Monday, November 28, 2011

The color of geese

The sky, the pond, the surrounding landscape, everything is the color of our geese this morning, white and grey. We woke encased in fog, a haze from the unseasonably - or seasonably from now on - warm weather, up to 60 tomorrow, and I could just make out their silhouettes up in their pen. I'm reading things into their behavior, watching the way they walk, stand, look at me, react to sounds, movement, as if they were all signs of shock, bereavement, post partem depression from 5 of their flock disappearing from their lives. And it's a ghosty day. Everything unfamiliar. I just spied them out the front window across the road, staring at the pond. Of course I was about to stick the word "forlornly" into that sentence right after "staring." But how do I know? Isn't the pond frozen over enough to give them pause? This grey white world melting a bit now from the 6 inches of Thanksgiving snow. Everything's off, so different. Where'd the green go? Or the moveable surface of the pond? The depth to dive in, the space for one's webbed feet to gain purchase and push you forward? Where did that world of water go? Go ask Persephone, headed south for the warm weather in Hades for the winter. She's no fool.

Post mortem on the processing.

Richard told me to expect to be haunted for a while. And I am. Up on a treacherously snowy driving day Wednesday. A quick chase and corner and cage of the first 4 and then 5 to be taken. An hour and a half drive north on slippery surfaces with their eyes looking up toward me reflected in the rear view mirror, as they kept cluck calming themselves. I turned classical music on low for them, cooed, thanked them, trying to calm them and in the process, centering myself.

The Processor's had had a busy morning, but there was no one there when I pulled up. Cynthia, tough and leathery with clear blue eyes and a kind smile, directed me around back. Snow covered the ground which I chose to see as a blessing, the white covering up what must have been pools of blood. I was grateful that their were signs of animal life around to balance out the surroundings, Muscovy ducks poking around near the barn, a blonde stallion pacing its stall, and 2 brown mares frolicing back and forth between pastured enclosures and rolling around in the snow, standing back up, and shaking it all off in a full body shiver. I'd never seen that before. From what I had imagined from Richard's story of his trip here last year, I had expected a larger building where the killing took place, but it was really an old double horse trailer decked out for its new purpose: 3 galvanized cones attached to one wall an open gap down its front side (beneath the cones was a pile of what looked like hard white straw or porcupine needles doused in blood - on closer inspection, turkey feathers); across from the cones was a combination sink/plucking/cutting area with big plastic buckets beneath; to the back of the trailer, a galvanized trash can atop a sturdy propane burner, a cauldron of hot water in which to douse the carcasses before plucking, and to its left, a wide-mouthed plucking machine, looking like a huge cotton candy maker. Just outside the trailer was another tub of cold water to place the finished birds. I lifted the hatchback door and saw that despite my efforts to protect the the floor, the geese had made quite a mess. No matter. I lifted the cage out and onto the snow and cleaned the mess. They were calm, the birds. Skittish when I pulled them from their cage, but I held them, thanking them one more time, and passed them off to Cynthia, now having donned a long, brown rubber apron and gloves. Phil, a jovial helper, was already in the back of the trailer and Ralph, looking like an old cowboy right out of Lonesome Dove, sauntered around the back of the trailer. I introduced myself and then told him we'd made the classic mistake of naming all our geese.

"Just rename them Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, etc," he said.

"Don't look now," Cynthia told me, the first 2 geese upside down in the cones, the knife in her hand. But I felt I owed them and I watched every step.

I'm still not right with it, the taking of their lives. I've spoken of this before. Richard was right, it stays with you. And there was kindness, thoughtfulness from Cynthia and Ralph. They were good people, proficient at their job. I remember when it got down to the last goose, one of the youngest, a gander. He had been the loudest squawker whenever we'd come home, whenever a stranger passed on the road, whenever it was time to eat. He'd relaxed in the cage, he was sitting down, Cynthia needed to use her "chicken hook" to tug him gently from the cage. I held him, loved him a bit, and passed him off to Cynthia. I heard her coo softly "You were a good goose" before taking his life. And still ... still ...

I drove home, lonely. No image of them in my rear view mirror. Knowing now they would be holiday gifts to dear friends, that the next day one would grace the table of our Thanksgiving hosts. The thought of that helped. I had to call Richard to talk myself down, ground myself, to reach out to someone who had had the same experience. I didn't want to berate myself with some form of "get over it! C'mon! Your cousins have killed and dressed game from time immemorial!" I then called my sister, leaving a message, remembering the time when she, a nurse in training years ago, had witnessed her first autopsy and had called me to share the experience. Life here and gone, no matter what size the creature, matters.

A lot of activity out our back window. The chickens are doing their little scratch and peck dance all over the hill, happy, it seems, to have a respite from the snow covered ground. Another group is up in the goose pen sprucing things up, snatching a little of the goose feed for themselves. A little tit for tat, the goose do the same thing to their food. Shmuel, Mary Ann, and Daphne (or is it Felicity?) are pretty vocal when I step out to check and see how they are. Not so much a belligerent cry from them as just "Yeah, we're here. We're right here. This is our territory, give us space and things will be just fine." And then a pure trumpety bray from Shmuel for no purpose at all other then to say "I'm alive!" A fine sound. And it stays clear and clear in the grey, white air.

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Please send this off.

Friends, followers, I include below a Facebook gripe, somewhat related to Vermont. I'm trying to get this out to as many venues as possible, hoping the proverbial spaghetti will stick somewhere and be heard, seen, heeded. Any help in this endeavor will be greatly appreciated. Thanks, Dan

Faceoff with Facebook

My name is Dan Butler. I’m an actor and writer, among other things. You may have seen me around, on film, stage, or the tv show, Frasier. First, I’ll begin with the positive. Until September of this year, I have appreciated Facebook’s services. I’ve enjoyed reconnecting with old friends; been grateful to have a forum to get the word out on a varied mix of political, professional, and personal issues; been glad to wish others well on their birthdays, anniversaries, to support their endeavors, generally happy to have an additional way to stay connected to the world.

When it comes to a gripe about Facebook, I don’t have the name value of Salmon Rushdie, but people know who I am. I pull some weight. Granted I’ve never had death threats from Fundamentalitst Islamic hordes (that I know of); however, I suppose that my openly gay status really burns some American Fundamentalist soup.

On September 2nd, both my gmail and Facebook accounts were hacked by a money scheme conglomerate. You know the ones: “I’m in London/Madrid/Hackensack and I’ve lost all my money, please send via western union as soon as possible … etc.” Technically savvy these hacking folk, though their obtaining lucre schemes seem pretty transparent. They seized control of both accounts (I unwittingly had the same password on both gmail and Facebook), inundated my friends with the “I’m stranded, send money” scheme, and in the process changed my account from a …gmail to a …ymail account, trashing my account and my contacts, and then making it seem as if that account had never existed. After several frustrating days using the limited avenues both Facebook and gmail provided, I was able to regain control of my gmail account. How? I spoke to a customer service representative over the phone. A LIVE PERSON HELPING ME!!!! I still have no idea how this happened because I’d been pleading with them to provide that service for about 4 days to no avail. Even an employee friend of mine rather high up in the Google ascendancy was flabbergasted by my having spoken to a live human being. “That never happens,” he said. All obstacles to regaining my account which seemed insurmountably impossible over the past few days were erased in 10 short minutes. It was simple, easy. A connection with a customer service representative and almost immediate success. Go figure.

No such luck at Facebook. For over 2 months now I have attempted and reattempted every avenue they provide to address a hacking incident, which is scant. The exact description of my situation does not appear in their choice of selections – namely that my e-mail account has been altered and so my original e-mail does not show up as having ever been an account, no past passwords apply, and that the hackers have changed my security answers. There are no sites available in their “Help” area to file a report to include this new twist on things. All responses from Facebook are automatonic, seeming to come from a machine rather than a person. Twice I have attempted per their instructions to reclaim my account by choosing 3 friends from my contacts list, apprising Facebook of my choices, and then Facebook sends 3 separate security codes out to each friend, I phone them, get said codes and then enter them in provided spaces, send them off to verify I am who I am, and am given an opportunity to enter a new password. The first time, I did as instructed and when I entered the codes, I was told they couldn’t process this at this time, to try again later, and then later, for some unexplained reason, the codes and new password weren’t accepted. When I made a second attempt a week later using 3 new friends, it interrupted that process by bringing up my 3 original friend choices saying a security attempt was already in progress. Then both groups cancelled one another out. Living in Vermont as I do, lining up 3 people easily available to get security codes from is a time-consuming enterprise, and when it doesn’t go through TWICE, in rather drawn out episodes, it makes me question spending so much time trying to retrieve a convenience, a connection to a social network.

At every juncture, in every way I can think of, I’ve urged, cajoled, begged Facebook to provide a customer service rep to call or who could call me, citing how easily the problem was eradicated at Google given the same circumstances. Hearing nothing back regarding this from Facebook, I’ve combed the internet and have become aware that there are many people in the same boat asking for a representative at Facebook, a LIVE PERSON, to help out. These too are people who have employed every tool Facebook has provided to regain their accounts. It seems ironic to me that a social network whose main ethos is connection with other people is really showing through their actions that they are about disconnection, controllable distance, a cold remove. To hearken back to Mr. Rushdie, God I’d love to be given the opportunity to provide a passport or license to prove I am who I say I am and get my account back. To add insult to all this, lately I’ve been receiving countless invitations from Facebook to become a first time customer – sent to the e-mail account they no longer recognize as having an existing hacked account!! I would think Facebook would want contented customers and proponents. This is not working. Admit mistakes, make the service better.

Okay, a simple birthday wish. My birthday is this coming Friday, December 2nd. It would be amazing, fantastic to have my account back by that time and be able to receive birthday wishes from my many now disconnected friends. Don’t you think that would be possible?

Monday, November 7, 2011

The Light on the hills this morning

On the tamaracks really, those miraculous trees up the rise, deciduous needled trees, turning yellow now, that greeted us the first time we looked at this house Thanksgiving week 5 years ago. I thought the whole bank of trees was dead, not a good omen for the place, but was educated to the contrary. Tamaracks. Eastern Larch. They lose their needles late autumn and then in the spring, tender lime green curlycues unfold like a slow magicians magic trick. "Nuthin' up my sleeve. Or should I say branch." And today, this morning, the tamaracks are one with the sun, basking their yellow skyward. Glorious. Bunched in together with a spruce and a couple fir, a choir of trees, posing for a picture, squeezing in from all sides for the best possible showing. I needed that view, caught in a frustrating search for lost glasses, putting too much energy toward that pursuit, needing a release from the grip of something petty and small and a release appeared just out the window. A small thing, taking time to take in the sun on the trees, which helped me see far better than bifocals would. And the glasses will show up, sooner or later - I'd prefer sooner - in the most unlikeliest of places probably, another lesson to be more aware (grrrr!).

The sun's creeping down the rise now. I'm going to go out and enjoy the day. 400 daffodils to plant.