This is a poem found in a new collection from Vermont poet David Budbill that was sent to me from a friend in Middlebury who felt I had a similar pull between the country and the city. I like it a lot. Very true in its haiku spareness:
Contrasts
Off to the city
Everything so different
one place from the other.
Crowded and noisy streets
of the City, the solitude of
the quiet mountainside:
human-nonhuman, hectic-
calm, bright-dark, yang-yin
The sages say it’s all the same.
I don’t know; they sure seem
different to me. Each magnifies,
is better with, the other.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Death news
Death news
Well, what did you expect? It’s autumn. Death is going all around us. At the top of the Chippewa/Mt. Blueberry trail which I climbed yesterday, death looks quite becoming. A carpet of russet and gold and orange showing off all over the surrounding mountains and valleys. If you’re gonna a go, that’s the way to go, like a multi-colored nova. The leaves know what’s up. Here at home the garden’s slowly giving in to the season, with green still being the main color of its pallette. Earlier in the week, we harvested the acorn and butternut squash. The pole beans are still going strong as are the carrots, broccoli, celery, and kale. Even the tomatoes are giving death a good run for its money.
To be “of the season” Sofia just killed a chipmunk who for about a day now has been squeaking from its various hiding places beneath our kitchen cabinets, in the old wooden ice box we use to store newspapers to start our wood stove, and the utility room. One of the cats had brought it in, probably Sofia who’s the most feral of our cats, the huntress, a Vermont veteran who survived an entire winter outside when she was just a kitten. Over the years, she’s gifted us with all shapes and sizes of voles, moles, mice, a red-winged blackbird, countless grasshoppers, and a couple of chipmunks. I’m not particularly fond of chipmunks. I still have memories of their tent raids when I was a boy scout, ransacking any snacks I may have had in my pack. They especially were dexterous at unwrapping the plastic around my Kraft caramels. But this guy (or gal) I liked. He had pluck. We had tried to trap him overnight with a “have a heart” trap we placed in the kitchen, corralling the cats away in our guest room. No luck. We woke to an empty cage. Then we had kept the back door open and the rest of the house shut off for it to find its way back outside. Sofia, though, was outside roaming and when she returned she found the varmint. There ensued a wild squeaky dash and pursuit which I tried to break-up, but Sofia was not to be deterred. She caught it and trotted off with it in her mouth, a low snarly growl saying “It’s mine, mine!” By the time I loosened her jaw, it was glassy eyed, still. I shut the back door to Sofia’s wild keens and let the chipmunk lay there, sort of hoping he/she was playing possum. No such luck. Rats! Once more a lesson that really, we have no control over it.
And while we’re on the subject of things being “done in”, we’ve finally decided to whittle our goose family – 8 as we speak, 3 geese and 5 ganders - down to just Shmuel and Mary Ann for the winter. They’re devoted to one another AND will produce the best line of eggs next spring. We had debated keeping one of their daughters, but Richard chimed in that inbreeding brought some birth defects in the goslings like beak overbite that he hadn’t seen before and which he would expect would crop up again this year. It’s tough, though, contemplating getting rid of them. They’re a handful, yes, and it’s completely impractical. We feed them and keep them around simply for them. Watching them swim in formation on the pond is like a floating meditation. Every morning I smile walking up to their pen to let them out, hearing their low gossip crescendo to excited chatter and cries as they bump into each other, jockeying for the best position to get out. I also love arriving home and hearing their chorus of honks when we pull into the driveway – some stentorian and clear, some having an hysteric quality to them, and one a demanding and decidedly disagreeable tone as if he’s shouting “Where have you been?! Feed me! Now!!” The idea of “harvesting” or “processing” them is so difficult. I don’t go through this at all when chickens are the victims, but geese … it’s tough. We’re going to try our best to sell them, but even then we don’t know what will happen once they’re gone. It’s a dilemma of the heart. A little bit silly, I guess, but there you are. I’m a silly goose.
There are a couple roosters out back that have been pegged for processing. Death row. Well rolling death pen, actually. They’ve been in their separate enclosure for quite a while now, solitary confinement. Richard set up this arrangement because he said when they first got there, they would hump any hen in sight, and, sure enough, one day they made a break, these bad boys, these white trash birds, and they had their way with the whole flock, maybe twice, three times, before we were able to round them up and put them back in stir. I’d seen them facing off in the pen right outside the main coop earlier that day, working off excess energy, showing off, playing chicken (of course). I thought Richard had let them out for some reason, but no, they’d worked at a weak piece of fencing in their cage and forced themselves out to freedom. Like I said, we rounded them up – at gun point – and put them back into their refortified compound. They are something. Raspy, breathy crows in the morning. Real tough guys, challenging the air. We treat them humanely, moving their cage to fresh grass every day. They were “gifts” from our contractor who was really just wanting to get rid of them. Richard even kept them out several nights as fox food, but even the fox didn’t want them. They probably cornered the fox and roughed him up. It’s a jungle out there. Well, actually it’s a forest, but you know what I mean. We’re fattening the 2 of them up and soon they’ll be residing in freezer camp (Richard coined that phrase.)
Sofia’s on my lap now, stretched out sensuously on my flannel pj bottoms, making friends again as she grooms herself. “Forget about that chipmunk. Forget about death and autumn,” she purrs, pulling me into her worldview. “Focus on me. I’m alive. Be here now”
Well, what did you expect? It’s autumn. Death is going all around us. At the top of the Chippewa/Mt. Blueberry trail which I climbed yesterday, death looks quite becoming. A carpet of russet and gold and orange showing off all over the surrounding mountains and valleys. If you’re gonna a go, that’s the way to go, like a multi-colored nova. The leaves know what’s up. Here at home the garden’s slowly giving in to the season, with green still being the main color of its pallette. Earlier in the week, we harvested the acorn and butternut squash. The pole beans are still going strong as are the carrots, broccoli, celery, and kale. Even the tomatoes are giving death a good run for its money.
To be “of the season” Sofia just killed a chipmunk who for about a day now has been squeaking from its various hiding places beneath our kitchen cabinets, in the old wooden ice box we use to store newspapers to start our wood stove, and the utility room. One of the cats had brought it in, probably Sofia who’s the most feral of our cats, the huntress, a Vermont veteran who survived an entire winter outside when she was just a kitten. Over the years, she’s gifted us with all shapes and sizes of voles, moles, mice, a red-winged blackbird, countless grasshoppers, and a couple of chipmunks. I’m not particularly fond of chipmunks. I still have memories of their tent raids when I was a boy scout, ransacking any snacks I may have had in my pack. They especially were dexterous at unwrapping the plastic around my Kraft caramels. But this guy (or gal) I liked. He had pluck. We had tried to trap him overnight with a “have a heart” trap we placed in the kitchen, corralling the cats away in our guest room. No luck. We woke to an empty cage. Then we had kept the back door open and the rest of the house shut off for it to find its way back outside. Sofia, though, was outside roaming and when she returned she found the varmint. There ensued a wild squeaky dash and pursuit which I tried to break-up, but Sofia was not to be deterred. She caught it and trotted off with it in her mouth, a low snarly growl saying “It’s mine, mine!” By the time I loosened her jaw, it was glassy eyed, still. I shut the back door to Sofia’s wild keens and let the chipmunk lay there, sort of hoping he/she was playing possum. No such luck. Rats! Once more a lesson that really, we have no control over it.
And while we’re on the subject of things being “done in”, we’ve finally decided to whittle our goose family – 8 as we speak, 3 geese and 5 ganders - down to just Shmuel and Mary Ann for the winter. They’re devoted to one another AND will produce the best line of eggs next spring. We had debated keeping one of their daughters, but Richard chimed in that inbreeding brought some birth defects in the goslings like beak overbite that he hadn’t seen before and which he would expect would crop up again this year. It’s tough, though, contemplating getting rid of them. They’re a handful, yes, and it’s completely impractical. We feed them and keep them around simply for them. Watching them swim in formation on the pond is like a floating meditation. Every morning I smile walking up to their pen to let them out, hearing their low gossip crescendo to excited chatter and cries as they bump into each other, jockeying for the best position to get out. I also love arriving home and hearing their chorus of honks when we pull into the driveway – some stentorian and clear, some having an hysteric quality to them, and one a demanding and decidedly disagreeable tone as if he’s shouting “Where have you been?! Feed me! Now!!” The idea of “harvesting” or “processing” them is so difficult. I don’t go through this at all when chickens are the victims, but geese … it’s tough. We’re going to try our best to sell them, but even then we don’t know what will happen once they’re gone. It’s a dilemma of the heart. A little bit silly, I guess, but there you are. I’m a silly goose.
There are a couple roosters out back that have been pegged for processing. Death row. Well rolling death pen, actually. They’ve been in their separate enclosure for quite a while now, solitary confinement. Richard set up this arrangement because he said when they first got there, they would hump any hen in sight, and, sure enough, one day they made a break, these bad boys, these white trash birds, and they had their way with the whole flock, maybe twice, three times, before we were able to round them up and put them back in stir. I’d seen them facing off in the pen right outside the main coop earlier that day, working off excess energy, showing off, playing chicken (of course). I thought Richard had let them out for some reason, but no, they’d worked at a weak piece of fencing in their cage and forced themselves out to freedom. Like I said, we rounded them up – at gun point – and put them back into their refortified compound. They are something. Raspy, breathy crows in the morning. Real tough guys, challenging the air. We treat them humanely, moving their cage to fresh grass every day. They were “gifts” from our contractor who was really just wanting to get rid of them. Richard even kept them out several nights as fox food, but even the fox didn’t want them. They probably cornered the fox and roughed him up. It’s a jungle out there. Well, actually it’s a forest, but you know what I mean. We’re fattening the 2 of them up and soon they’ll be residing in freezer camp (Richard coined that phrase.)
Sofia’s on my lap now, stretched out sensuously on my flannel pj bottoms, making friends again as she grooms herself. “Forget about that chipmunk. Forget about death and autumn,” she purrs, pulling me into her worldview. “Focus on me. I’m alive. Be here now”
Monday, September 12, 2011
Woke in a cloud this morning
Woke in a cloud this morning, everything hazy white, opaque outside, just the silhouettes of the coops and the garden. A big comforter blanket around our house. Up with chores, the squawks and clucks all about. As Richard fed the chickens, I dodged the geese who were demanding grub which we’re low on. Then to the garden where I did a quick once over all the tomatoe vines for hornworms – the past few days I’ve sent 7 to their squirmy maker – then to the pole beans where webbed leaves semaphored that bean beetles were about. 7 of them are now at the bottom of a jar of sudsy water. I wonder if it being autumn, with leaves just beginning to turn in the woods, signals the predators to come out and feast on the first signs of decay? Everything in the garden is still craning for life, that last big burst, dodging frost warnings. We have about 12 good sized butternut squash swaddled amid those huge African looking leaves. Blossoms are still trumpeting out, bright, bold orange. Life! Life! Life! We have about 8 or so acorn squash. The tomatoe vines are teeming with fruit and we’ve already made 2 big batches of green tomatoe chutney that we canned in pint Ball jars. There are pole beans and broccoli, celery, a couple cantelope and about 6 small watermelon, all yearning for warm days. Not a whole lot of those in Vermont’s short growing season. I’m so proud of the garden, it looks grand.
We called in the owls over the weekend. Our friend Susan came with a cassette recording that she played over and over in the moonlit night as we sat around in lawn chairs, wrapped in fleece and flannel. It was a cold night. We all behaved, followed her instructions, sat still, didn’t say a word. We sat for a good half hour, the only sound the click and whirl of the rewind of the recording on her cassette player. Nothing. I could tell she was getting discouraged and a few of our stalwarts were getting cold. But then the moment we began talking, we heard a big hoot in a nearby tree. Like disobedient school kids chastened, we sat down and bit our tongues. Why, I don’t know, because it was our chatter that had attracted it. Again, Susan played the recording. She had said that once they came they would begin a chatter reminiscent of monkeys to display their territorial disgust that a foreigner was in their midst. Jingoism in the animal kingdom. And sure enough, after another break where we began talking to one another, another owl showed up in a nearby tall pine and began a breathy hoot and howl chatter. I was back by our goose enclosure when this was happening and they were stirred up and whispering to one another, their white coats like crook-necked ghost bobbing about. I agree with Richard when he said: “Isn’t it wonderful at our age to get a group together like this and do something completely new.” Yes, yes, yes!
A correction from a blog a few days ago. We went to Middlebury over the weekend and went to the Folklife Center there where the photographic and audio offering was of a drag club that had been in Dummerston, Vt. until 2004. Dummerston is the site of a famous annual Apple Pie contest, the town’s down near Brattleboro in the southern part of the state. My mom and I went one year and though it took awhile to get there we finally found this quaint little town nestled in the woods, tents set up with vanilla ice cream and pies, pies, pies and most of the town populated with leather clad motorcycle riders! Most of whom were 35 plus years old. Very funny, very incongruous, very Vermont. Of course this place would have a famous once a month drag show with Mama and Kitty and Sophie and Chloe. The photos were wonderful and the interviews telling and insightful. My favorite quote: “Everyone has their own drag. It’s their ‘if only I could …’. Fill in the blank and that’s your drag.”
The sun is out. Daphne, one of our loudest geese, just answered one of the roosters crows. It’s time for me to get out and paint a little primer and the newly clapboarded east side of our house.
Have a great day!
We called in the owls over the weekend. Our friend Susan came with a cassette recording that she played over and over in the moonlit night as we sat around in lawn chairs, wrapped in fleece and flannel. It was a cold night. We all behaved, followed her instructions, sat still, didn’t say a word. We sat for a good half hour, the only sound the click and whirl of the rewind of the recording on her cassette player. Nothing. I could tell she was getting discouraged and a few of our stalwarts were getting cold. But then the moment we began talking, we heard a big hoot in a nearby tree. Like disobedient school kids chastened, we sat down and bit our tongues. Why, I don’t know, because it was our chatter that had attracted it. Again, Susan played the recording. She had said that once they came they would begin a chatter reminiscent of monkeys to display their territorial disgust that a foreigner was in their midst. Jingoism in the animal kingdom. And sure enough, after another break where we began talking to one another, another owl showed up in a nearby tall pine and began a breathy hoot and howl chatter. I was back by our goose enclosure when this was happening and they were stirred up and whispering to one another, their white coats like crook-necked ghost bobbing about. I agree with Richard when he said: “Isn’t it wonderful at our age to get a group together like this and do something completely new.” Yes, yes, yes!
A correction from a blog a few days ago. We went to Middlebury over the weekend and went to the Folklife Center there where the photographic and audio offering was of a drag club that had been in Dummerston, Vt. until 2004. Dummerston is the site of a famous annual Apple Pie contest, the town’s down near Brattleboro in the southern part of the state. My mom and I went one year and though it took awhile to get there we finally found this quaint little town nestled in the woods, tents set up with vanilla ice cream and pies, pies, pies and most of the town populated with leather clad motorcycle riders! Most of whom were 35 plus years old. Very funny, very incongruous, very Vermont. Of course this place would have a famous once a month drag show with Mama and Kitty and Sophie and Chloe. The photos were wonderful and the interviews telling and insightful. My favorite quote: “Everyone has their own drag. It’s their ‘if only I could …’. Fill in the blank and that’s your drag.”
The sun is out. Daphne, one of our loudest geese, just answered one of the roosters crows. It’s time for me to get out and paint a little primer and the newly clapboarded east side of our house.
Have a great day!
Thursday, September 8, 2011
What's in store the next few days ...
We trek over to our friends in Middlebury tomorrow -- all the way up to Burlington and then back down around the Green Mtns since all the scenic roads over them have been pretty well crippled by Irene. (It's still amazing to see what the storm has done to people in this state.) While there we'll see a new play by a friend of ours which uses letters written by Vermonters, soldiers and their families, during the Civil War to tell the state's personal history of the conflict. One little historical tidbit: Vermont contributed more soldiers per capita than any other state in the union.
The following day in the morning we'll visit the Folk Art museum there that has impressive audio archives of people from the state encompassing many different issues and themes, very reminiscent to me of Story Corps. They have some unique exhibit going on there about a drag Cowboy bar that used to be in existence in Bennington (???) and was quite famous in its day. Ah Vermont Folk lore.
Then home in the evening to host a potluck dinner with friends where Susan Mann, our friend and sister of our neighbor Royce - both of whom grew up in our house - has promised to "call in the owls" from the woods. She is supposed to be incredibly good at it. Can't wait.
Sunday is Richard's 51st birthday and there will be a party at our dear friend, Charlotte's home in Hanover and I think earlier in the day, to pay homage to those who died 10 years ago, I'll visit St. Thomas's Episcopal Church in Hanover where they are slated to perform Mozart's Requiem.
Good news today -- probably old news to others, but new news to me: Phish, the famous Vermont rock band that disbanded before we moved here, has slated a concert to raise Flood Relief Funds! Way to go Boys!! I wish you great and abundant success!!
The following day in the morning we'll visit the Folk Art museum there that has impressive audio archives of people from the state encompassing many different issues and themes, very reminiscent to me of Story Corps. They have some unique exhibit going on there about a drag Cowboy bar that used to be in existence in Bennington (???) and was quite famous in its day. Ah Vermont Folk lore.
Then home in the evening to host a potluck dinner with friends where Susan Mann, our friend and sister of our neighbor Royce - both of whom grew up in our house - has promised to "call in the owls" from the woods. She is supposed to be incredibly good at it. Can't wait.
Sunday is Richard's 51st birthday and there will be a party at our dear friend, Charlotte's home in Hanover and I think earlier in the day, to pay homage to those who died 10 years ago, I'll visit St. Thomas's Episcopal Church in Hanover where they are slated to perform Mozart's Requiem.
Good news today -- probably old news to others, but new news to me: Phish, the famous Vermont rock band that disbanded before we moved here, has slated a concert to raise Flood Relief Funds! Way to go Boys!! I wish you great and abundant success!!
Back home after 2 months
Back home after 2 months in the city. I reacquaint myself with everything, settle back into the pace, the quiet. I like it. There doesn’t seem to be such a struggle this time.
Well, there has been a tussle, a left over from the city. My gmail and Facebook were hacked on September 2nd, contacts stolen, e-mails erased, a fairly transparent money scam saying I was stranded in Madrid sent out to all. After 5 days I have regained possession of my old gmail address, but not Facebook yet. Despite my disdain for anything that smacks of techno computereze and my utter frustration that a LIVE customer service representative is NOWHERE TO BE FOUND on either site to help shepherd one through the morass, I have not run away. I’ve stayed at it. I’ve walked away, come back. Gone a bit overboard, seen the error of my ways, dallied with black and white thinking ie “That’s it!! I’m quitting all these sites! I’m getting rid of my iphone. They’re all a sign of group speak, addictions disguised as conveniences! I’m becoming a part of the pack. It’s madness, Madness, MADNESS!” But for the most part, I’ve been able to keep a balance. To see how unimportant it is while still trying to rectify the situation. Maybe there’s been a change in me. Maybe it’s the effect of being back here, back with Richard, back with the green and the animals and the space. A little bit of everything.
Little things make me smile, petting the cats, for instance. This morning, Delilah, our big girl, looked up at me and launched into her morning ritual of “pet me, pet me, pet me …” a stuck record, her meow a monotone, insistent crabbiness, like Selma Diamond in fur. But once you bend down and begin to stroke her coat, she transforms into a kind of princess, rubenesque still, yes, but so graceful and sweet, her face full of pleasure, paws clutching in, then stretching out, her purr, a marvelous motor idling. The whole thing becomes a meditation, it’s poetry, it grounds me.
Drippy and grey today, the last remnants of Hurricane Lee taking a New England visit. We dodged a bullet a week ago when Irene splattered through. The eye of the storm went right over our house stopping the rain and wind as if a faucet had been shut off up in the sky. Strange and wonderful. We were completely unaware of the flash flooding and damage all around us until the calls of concern came in from friends around the world. Our state, our dear state.
On with the day. Just wanted to make a check in after almost 3 months.
And if anyone has a tip about getting back on Facebook after having been hacked, that would be great.
Well, there has been a tussle, a left over from the city. My gmail and Facebook were hacked on September 2nd, contacts stolen, e-mails erased, a fairly transparent money scam saying I was stranded in Madrid sent out to all. After 5 days I have regained possession of my old gmail address, but not Facebook yet. Despite my disdain for anything that smacks of techno computereze and my utter frustration that a LIVE customer service representative is NOWHERE TO BE FOUND on either site to help shepherd one through the morass, I have not run away. I’ve stayed at it. I’ve walked away, come back. Gone a bit overboard, seen the error of my ways, dallied with black and white thinking ie “That’s it!! I’m quitting all these sites! I’m getting rid of my iphone. They’re all a sign of group speak, addictions disguised as conveniences! I’m becoming a part of the pack. It’s madness, Madness, MADNESS!” But for the most part, I’ve been able to keep a balance. To see how unimportant it is while still trying to rectify the situation. Maybe there’s been a change in me. Maybe it’s the effect of being back here, back with Richard, back with the green and the animals and the space. A little bit of everything.
Little things make me smile, petting the cats, for instance. This morning, Delilah, our big girl, looked up at me and launched into her morning ritual of “pet me, pet me, pet me …” a stuck record, her meow a monotone, insistent crabbiness, like Selma Diamond in fur. But once you bend down and begin to stroke her coat, she transforms into a kind of princess, rubenesque still, yes, but so graceful and sweet, her face full of pleasure, paws clutching in, then stretching out, her purr, a marvelous motor idling. The whole thing becomes a meditation, it’s poetry, it grounds me.
Drippy and grey today, the last remnants of Hurricane Lee taking a New England visit. We dodged a bullet a week ago when Irene splattered through. The eye of the storm went right over our house stopping the rain and wind as if a faucet had been shut off up in the sky. Strange and wonderful. We were completely unaware of the flash flooding and damage all around us until the calls of concern came in from friends around the world. Our state, our dear state.
On with the day. Just wanted to make a check in after almost 3 months.
And if anyone has a tip about getting back on Facebook after having been hacked, that would be great.
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