I'm sitting at our kitchen table listening to VPR, sipping coffee while our hefty, yet loving Maine Coon, Delilah, spreads wide on my lap. My legs are slowly going to sleep. She's cutting off circulation to some vital part of my body, but I haven't the heart to scoot her on. She's purring up a storm and when I look down at her she looks back at me with a slightly drugged haze in her eyes. She's in ecstacy. Or she's taken Ecstacy. If I bring my chin close to her face she gives me a warm, emory board lick, so that makes it all fine. She can stay.
The other animals are all watered and fed and cleaned up after. It's sleet/snowing outside, snare drumming the back windows whenever the wind picks up. There's a fine beech wood fire to my right cozying up the indoors.
I went to the Oscars last night at the Savoy Theatre in Montpelier. No kleig lights, no paparazzi, but there was a red carpet downstairs where a bobbed blue haired fellow in a light blue tux commented on what everyone was wearing. I had been told to show up an hour before the doors opened at 7 by Donald Rae, the head of the upcoming Green Mountain Film Festival (The Festival is one of my 100 reasons for loving living in Vermont!), because inside sources had told them there would be a line and seating was limited (50 seats - 1 couch, 8 tall bar stools, 12 theatre seats, and the rest black bean bag chairs). Well, let's just say "a line" is a relative term. The ceremony was downstairs in what had been until recently the video store (with an impressively large library) and now has been transformed to a smaller theatre with a bar, very den-like and comfortable. It was a good time.
But I've got to backtrack for one of these uncanny and wonderful Vermont connections that continue to keep cropping up. When I got to the theatre at 6, there was no line at all. Just me, Donald, and Sonia, Donald's wife, so we retired to the Green Mountain Film Festival offices, ideally located just above the theatre, and over a glass of wine discussed the upcoming festival while keeping an ear out to any line forming sounds from below. (None were forthcoming.) Somewhere in the discussion of films being screened we spoke of various themes cropping up this year, one of which is the 150th anniversary of the Civil War. Now growing up I had been a history nerd, my particular area of expertise, passion and undying love was anything having to do with the American Civil War. We visited battlefields, I collected paraphernalia, antiques, newspapers. I remember going down to our library and checking out the 20 reel silent film "Birth of a Nation" and screening it on our home movie projector and screen. Donald said he'd had a rich collection of Civil War material to choose from, early and impressive silent films he offered to loan me in the near future. And that's when it came to me. There had been a wonderful Civil War movie called "The Raid" starring Van Heflin, made in the '50's sometime, about the confederate raid on St. Albans, VT. I'd happened upon it on some late movie program years and years ago, probably in the '60's growing up in Indiana, and I hadn't seen it since. I had just begun telling Donald about the movie when he interrupted me with:
"We're showing "The Raid" on Sunday, March 20th."
I couldn't believe it! It made me so happy! Like hearing a long lost friend was coming to visit! But I had to ground myself with a little reality.
'Oh, it must be such a B movie. I've probably romanticized it terribly.'
"It's quite good, actually," Donald countered. "Strong performances, good taut story. Holds up extremely well."
Well, blow me down.
I can't wait. I'm pretty sure Lee Marvin's in it too. Or Richard Boone. Wait, both of them are.
I just accessed Green Mountain's site for more info -- There's a great schedule of films this year!! - - and I see that "The Raid" was made in the year of my birth, 1954, and also stars a young Anne Bancroft. I'm so jazzed. The Civil War and Vermont. All together.
Now that I think about it the entire evening was about reunion last night. Coming back together with the movie "The Raid" (About the Civil War which was reunifying the nation. That's a reunion too, don't you think? Okay, I'll drop it.) Watching the Oscars, broadcast from my old home, and where Richard is visiting. Feeling distant and close to the event, to movies, to all of the places and times of my life. Now and then all blended, a constant reunion, reunifying. I like it. Life feels like a lot of movies strung together. It's nice to pop up on a screen every once and awhile and see if they're really the way we remember them, if we have romanticized them, or if it's better than we're giving it credit. Memory serves. A good night.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Snowy Day Shots
Here are a few shots of a snowy day at the old Vermont homestead. I let the turkeys out for a stretch and, as you can see, Tom was in full feather, his face flushed purple, protecting his babes. You can make Shumuel off in the distance in his coop, watching over his harum. And there are a few shots of the snowy chicken coops with our neighbor Royce's barn in the distance. That's where the turkeys reside, on the second floor.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Sing a song of praises!
Back in from morning chores. A reminder, I'm taking over Richard's chore run while he's in southern California, so the various birds and I have a much deeper relationship than we usually do. We're not just passing in the hall, but we're engaging in conversations in depth with topics ranging from feed grade to feces freezing (a decided coup in winter) to territorialness or as Shmuel's behavior if translated would say: "Get the fuck out of our house!" It's beautiful out today, clear, a foot of new fallen snow shimmering on the surface of things. Gives the day a sparkle.
It's high time for some more reasons I love living here. I don't really know exactly where we are on the 100 reasons list, but let's say 46:
46) Hardwicke, Vermont. Just getting to know a little about this town that has turned itself around from derelict status to being a model for the way we look at food. Bringing back individual responsibility, a local focus, a respect and honoring of the land, cutting back our addiction to fossil fuels, all with an eye on entrepreneurship and extending these practices out to the common man. Read "The Town That Food Saved" very inspiring stuff. Makes me proud to be a Vermonter.
47) Richard. My husband. A proud Vermonter himself. Though I planted the seed to move here, he was the one that followed the dream with blazing speed, taking the lead, listening to his intuition, and now with a whole flock of various birds, coops he's designed and built, an array of new knowledge surrounding the care of his aviary, being a member of the town planning board, active in many varied and creative pursuits around the area, Richard has transformed himself into a Vermonter of the highest order, involved, proud, and knowledgeable. And loved by me.
48) High Mowing Seeds. Our local organic seed company. Very near Hardwicke. Grand catalogues, thorough instructions and stats all fueled by a firm belief in the larger picture, the good that they're doing. Very inspired and inspiring. Another reason I'm proud to be a Vermonter.
49) Single Payer Health Care. Granted, it's just in the discussion stage right now, but at least there's a discussion, there's an aim. I'm proud of Governor Shumlin for making this a priority. Vermont once more can lead the way - as they did with same sex marriage - to make our lives richer, more equitable. We can be the model that makes clear that Single Payer is the best way to go. Health Care is everyone's right. Added to that, I have a personal feeling that individual responsibility needs to be factored into this. Single Payer should not be a dependency relationship. When it comes to taking care of one's own body and one's health, the main responsibility should be ours by how we eat, how much, how we treat our body, how we honor it. I feel issues like obesity are many times indulgent individual issues whose "cure" should not be taken on by any insurance deal. I'm off my soap box now.
50) Newbury road care. I love our road crew. The way they tend and groom our roads is exceptional. I see our tax money at work. Especially impressive on our back roads in the boonies. High thumbs up.
51) VPR Both classical and news. I'm proud to be a contributor and listener.
52) Local libraries. I am absolutely blown away by the libraries in small towns in Vermont. I had expected there to be stacks and stacks of books from the nineteenth century, but the shelves are well stocked with current releases. They are rich, rich boons to every community, many times offering extra-curricular activities like book groups, sometimes facilitated by a member of the Vermont Department of the Humanities, and chock full of vital, curious, and passionate people. Terrific!
53) A Young Elder. This is a model I've experienced here. Maybe it's New England stock, but whatever the reason, I'm so fond of the 70 and above crowd here, all very engaged in life, wanting to learn more, staying active and vital and ALIVE in so many ways. They seem to have a firm and honored place in people's hearts and minds here and it's inspired a glow in the path ahead for me.
Have a great day!!
It's high time for some more reasons I love living here. I don't really know exactly where we are on the 100 reasons list, but let's say 46:
46) Hardwicke, Vermont. Just getting to know a little about this town that has turned itself around from derelict status to being a model for the way we look at food. Bringing back individual responsibility, a local focus, a respect and honoring of the land, cutting back our addiction to fossil fuels, all with an eye on entrepreneurship and extending these practices out to the common man. Read "The Town That Food Saved" very inspiring stuff. Makes me proud to be a Vermonter.
47) Richard. My husband. A proud Vermonter himself. Though I planted the seed to move here, he was the one that followed the dream with blazing speed, taking the lead, listening to his intuition, and now with a whole flock of various birds, coops he's designed and built, an array of new knowledge surrounding the care of his aviary, being a member of the town planning board, active in many varied and creative pursuits around the area, Richard has transformed himself into a Vermonter of the highest order, involved, proud, and knowledgeable. And loved by me.
48) High Mowing Seeds. Our local organic seed company. Very near Hardwicke. Grand catalogues, thorough instructions and stats all fueled by a firm belief in the larger picture, the good that they're doing. Very inspired and inspiring. Another reason I'm proud to be a Vermonter.
49) Single Payer Health Care. Granted, it's just in the discussion stage right now, but at least there's a discussion, there's an aim. I'm proud of Governor Shumlin for making this a priority. Vermont once more can lead the way - as they did with same sex marriage - to make our lives richer, more equitable. We can be the model that makes clear that Single Payer is the best way to go. Health Care is everyone's right. Added to that, I have a personal feeling that individual responsibility needs to be factored into this. Single Payer should not be a dependency relationship. When it comes to taking care of one's own body and one's health, the main responsibility should be ours by how we eat, how much, how we treat our body, how we honor it. I feel issues like obesity are many times indulgent individual issues whose "cure" should not be taken on by any insurance deal. I'm off my soap box now.
50) Newbury road care. I love our road crew. The way they tend and groom our roads is exceptional. I see our tax money at work. Especially impressive on our back roads in the boonies. High thumbs up.
51) VPR Both classical and news. I'm proud to be a contributor and listener.
52) Local libraries. I am absolutely blown away by the libraries in small towns in Vermont. I had expected there to be stacks and stacks of books from the nineteenth century, but the shelves are well stocked with current releases. They are rich, rich boons to every community, many times offering extra-curricular activities like book groups, sometimes facilitated by a member of the Vermont Department of the Humanities, and chock full of vital, curious, and passionate people. Terrific!
53) A Young Elder. This is a model I've experienced here. Maybe it's New England stock, but whatever the reason, I'm so fond of the 70 and above crowd here, all very engaged in life, wanting to learn more, staying active and vital and ALIVE in so many ways. They seem to have a firm and honored place in people's hearts and minds here and it's inspired a glow in the path ahead for me.
Have a great day!!
Monday, February 21, 2011
With Feathers
"What do you think you're doing?!"
"Why I never!"
"Who do you think you are!!!"
Just a sampling of the hum of effrontery I get when I reach below the feathered, nether regions of our hens and search through the warm straw for an egg (or 2 or 5. They've been laying really well lately.) Some peck, some squawk and scatter, a few take it in stride, but no measure of "thank you" or "you're beautiful" from me seems to mollify them. It's an intrusion. And I understand. They're trapped, literally cooped up, no where to go. Today I took an extra measure of appreciation when I went out to the coops to visit them. Why? I'll tell you later. I stood and watched, tip-toed about when I had to get to gathering.
We have a hen inside our utility room, Jasmine, I think, whose tending to 2 new chicks. They're residing temporarily inside a plastic pet carrying case, and about once a day, maybe every other day if one is lucky, Jasmine "messes" her cage and you have to extract the chicks and place them in a way station (not too hard) and then take Jasmine out (for some reason this was tricky today) and clean her cage. The smell was so potent it made me squint. Well, she'd been savin' it up, sitting there all day. I cleaned the cage, quick, laced the air with a few pine shavings, and put them back in. It's incredible when you think about it. Her stillness in there. A swami would be envious. Chicken meditation. The assuring clucks. Richard goes in there and sits on the stool in front of the cage and watches like a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons, a study in joy. The Chicken Channel. I tried it a little today and sure enough the chicks came out for a peak, one chirping it's way around the backside of his mother and then standing and studying me, taking me in, while the other surfaced right in the middle of a black sea of feathers. Jasmine's a surrogate mom, black feathered, sweet as can be, and the chicks are pale yellow. So when the one chick kept bobbing up and down for a look see there was no mistaking where she was.
I just took the geese up some celery and cilantro, our stores of old lettuce and cabbage from a local market that we usually have on hand having run low. Loved it. All posturing and neck lowering bravado from Shmuel disappears when he sees that I have some leafy grub. Suddenly we're best friends. Though I can't help thinking that the way he chomps into a stalk of celery is probably how he'd like to be chomping into my finger. Oh, he's a good gander!!
With the warm weather the other day, we let the turkeys and the geese out to roam around. Well our Tom and Shmuel had a bit of a showdown in our graveled parking area. Both had their attendant ladies at hand watching on. I didn't witness it first hand, but Richard told me our Tom puffed out his chest feathers and showed the whole deck of cards behind and went after Shmuel like a possessed Ninja warrior. Shmuel didn't know what hit him. No wounds, unless you count his pride. I came out just after the battle and tried to offer Shmuel some salutary savoy cabbage, but he just gave it a forlorn sniff and walked back up the snow bank with one of his daughters to the safety of their coop. Poor guy. I didn't want his spirit to be broken. And I think he shook it off. He got to the top of the slope and called out to the 2 remaining girls, a proud, protective bray, to come home, to safety. Mary Ann, his mate, flew up right away, while Daphne bothered around, taking her good sweet time. It was good to see them all up in their place together, putting the turkey encounter behind them. He's a good gander!
I was away in NYC over the weekend. It was supposed to be a one-day there, one-day back affair, but the winds were so high down there on Saturday, topping off at 55 mph, that a Cape Air 9 seat Cessena hadn't a chance of taking off. So I went back into town, taking in the drop of temperature from 66 on Friday to 20 on Saturday. Roller coaster. Richard said he was out tending the chickens when there arose such a racket at the goose pen. He ran out and peered up and saw Shmuel mounting Mary Ann to the shock and awe of their 2 daughters. They didn't know WHAT was going on. This is yet another thing I haven't witnessed first hand, but by Richard's account, it's a clumsy affair, with Shmuel hefting himself up onto a flattened goose and then situating himself just right. I trust this experience of seeing their parents "doing it" doesn't traumatize the girls for life. Wait'll Shmuel starts mounting them. The therapy bills. Oy!
I've got poultry on the mind today because Richard's leaving for 4 or 5 days at the end of the week and I will be taking over the full duties of care. After various conversations about this upcoming event I went out with a heightened awareness to their coops this morning. Richard takes great pride in them. He's set a structure for the beginning of each day which revolves around their care. He loves it, he loves them. It gives a foundation to his life here. I have come to an appreciation - and yes, love - second hand. Over our 4 years here there have been times I've grumbled about the mess and the havoc they create, I've sought to control aspects of it all, but the plus column of their being a part of our lives far outweighs the minuses. It continues to teach me a lot about myself. So I look forward to this week. I'll miss Richard. Of course. And if work unexpectedly carries me away, I have it covered. But it'll be me and the cats and the birds cooped up together for a few days.
And making the best of it.
"Why I never!"
"Who do you think you are!!!"
Just a sampling of the hum of effrontery I get when I reach below the feathered, nether regions of our hens and search through the warm straw for an egg (or 2 or 5. They've been laying really well lately.) Some peck, some squawk and scatter, a few take it in stride, but no measure of "thank you" or "you're beautiful" from me seems to mollify them. It's an intrusion. And I understand. They're trapped, literally cooped up, no where to go. Today I took an extra measure of appreciation when I went out to the coops to visit them. Why? I'll tell you later. I stood and watched, tip-toed about when I had to get to gathering.
We have a hen inside our utility room, Jasmine, I think, whose tending to 2 new chicks. They're residing temporarily inside a plastic pet carrying case, and about once a day, maybe every other day if one is lucky, Jasmine "messes" her cage and you have to extract the chicks and place them in a way station (not too hard) and then take Jasmine out (for some reason this was tricky today) and clean her cage. The smell was so potent it made me squint. Well, she'd been savin' it up, sitting there all day. I cleaned the cage, quick, laced the air with a few pine shavings, and put them back in. It's incredible when you think about it. Her stillness in there. A swami would be envious. Chicken meditation. The assuring clucks. Richard goes in there and sits on the stool in front of the cage and watches like a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons, a study in joy. The Chicken Channel. I tried it a little today and sure enough the chicks came out for a peak, one chirping it's way around the backside of his mother and then standing and studying me, taking me in, while the other surfaced right in the middle of a black sea of feathers. Jasmine's a surrogate mom, black feathered, sweet as can be, and the chicks are pale yellow. So when the one chick kept bobbing up and down for a look see there was no mistaking where she was.
I just took the geese up some celery and cilantro, our stores of old lettuce and cabbage from a local market that we usually have on hand having run low. Loved it. All posturing and neck lowering bravado from Shmuel disappears when he sees that I have some leafy grub. Suddenly we're best friends. Though I can't help thinking that the way he chomps into a stalk of celery is probably how he'd like to be chomping into my finger. Oh, he's a good gander!!
With the warm weather the other day, we let the turkeys and the geese out to roam around. Well our Tom and Shmuel had a bit of a showdown in our graveled parking area. Both had their attendant ladies at hand watching on. I didn't witness it first hand, but Richard told me our Tom puffed out his chest feathers and showed the whole deck of cards behind and went after Shmuel like a possessed Ninja warrior. Shmuel didn't know what hit him. No wounds, unless you count his pride. I came out just after the battle and tried to offer Shmuel some salutary savoy cabbage, but he just gave it a forlorn sniff and walked back up the snow bank with one of his daughters to the safety of their coop. Poor guy. I didn't want his spirit to be broken. And I think he shook it off. He got to the top of the slope and called out to the 2 remaining girls, a proud, protective bray, to come home, to safety. Mary Ann, his mate, flew up right away, while Daphne bothered around, taking her good sweet time. It was good to see them all up in their place together, putting the turkey encounter behind them. He's a good gander!
I was away in NYC over the weekend. It was supposed to be a one-day there, one-day back affair, but the winds were so high down there on Saturday, topping off at 55 mph, that a Cape Air 9 seat Cessena hadn't a chance of taking off. So I went back into town, taking in the drop of temperature from 66 on Friday to 20 on Saturday. Roller coaster. Richard said he was out tending the chickens when there arose such a racket at the goose pen. He ran out and peered up and saw Shmuel mounting Mary Ann to the shock and awe of their 2 daughters. They didn't know WHAT was going on. This is yet another thing I haven't witnessed first hand, but by Richard's account, it's a clumsy affair, with Shmuel hefting himself up onto a flattened goose and then situating himself just right. I trust this experience of seeing their parents "doing it" doesn't traumatize the girls for life. Wait'll Shmuel starts mounting them. The therapy bills. Oy!
I've got poultry on the mind today because Richard's leaving for 4 or 5 days at the end of the week and I will be taking over the full duties of care. After various conversations about this upcoming event I went out with a heightened awareness to their coops this morning. Richard takes great pride in them. He's set a structure for the beginning of each day which revolves around their care. He loves it, he loves them. It gives a foundation to his life here. I have come to an appreciation - and yes, love - second hand. Over our 4 years here there have been times I've grumbled about the mess and the havoc they create, I've sought to control aspects of it all, but the plus column of their being a part of our lives far outweighs the minuses. It continues to teach me a lot about myself. So I look forward to this week. I'll miss Richard. Of course. And if work unexpectedly carries me away, I have it covered. But it'll be me and the cats and the birds cooped up together for a few days.
And making the best of it.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Thoughts on a February Morning
The temperature has plummeted to 10 below this morning after a high of 40 something yesterday. Tomorrow it will roller coaster back up to the mid-30's before dashing down once again. It's good to have a little variety in our tundra existence. The wind was bracing and sharp when I stepped out the door this morning, 2 pails of water balanced on either side of me, a plastic bag full of greens, all for the geese. As if the bitter bite of the air weren't enough, Shmuel gave me a nip on the leg for good measure. For nothing really. Well, intrusion. I followed Frieda's (Richard's mother's) example and wapped him on his bill to snap him out of the biting urge which sent all of the geese into a jabbery ruckus. So be it. I had to trudge up and over quite a snowbank to get to the path - or luge run - we've chopped out up to the goose pen. Yesterday Shannon, the plower of our drive, came by with a brand spankin' new orange tractor, its tires wrapped in chains, ready for business. We were glad to see him because the warmth of the day had sent great masses of heavy snow from our roof slushing down plop all over our porch, in front of our garage, and various other inopportune places. He revved and shoved masses of the white stuff up into ever enlarging glaciers around our house. And to think this was the winter we weren't supposed to get much snow. Hmmm?
I'm here by myself today. Richard's at work and then teaches class and won't be back until 9:30 this evening. It's a solitary existence on these days, especially after a week in NYC where you really can't avoid people. And I love being around them. It's inspiring. It offers countless opportunities for interaction, compassion, curiosity, smile spreading, conversation, well wishing. There are those opportunities here as well, it's just a shift. One must seek them out. Well, one must seek them out everywhere, I suppose. One is free to shut off or welcome possibility wherever one resides. I have egg duty today. Every 2 hours or so I'll go check in on the 2 coops and gather eggs up before they freeze. We're getting over a dozen each day now. Good work, girls! I also will check in on the turkeys, now housed over at Royce's barn in an upstairs pied a terre that Richard has fashioned for them. I'll bring them over feed and lettuce which they love grab chomping out of my glove hand. They're all in fine fettle, with our tom looking especially fetching. Yesterday with the good weather we let the turkeys out to range and they inevitably congregate on our front porch. The propane people stopped by to top off our tank and our tom swelled his chest feathers and spread his tail feathers like a deck of cards to let all of us know who the male was around these parts. Very impressive. The girls stayed in a clutch by the woodpile, admiring their "guy." I think I could hear them murmur in turkey "Our hero" then they gave a sort of swoony gobble.
Chilly days make a good excuse to read and next up in the book department is Richard Wright's "Black Boy." If I'm in town, I intend on attending the book group that our local library hosts once a month every winter, facilitated by a member of the Vermont Dept of Humanities. Every year there's a different theme - 3 years ago, my 1st year, it was the Victorian novel; last year, the short story; and this year, memoir. It's a surprisingly engaging group, scintillating and vital and fun. I look forward to it. A celebration of books, of reading, of keeping the light of learning new things forever bright. I so enjoy it. And I hereby dub it, oh, let's say reason number 45 that I love living in Vermont. And 46 would be the appreciation of the vitality of older people in our society. What a joy it is witnessing an older population that embraces their age and does so with such vitality and curiosity, a torch burning ever bright, grateful for what their younger ages have brought them, but equally glad for what this chapter provides as well. It's so stimulating. I appreciate the richness of their lives. Hooray.
Time for an egg run, another log on the fire and a bit of a read. I wish you health and curiosity, reflection and appreciation, and maybe some warm bread and soup.
I'm here by myself today. Richard's at work and then teaches class and won't be back until 9:30 this evening. It's a solitary existence on these days, especially after a week in NYC where you really can't avoid people. And I love being around them. It's inspiring. It offers countless opportunities for interaction, compassion, curiosity, smile spreading, conversation, well wishing. There are those opportunities here as well, it's just a shift. One must seek them out. Well, one must seek them out everywhere, I suppose. One is free to shut off or welcome possibility wherever one resides. I have egg duty today. Every 2 hours or so I'll go check in on the 2 coops and gather eggs up before they freeze. We're getting over a dozen each day now. Good work, girls! I also will check in on the turkeys, now housed over at Royce's barn in an upstairs pied a terre that Richard has fashioned for them. I'll bring them over feed and lettuce which they love grab chomping out of my glove hand. They're all in fine fettle, with our tom looking especially fetching. Yesterday with the good weather we let the turkeys out to range and they inevitably congregate on our front porch. The propane people stopped by to top off our tank and our tom swelled his chest feathers and spread his tail feathers like a deck of cards to let all of us know who the male was around these parts. Very impressive. The girls stayed in a clutch by the woodpile, admiring their "guy." I think I could hear them murmur in turkey "Our hero" then they gave a sort of swoony gobble.
Chilly days make a good excuse to read and next up in the book department is Richard Wright's "Black Boy." If I'm in town, I intend on attending the book group that our local library hosts once a month every winter, facilitated by a member of the Vermont Dept of Humanities. Every year there's a different theme - 3 years ago, my 1st year, it was the Victorian novel; last year, the short story; and this year, memoir. It's a surprisingly engaging group, scintillating and vital and fun. I look forward to it. A celebration of books, of reading, of keeping the light of learning new things forever bright. I so enjoy it. And I hereby dub it, oh, let's say reason number 45 that I love living in Vermont. And 46 would be the appreciation of the vitality of older people in our society. What a joy it is witnessing an older population that embraces their age and does so with such vitality and curiosity, a torch burning ever bright, grateful for what their younger ages have brought them, but equally glad for what this chapter provides as well. It's so stimulating. I appreciate the richness of their lives. Hooray.
Time for an egg run, another log on the fire and a bit of a read. I wish you health and curiosity, reflection and appreciation, and maybe some warm bread and soup.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Lengthening Light
First off, our geese are safe. No new paw prints AND yesterday our dear neighbor Royce, concerned about their safety as the predators in the surrounding woods get hungrier and more determined, volunteered to build a safer chicken-wired enclosure. True to his word our geese are now safe and sound within a lovingly constructed embrace. Thanks Royce.
With the snow at hip height and a deep chill in the air and in the bones, it does help noticing that the light is sticking around a little bit longer every day. Spring is out there, stored away in seeds, in the daffodils and tulips we planted in October, in the promise of the lengthening and strengthening light. It's put the slightest tease of change in the air. Soon, as our neighbor Gail likes to point out, we'll be able to see subtle changes in the color of the tree bark. A redness, a fullness. Another more evident sign will be the return of a Canada Goose pair to our pond to raise another group of goslings. Every year I wrestle with discouraging them from doing so, but nature wins out. Yes, the poop is prodigious, especially when added to our lot's contribution, but the sight of them on our pond is like a haiku, a gentle, floating meditation we're treated to every single day. (Speaking of goslings, the jury is still out about letting our geese raise any young. We plan to sell and ship out most if not all of their eggs, but are we depriving them of a piece of spring if we deny them the experience of parenting, protecting, and raising a gosling or 3? Is this injurious to their spirit? Do they even care? Probably not, but still ... ugh. It will come clear soon.)
Along with the outer signs, I can feel my thoughts and ideas unfurling and stretching too. They've been in a restorative hibernation, closed in on themselves, something needed each year, guided by the growing darkness, and now the lengthening light is inspiring a subtle shift in inner buoyancy. And to honor and encourage that growth, to celebrate the shift, I want to be growing something green inside our house. Forcing tulip bulbs, seeds, something fun. It would also be nice to finally order the seeds from the catalogue for the garden this year, a garden I hope to compartmentalize into raised, wood-sided beds. I don't know why I've been procrastinating about that. Hmmm? No worries. Today. I'll do it today.
Here's to lengthening lightness without and within. Spread it around.
I fly home to Vermont today after a week in NYC. I love both places, but it'll be good to get back home with all the animals.
With the snow at hip height and a deep chill in the air and in the bones, it does help noticing that the light is sticking around a little bit longer every day. Spring is out there, stored away in seeds, in the daffodils and tulips we planted in October, in the promise of the lengthening and strengthening light. It's put the slightest tease of change in the air. Soon, as our neighbor Gail likes to point out, we'll be able to see subtle changes in the color of the tree bark. A redness, a fullness. Another more evident sign will be the return of a Canada Goose pair to our pond to raise another group of goslings. Every year I wrestle with discouraging them from doing so, but nature wins out. Yes, the poop is prodigious, especially when added to our lot's contribution, but the sight of them on our pond is like a haiku, a gentle, floating meditation we're treated to every single day. (Speaking of goslings, the jury is still out about letting our geese raise any young. We plan to sell and ship out most if not all of their eggs, but are we depriving them of a piece of spring if we deny them the experience of parenting, protecting, and raising a gosling or 3? Is this injurious to their spirit? Do they even care? Probably not, but still ... ugh. It will come clear soon.)
Along with the outer signs, I can feel my thoughts and ideas unfurling and stretching too. They've been in a restorative hibernation, closed in on themselves, something needed each year, guided by the growing darkness, and now the lengthening light is inspiring a subtle shift in inner buoyancy. And to honor and encourage that growth, to celebrate the shift, I want to be growing something green inside our house. Forcing tulip bulbs, seeds, something fun. It would also be nice to finally order the seeds from the catalogue for the garden this year, a garden I hope to compartmentalize into raised, wood-sided beds. I don't know why I've been procrastinating about that. Hmmm? No worries. Today. I'll do it today.
Here's to lengthening lightness without and within. Spread it around.
I fly home to Vermont today after a week in NYC. I love both places, but it'll be good to get back home with all the animals.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Think Good Thoughts
(Writing from NYC) News from up North. Richard discovered many coyote paw prints all around the various chicken coops and pens and, most worrisome, right in the yard adjacent to the goose pen. The snow is so high and firm now that it's an easy hop over any fence we've erected. The collective honks of the geese and Shmuel must have startled the interloper away, but if he comes back with friends I don't think honking will be much of a deterrent. Richard jerry-rigged some chicken wire extensions to more solidly secure the pen, but ... but ... but ... think good thoughts. That's what I'm doing. My only recourse being down in the city through Friday. I'd appreciate yours.
Now on to other thoughts.
Since my last post Richard's hatch has come through. I believe he has at least 10 new chicks. Not as pure bred as he had hoped, though. He had expected pristine Wellsommers, but it seems as if a whole lot of humping has been going on in that coop and pure bred is out of the question. We've got mutts. Cute mutts, but mutts. Richard, though, being an inveterate hatch addict, is delighted no matter what they look like.
Inspired by his various flocks, Richard did a little flying of his own yesterday on Cape Air, a vaunted 9 seat Cessena airlines, from White Plains to Lebanon. The flight was delayed due to weather than mechanical difficulties than weather again. His original flight was supposed to have taken off at 8:20 am, but didn't leave the ground until 7:30 pm. Frustrating, but at least it did take off. There for a while they were planning on limo-ing him north starting at 7:30, getting him home well past midnight and having to work the next day. The flight was wind whipped, a wild ride, especially taking off and landing. Richard was incredibly impressed by the pilot's skill, however, especially on landing when he would line the plane up to the upcoming runway only to be blown to the side several times by the mighty wind. Each time he would methodically correct his trajectory and aim her in again. A bronco ride, in safely.
That's it for now. Remember ... good goose thoughts.
Now on to other thoughts.
Since my last post Richard's hatch has come through. I believe he has at least 10 new chicks. Not as pure bred as he had hoped, though. He had expected pristine Wellsommers, but it seems as if a whole lot of humping has been going on in that coop and pure bred is out of the question. We've got mutts. Cute mutts, but mutts. Richard, though, being an inveterate hatch addict, is delighted no matter what they look like.
Inspired by his various flocks, Richard did a little flying of his own yesterday on Cape Air, a vaunted 9 seat Cessena airlines, from White Plains to Lebanon. The flight was delayed due to weather than mechanical difficulties than weather again. His original flight was supposed to have taken off at 8:20 am, but didn't leave the ground until 7:30 pm. Frustrating, but at least it did take off. There for a while they were planning on limo-ing him north starting at 7:30, getting him home well past midnight and having to work the next day. The flight was wind whipped, a wild ride, especially taking off and landing. Richard was incredibly impressed by the pilot's skill, however, especially on landing when he would line the plane up to the upcoming runway only to be blown to the side several times by the mighty wind. Each time he would methodically correct his trajectory and aim her in again. A bronco ride, in safely.
That's it for now. Remember ... good goose thoughts.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Something Extraordinary.
Last Saturday morning Richard and I processed 3 of our roosters all by ourselves. Friday late afternoon I noticed that one of our prize layers, Pearl, was bloodied all over her back and wings. Pearl is one of Richard's favorite hens and when I told of her plight over the phone, he was skeptical about my identifying ability.
"Are you sure it's not one of the roosters? I'll bet it's one of the roosters."
'She's - its grey and white. It's Pearl.'
"Are you sure there weren't any rust colored feathers in with the grey."
'I didn't notice, I was focused on the blood.'
"Go check again."
So I checked again and sure enough, it was Pearl and Richard was upset. He mumbled something derisive about the roosters and said he'd be home as soon as he got off work. In the meantime, I got Pearl out of the coop and into a pet carrier and brought her into our warm utility room to soothe her and make her feel safe. And as I was doing this I was thinking "She doesn't seem that traumatized by the attack". And sure enough when Richard got home, he put Pearl on his lap and examined her in front of the fire.
"This isn't her blood."
'You're sure?'
'She's fine. It's the young roosters. They're getting into fights and wounding one another with their claws and then they hump the hens and bleed all over them."
Richard had been speaking before about these young turks causing trouble in the coop. Red Barber, our proud, colorful, and kind wellsommer rooster who looks as if he walked right off of a corn flakes box, remains our favorite. He rules the roost inside the coop and has a strict code of behavior when it comes to the treatment of all the hens. He brooks no unseemly behavior from the young guys, all of whom are probably his sons. No violent humping, no rape. Of course Red's mating encounters don't exactly look like a chapter out of "The Joy of Sex," but we'll let that slide for the moment. He's heroic and territorial, rushing to the rescue whenever he hears a startled squawk, always on the watch. That's probably the source of the blood, Red putting one of the three in his place.
"That's it!" Richard declared packing Pearl back up, "They're history." And once a Virgo makes a decision, there's no turning back. The 3 roosters were on their way to freezer camp!
The decision made, Richard went into plan mode.
"We'll need the big pot, filled with water."
'The big pot? The soup pot?'
"The canning pot, the big enamel one. What's the sharpest knife we have?"
'Probably the fish filleting one. You're doing it tomorrow?'
"Yes."
'How - what - where are you going to --?'
"I'll string their legs together, hang them by nails on a tree, drain them, and then pluck them."
'But -'
"What's the problem?"
"I don't - I just -" I was suddenly so hesitant and uncertain. I'd always been an advocate for getting rid of more chickens, what was up?
"What's up?"
'What about all the blood?'
"What?"
'There's going to be blood, right?'
"Obviously."
'Shouldn't you get a rubber apron like the processor's up north? Do you really want to get blood on your jacket? It's going to be messy." It was the actuality of doing it, doing it ourselves that was throwing me for a loop. And I knew Richard was actually going to be the one doing it, so why was I upset? Was it because I was still on the fence about eating meat, that every one of these events was leading me to a vegetarian lifestyle? No! I was deciding whether I wanted to take part in it, that I should take part, that this was something new, something big, this was something I knew I should do, that we should experience together, and yet ...
"They wear the aprons because they are surrounded by other workers and there are so many birds that they have to be extra careful about blood getting on them."
I was going to counter with the fact that the guy up by St Johnsbury where we'd taken 6 of our birds to be processed worked alone and he was in an apron, but Dan, really? And why would we ask this? Move forward. It's happening. Just go with it, decision made. Let it be.
The next day.
Both up early. 6 am. Coffee, fire stoked, birds watered and fed. Richard reminded me that he had to have this done by 11 when he had to leave for another scheduled event, so the clock was ticking.
We were in the coop.
"There they are." One by one Richard pointed out the three that were about to go to a far, far better place. The first was a handsome fellow, big, definitely Red's offspring, though the coloring was different, darker. I could tell Richard was fond of him, I could hear it in his voice, but he was still resigned to the chicken's fate. When describing the next one, however, Richard's tone changed completely. "He's a trouble maker." His voice was flat and fatal, Mr. Death was speaking. The third was pretty scrawny and Richard seemed unsure about including him with the others. But then a resolve took over.
"You're right, let's just do it." I guess I'd been thinking that.
The pot of water was on the stove, close to a boil. It felt as if we were making preparations for a birth. Richard pounded nails into three trees, then came back to the garage to spread newspapers and lay out things for the plucking. We had checked out our knives and none had seemed sharp enough, so Richard called our neighbors who offered several choices of razor sharp instruments.
'How can I help?' I offered.
"I'll catch the birds one at a time, then when I turn them upside down they should calm and that's when I need you to tie their legs together."
'Okay.'
"Then I'll take them back to the trees."
'I don't think I should watch.'
"I don't think you should either." It still seemed so strange and cruel, I was really divided, having seen this creature running around, vital and alive, sure, maybe a trouble maker, but to know we were going to very soon kill it, take it's life. Okay, it's just a chicken, but it seemed enormous to me. I tried my best to get some Barbara Kingsolver mojo going. The best idea I could muster was to be kind to the bird, to tell it thank you, thank you. I stood back by our small coop and watched Richard trudge through the knee high snow to the first nailed tree at the edge of the woods. I could hear him saying thank you to the bird as he did, calming him. The handsome, big bird was first. Richard hung him upside down on the tree then as quick as he could he slit the bird's throat with one swift cut.
"Shit." The knife hadn't been as sharp as he had thought. He cut again. And then again. The bird twitched and flapped. I tensed and must've given a disapproving sound and Richard defended himself.
"That's nerves! You've heard of chickens with their heads cut off running around? That's what's happening." I so wanted to criticize him, tell him he wasn't doing it right, that he was hurting the bird. 'Don't you know what you're doing?! You should know what you're doing!' But I didn't say that. He'd read about it, but I thought this was doing it, doing it for the first time. And there's a world of difference between theory or instructions and the real thing. Oh, but I wanted to denounce him with this authoritative, know it all, voice of great wisdom and reason. But if I knew so much, why didn't I have the knife. Bottom line, I didn't know. I was uncomfortable. It was upsetting. I just stood there mum and witnessed and supported the effort to the best of my ability. Yes, it would've been nice to have cones to put the chickens down into like the processors have, I could see now that that would calm them and keep them from flapping around, but we didn't have them and we were doing our best without them and that was that.
Richard caught the second rooster, the "trouble maker" and again I tied its legs and then followed them both to the woods, standing a little bit closer this time. And this time Richard was more deft and sure of himself.
"It's like they're going to sleep," he assured me having hit an artery cleanly. I could see the raspberry color of its blood syrup the snow. We prepared the third and I walked right up to the tree to watch and Richard explained what he was doing as he did it. And then we waited. 5, 10 minutes went by. They would flap a bit, but slowly life ebbed away. Strange, sad, new.
Next came the plucking. The large enamel pot of boiling water was precariously situated on a tiny hot plate on the garage floor. Richard had read on line that one was to dip the chicken into "just below boiling" water for 45 seconds - I think there was an exact temperature, but we didn't have a thermometer. The immersion would loosen the feathers and make plucking exceedingly easier. The birds had been beheaded by now, most all the blood drained into the snow by the trees. Richard hadn't been looking forward to this step of the game at all and after dipping the bird, he sat down with great consternation on his face, but with the first gentle tug, all this changed. The feathers came out with incredible ease. Amazing! Richard looked up with an open mouth and wonder in his eyes, as if he'd just seen a baby being born. Oh how gorgeous the feathers were, their patterns, the layering, the natural design. What an incredible creation. The smell certainly wasn't pleasant, like a wet winter coat, but the whole process was endlessly fascinating.
And I had to do it myself. I grabbed the next chicken and headed for the hot pot.
"Don't keep it dunked as long this time. It was too hot before and some of the skin started to come off," Richard advised and as he counted out the time he coached me "Okay, now swoosh him around, right, up and down, up and down, good. Now sideways, back and forth. Really get the water all through the feathers ..."
Oh, I almost forgot. After Richard plucked his bird, he dressed it as well. Would that be the term? "Dressed?" Gutted. He'd cleaned plenty of fish in his day, but never a chicken.
'I saw someone do it once and they were able to bring it all out in one tug, almost as if it was in its own sac,' I offered and we walked each other through step-by-step, almost as if we were on a tv cooking show.
'Could we have an overhead shot of this, Frank'
And then after I had the experience of plucking my bird, I too had the experience of gutting and cleaning it. And every step of the way - I don't know how to describe it otherwise - there was such a respect for and honoring of its life. Knowing this bird was going to give us sustenance and nourishment and that our bodies through ingesting it would transform their bodies into energy and calories and life. The whole cycle of life, being part of it in a new way, was so potent and vivid and clear.
We put the newly dressed chickens into a bucket of cold water for a while, then, after cleaning up the garage a bit, we dripped them dry, wrapped them in plastic bags and put them in the freezer.
"This was something major today," Richard said. "Probably the biggest thing we've done together since we moved here."
I think he's right.
"Are you sure it's not one of the roosters? I'll bet it's one of the roosters."
'She's - its grey and white. It's Pearl.'
"Are you sure there weren't any rust colored feathers in with the grey."
'I didn't notice, I was focused on the blood.'
"Go check again."
So I checked again and sure enough, it was Pearl and Richard was upset. He mumbled something derisive about the roosters and said he'd be home as soon as he got off work. In the meantime, I got Pearl out of the coop and into a pet carrier and brought her into our warm utility room to soothe her and make her feel safe. And as I was doing this I was thinking "She doesn't seem that traumatized by the attack". And sure enough when Richard got home, he put Pearl on his lap and examined her in front of the fire.
"This isn't her blood."
'You're sure?'
'She's fine. It's the young roosters. They're getting into fights and wounding one another with their claws and then they hump the hens and bleed all over them."
Richard had been speaking before about these young turks causing trouble in the coop. Red Barber, our proud, colorful, and kind wellsommer rooster who looks as if he walked right off of a corn flakes box, remains our favorite. He rules the roost inside the coop and has a strict code of behavior when it comes to the treatment of all the hens. He brooks no unseemly behavior from the young guys, all of whom are probably his sons. No violent humping, no rape. Of course Red's mating encounters don't exactly look like a chapter out of "The Joy of Sex," but we'll let that slide for the moment. He's heroic and territorial, rushing to the rescue whenever he hears a startled squawk, always on the watch. That's probably the source of the blood, Red putting one of the three in his place.
"That's it!" Richard declared packing Pearl back up, "They're history." And once a Virgo makes a decision, there's no turning back. The 3 roosters were on their way to freezer camp!
The decision made, Richard went into plan mode.
"We'll need the big pot, filled with water."
'The big pot? The soup pot?'
"The canning pot, the big enamel one. What's the sharpest knife we have?"
'Probably the fish filleting one. You're doing it tomorrow?'
"Yes."
'How - what - where are you going to --?'
"I'll string their legs together, hang them by nails on a tree, drain them, and then pluck them."
'But -'
"What's the problem?"
"I don't - I just -" I was suddenly so hesitant and uncertain. I'd always been an advocate for getting rid of more chickens, what was up?
"What's up?"
'What about all the blood?'
"What?"
'There's going to be blood, right?'
"Obviously."
'Shouldn't you get a rubber apron like the processor's up north? Do you really want to get blood on your jacket? It's going to be messy." It was the actuality of doing it, doing it ourselves that was throwing me for a loop. And I knew Richard was actually going to be the one doing it, so why was I upset? Was it because I was still on the fence about eating meat, that every one of these events was leading me to a vegetarian lifestyle? No! I was deciding whether I wanted to take part in it, that I should take part, that this was something new, something big, this was something I knew I should do, that we should experience together, and yet ...
"They wear the aprons because they are surrounded by other workers and there are so many birds that they have to be extra careful about blood getting on them."
I was going to counter with the fact that the guy up by St Johnsbury where we'd taken 6 of our birds to be processed worked alone and he was in an apron, but Dan, really? And why would we ask this? Move forward. It's happening. Just go with it, decision made. Let it be.
The next day.
Both up early. 6 am. Coffee, fire stoked, birds watered and fed. Richard reminded me that he had to have this done by 11 when he had to leave for another scheduled event, so the clock was ticking.
We were in the coop.
"There they are." One by one Richard pointed out the three that were about to go to a far, far better place. The first was a handsome fellow, big, definitely Red's offspring, though the coloring was different, darker. I could tell Richard was fond of him, I could hear it in his voice, but he was still resigned to the chicken's fate. When describing the next one, however, Richard's tone changed completely. "He's a trouble maker." His voice was flat and fatal, Mr. Death was speaking. The third was pretty scrawny and Richard seemed unsure about including him with the others. But then a resolve took over.
"You're right, let's just do it." I guess I'd been thinking that.
The pot of water was on the stove, close to a boil. It felt as if we were making preparations for a birth. Richard pounded nails into three trees, then came back to the garage to spread newspapers and lay out things for the plucking. We had checked out our knives and none had seemed sharp enough, so Richard called our neighbors who offered several choices of razor sharp instruments.
'How can I help?' I offered.
"I'll catch the birds one at a time, then when I turn them upside down they should calm and that's when I need you to tie their legs together."
'Okay.'
"Then I'll take them back to the trees."
'I don't think I should watch.'
"I don't think you should either." It still seemed so strange and cruel, I was really divided, having seen this creature running around, vital and alive, sure, maybe a trouble maker, but to know we were going to very soon kill it, take it's life. Okay, it's just a chicken, but it seemed enormous to me. I tried my best to get some Barbara Kingsolver mojo going. The best idea I could muster was to be kind to the bird, to tell it thank you, thank you. I stood back by our small coop and watched Richard trudge through the knee high snow to the first nailed tree at the edge of the woods. I could hear him saying thank you to the bird as he did, calming him. The handsome, big bird was first. Richard hung him upside down on the tree then as quick as he could he slit the bird's throat with one swift cut.
"Shit." The knife hadn't been as sharp as he had thought. He cut again. And then again. The bird twitched and flapped. I tensed and must've given a disapproving sound and Richard defended himself.
"That's nerves! You've heard of chickens with their heads cut off running around? That's what's happening." I so wanted to criticize him, tell him he wasn't doing it right, that he was hurting the bird. 'Don't you know what you're doing?! You should know what you're doing!' But I didn't say that. He'd read about it, but I thought this was doing it, doing it for the first time. And there's a world of difference between theory or instructions and the real thing. Oh, but I wanted to denounce him with this authoritative, know it all, voice of great wisdom and reason. But if I knew so much, why didn't I have the knife. Bottom line, I didn't know. I was uncomfortable. It was upsetting. I just stood there mum and witnessed and supported the effort to the best of my ability. Yes, it would've been nice to have cones to put the chickens down into like the processors have, I could see now that that would calm them and keep them from flapping around, but we didn't have them and we were doing our best without them and that was that.
Richard caught the second rooster, the "trouble maker" and again I tied its legs and then followed them both to the woods, standing a little bit closer this time. And this time Richard was more deft and sure of himself.
"It's like they're going to sleep," he assured me having hit an artery cleanly. I could see the raspberry color of its blood syrup the snow. We prepared the third and I walked right up to the tree to watch and Richard explained what he was doing as he did it. And then we waited. 5, 10 minutes went by. They would flap a bit, but slowly life ebbed away. Strange, sad, new.
Next came the plucking. The large enamel pot of boiling water was precariously situated on a tiny hot plate on the garage floor. Richard had read on line that one was to dip the chicken into "just below boiling" water for 45 seconds - I think there was an exact temperature, but we didn't have a thermometer. The immersion would loosen the feathers and make plucking exceedingly easier. The birds had been beheaded by now, most all the blood drained into the snow by the trees. Richard hadn't been looking forward to this step of the game at all and after dipping the bird, he sat down with great consternation on his face, but with the first gentle tug, all this changed. The feathers came out with incredible ease. Amazing! Richard looked up with an open mouth and wonder in his eyes, as if he'd just seen a baby being born. Oh how gorgeous the feathers were, their patterns, the layering, the natural design. What an incredible creation. The smell certainly wasn't pleasant, like a wet winter coat, but the whole process was endlessly fascinating.
And I had to do it myself. I grabbed the next chicken and headed for the hot pot.
"Don't keep it dunked as long this time. It was too hot before and some of the skin started to come off," Richard advised and as he counted out the time he coached me "Okay, now swoosh him around, right, up and down, up and down, good. Now sideways, back and forth. Really get the water all through the feathers ..."
Oh, I almost forgot. After Richard plucked his bird, he dressed it as well. Would that be the term? "Dressed?" Gutted. He'd cleaned plenty of fish in his day, but never a chicken.
'I saw someone do it once and they were able to bring it all out in one tug, almost as if it was in its own sac,' I offered and we walked each other through step-by-step, almost as if we were on a tv cooking show.
'Could we have an overhead shot of this, Frank'
And then after I had the experience of plucking my bird, I too had the experience of gutting and cleaning it. And every step of the way - I don't know how to describe it otherwise - there was such a respect for and honoring of its life. Knowing this bird was going to give us sustenance and nourishment and that our bodies through ingesting it would transform their bodies into energy and calories and life. The whole cycle of life, being part of it in a new way, was so potent and vivid and clear.
We put the newly dressed chickens into a bucket of cold water for a while, then, after cleaning up the garage a bit, we dripped them dry, wrapped them in plastic bags and put them in the freezer.
"This was something major today," Richard said. "Probably the biggest thing we've done together since we moved here."
I think he's right.
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