taking. Tiny little 2 leaved growths are popping up leprechaun-sized. I’ve also strewn the seeds along the side of our pond which is 2 feet higher due to the silt at the bottom of our pond being shoved up there last fall. Trying to get something more to grow there. We have a newly planted willow tree plus this gorgeous, stunning single flowered iris popping up. Can’t wait for the clover. Was informed this week that red clover is the Vermont State Flower.

Gout weed is an invasive weed that smells like cilantro and has stalky seed-filled flowers reminiscent of Queen Anne’s lace. Never heard of it before moving here. I’ve been battling this intruder on another part of our bank. There’s a whole section of our orchard where it’s taken over. The only way to frustrate its invasion is by planting something else that will smother it out, like lilies. That’s the plan. It’s time consuming, but I welcome tasks like this, weeding and bringing a bank back to a bit of order, a controlled overgrowth, very English garden, balance and chaos, nature and man’s hand mixed. The task helps me weed out unwanted thoughts in a parallel kind of way. Giving myself over to the task at hand.

My legs are welted up with black fly bites. I slathered myself with Skin So Soft the other day, but to no avail. The unseen biters made their way through, drawing little pools of blood down my backside.. They are a bit of a scourge here. And on sunny days where you want your shirt off, basking in the limited Vermont tan weather, there’s a double lotion layer needed: sun screen and bug repellent. My legs are evidence that, as of yet, the two don’t seem to work well together.

Happy Summer Solstice! It’s so green mountain state here, verdant, and rich, and bursting with life - the air, the ground, the trees! Our pond is so CLEAN!!!!! We’ve taken a few dips – skinny and clothed – and the swim is spectacular, if spring fed bracing in sections. And the minnows like nibbling on you EVERYWHERE!

That’s enough rambling for now. Have a great day!

This too shall pass

I don't know if it was a drill or a true panic, but the 6 Canada Geese - the gander, goose and their 6 quickly maturing gosling - just lickity-split across our front lawn in perfect, stiff legged formation, high-tailing it across the road to the safety of the pond. Who cares about a legitimate reason to fly off into a "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!!" fright these days! Dread and dire conjurings seem to be the mood du jour. Even in nature. And here I am in nature, back home again after having been in the city, New York City to be exact, for a rather long stint, and I'm feeling my own version of mild panic. Mine is more of the displaced, restless, who am I again? Where am I again? variety. Granted, this will pass, I know it, I've experienced it many times, I'm a vet, and I feel a bit foolish going through it all over again, having to conjure up patience with myself, to let it take its course. "Can't I just skip this part?!" Because it always FEELS like the first time. Like wandering through a bout of depression. 'This will never end! I want this over now!' screams some run-for-the-pond part of me. And the lens through which I view the world is that of a critic's. Everything needs FIXING! And there's not enough TIME! And THINGS, imaginary THINGS snap at my heels demanding attention, like self-imposed DEADLINES, and CHORES, and BILLS, and what am I doing with my LIFE and really? You really want to entertain what am I doing with my life thoughts TODAY when you're in a spin cycle of displaced, restlessness?

Sofia just came in through the pet door with a mouse clamped in her maw, a little gift to cheer me up. Thanks, Sofia.

Back from flushing that little morsel down the toilet. The air is alive with poultry sounds: the stereo crowing back and forth of our 2 roosters, one's at the coop, sounds like the Wellsummer, and the other's back to my left in the orchard, the Orpington, both in good voice, round, echoey tones; there's a mourning dove in the woods across the way, commisserating with my mood - thanks; there's various chatterings of sparrows and chickadees and other undefinables; every once in a while a goose argument whips up in the backyard - OUR geese this time - and vanishes away. And quiet surrounds it all, embraces it all. Well, not quite. There have been a few big trucks, moving van size trucks, laden with wood chips passing by, incongruously LOUD. Here comes one now, I can hear it's engine's strain coming up our gradual incline.

Oh, it would feel so GREAT some days to be able to join a clutch of Canada Geese, strip down to just feathers, and for no reason at all, maybe to just get it out of my system, run screaming across the front lawn, screaming out the world, screaming out whatever thought or feeling might be residing inside me, weighing me down, and just head for the pond, swim away from it all. Or just shit along the banks all day and have someone else clean it up. Ho-hum. Maybe a little molting too. Make room for new feathers, new skin, new thoughts. That would be grand.

I'm off for a walk. Have a grand day!