Thursday, November 25, 2010
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.
'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.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 15, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 8, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
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.
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.
Friday, November 5, 2010
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.
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.
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