Mutiny!

It was touch and go there, let me tell you.

I went down to Ron and Tabitha’s pond last evening around 6 to gather the geese and bring them home, a not uncommon chore. Ever since the Canada geese took possession of our pond across the road and given chase whenever our group gets near, Shmuel and the girls have daily taken an afternoon trek down the road a quarter mile, waddled through Ron’s pasture, and then down the meadowed hill to a clearing and the pond. Last night I’d finished all my chores and needed to get a move on to be able to catch a 7:00 film down in White River Junction, 37 miles away. If I was lucky, I’d look out my window and the geese would already have arrived, as they had the day before at this time. I looked, no such luck today. I will not rush, I told myself. It was a marvelous day, bold blue sky, clear, in the 70’s, dropping a bit. I crunched down our gravel road in shorts, braving the flies without Skin So Soft slathered on. And they left me alone, whataya know. It was the perfect time of day.

So down the road, past Ron’s house – I could make out his silhouette in his kitchen, sitting, listening to jazz, his doors open in front and back to cool the house. His lawn was freshly mowed and he’d cut a path all the way down the hill. For the geese, I thought. And at the bottom of the hill, at the far end of the pond, in shade, there they sat, the great white goose and his harem. They must’ve seen me coming, but they didn’t move, I came on slow. I began to favor the pond’s edge, getting in between them and the water, just in case they Dunkirked out away from me. And may I just say, I was gathering them not just because of a movie date, but a fox had been sighted in the area last night by our neighbors, Royce and Andy. They stopped by to tell us. And I didn’t trust that our geese would be safe coming home and putting themselves up on their own leaving their gate open and inviting.

I was nearly on them now and they began to stir, a slight complaint, sounding like kids being asked to come in from summer play after the sun’s gone down. They stood with a ruffle and Shmuel gave his familiar “I’m the man, so back off” shiver. That ritual over, we began the trek back home, slow and steady, me following and shepherding them forward, no fuss, no muss.

And then they stopped.

They just stopped.

They wouldn’t move.

I urged them on, waving my arms forward, this usually did the trick. No go. They stood their ground. And with every “Please” or “C’mon guys” they jabbered back, like their own mini-version of a town villager rabble or an old fashioned strike at the plant. Shmuel seemed to want to move, but the girls stood their ground, they were not going anywhere. Mary Ann seemed to be the main instigator, her tough, bass monotone gave a murmuring foundation to the mutiny. “Don’t give in, girls. He’s got nuthin’. Look, he’s sweatin’. He’s got no power. We’ve got him.”

So I surrendered. I gave in. I threw in the towel. And, satisfied, they all did a fluff and fold on their feathers. Now I do love watching that, this nibbling spruce up they do all over their bodies with clackering bills, necks craning like contortionists at a Cirque de Soleil summer retreat. A thorough going over, the works. And it was beautiful by the stream’s edge, the perfect time of day, green, calm, quiet. “Turn it into a meditation” I told myself. Okay, okay. And I thought – “So what next? What do I do now?” Very meditative, very turning it over.

And then they started moving. For no reason at all. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.” But at the bottom of the hill, they stopped again. This was different then the revolt. They seemed wary to be near the woods and the mown path I was guiding them towards edged right alongside it. I looked into the overgrowth wondering if there might be something in there. The fox? So I gave in again. I let go my insistence on the path and they immediately veered, no, scampered into the taller grass in the open field. And they took the at a good steady, athletic clip. I expected a chorus of “Val-de-ree, Val-de-rah!!” They are like hearty Canadians or Europeans. Not in great shape in a cosmetic American fashion; they’re of a heartier, peasant stock. There’s still an elegance in them, especially in Mary Ann, a touch of regal standing in Shmuel, but Daphne and Felicity, definitely, earthy, working class, their big behinds swaying back and forth as if to say “Yeah, I got a big ass, it’s a great ass. I’m beautiful as is.”

We were at the road. A quarter mile to go and then up to their house. Still I fought back the rush to move things along. I wanted to go their pace. So I focused on the strum of their padding, like an army of dwarves at boot camp, like bean bag pebbles being rolled along. Their feet are miraculous, pliable, tough, this orange stretch of membrane over a backward triangle, like lizard skin kites. And the horny nails, 3 in front and 1 hooked down on the back of the leg, are reminders of dinosaur ancestry swimming around in their DNA. That might be where the whole mutiny idea stemmed. “We’ll be led today, but who knows what’ll happen tomorrow. This is just the beginning, buster.”

I have such deep affection for our geese. Why is that? It gave me such sweet satisfaction guiding them home, letting them take up the whole road, stopping off for a moment to have a munch on a tall dandelion stalk that caught their eye, watching Shmuel lean over and rub necks with Mary Ann “How you doin’, baby? This pace okay with you, baby?” and her no nonsense, stoic replies. They are so dear to me. Funny. Such grace in such clumsy packages. Walking, waddling meditations.

I coaxed them gently into our drive at the mailbox, thanking them again for letting me lead them home and we continued up through the old orchard to their house and pen. No showdown with Shmuel at the gate, that’s gone by the wayside ever since the end of egg laying time. He did turn for a face-off, to make sure I latched them in correctly, and then as I meandered down the hill, I could hear them murmur to one another, Shmuel’s breathy comments a little higher than the others. (When he converses like that it always reminds me of Jiminy Cricket.) There were no complaints from any of them, they seemed glad to be home. Content. I could hear them drinking, that long dip down into the bucket, followed by a tilting back to let the liquid down their long necks, as if they’re teaching us how to fully appreciate a drink of water. And then they were sprucing up again, a once over on the feathers after travel, getting the dust out, preparing for a nice lay down in the grass. Have to keep up appearances wherever you are.

I don’t know if I shared with you that we have 2 baby goslings. They had been nabbed from the goose’s nest and were hatched in Richard’s incubator last weekend. They are adorable and are residing upstairs in a heat lamp warmed box in our attic. 1 gander, 1 goose. Richard and I are firmly imprinted on them, but we’re determined not to get too attached to them because they are already promised to the man who delivers our top soil. He wants them as guard geese, he’s already got a pen built, and he’s looking forward to sharing them with his grandkids. He definitely does NOT want them for meat birds which makes Richard feel better about parting with them. But it’s hard, it’s hard. There’s a little rebellion inside both of us and if we don’t watch it, we can feel the first signs of caving. It starts with little whisperings like “Oh, they’re so cute!” and then “Oh, what would 2 more geese hurt?” and soon it will be open rebellion against common sense. An uprising of the heart. Mustn’t cave. Mustn’t mutiny against the plan.

So now, to wean ourselves, instead of long cuddles on the couch with the goslings craning in for warmth under our chins, us braving little squirts on our sweatshirts, we try, TRY mind you, to come into the attic, greet them at their box, take in their adorable squeezebox tweets and their push for affection, and then, instead of a prolonged cuddle, we simply touch. And go.

The Sounds of .... something other than silence.

It sounds as if our pond - or some water creature just below the surface of the pond – is having major dental work done. “And … spit.” There’s a continuous sucking emanating from across the road. I know from whence it comes, it comes from the standing pipe Richard and I opened up yesterday afternoon in order to lower the level of the pond 10 inches because the constant flow of water down the overflow has made a Mekong Delta amid our grove of very beautiful and tall pines next to the pond and jeopardizes their future health. So this sucking shall past BUT it wreaks havoc with a sense of pastoral bliss.

But hark … the sucking just stopped.

It does that every once and awhile which gives me hope that it won’t be a constant once the level of the pond is down to its top.


And now Royce decided to chain saw.

That’s okay. Might as well make a list of sounds greeting us this morning.

Unfortunately there’s a wheezing sound from one of our Copper Blue Marrans which breaks both our hearts. And she’s one of our best layers, a sweet, beautiful bird. There’ve been a lot of deaths lately in our ranks and since Richard is usually the dispatcher, my heart goes out to him. He loves his birds so much. As do I. Most of the time. Richard was beating himself up yesterday feeling he was the cause of this malady. There’d been an infestation of mites in the coop accompanying the damp, damp weather we’ve been having lately, and Richard felt so proud that he’d gone out and gotten organic mite powder to sprinkle throughout the coop after he’d scooped out the old straw and pine shavings and replaced it with dryer stock and then he’d powdered each bird individually. He learned afterwards that holding a hen upside down when administering the powdering – as he had done successfully with other powders he’d put on them – could lead to respiratory ailments should they inhale it. Ugh, ugh, ugh. So we’ve been giving her some antibiotics – a last resort for us – both as a hypo and orally. She did insist on laying an egg today, what a trooper, but is she getting better? Our fingers are crossed.

More hopeful, happy sounds? The squeezebox tweet of the 2 goslings which cracked into this world over the weekend. One boy, one girl. They’re adorable and have firmly and joyfully imprinted on both of us. They have 4 newly hatched chicks in the box with them and they’re all having a ball together. It’s going to be hard getting rid of them. So fun to pick them up and feel that lighter than air, fluff ball nothing of them in your arms as they nibble your chin and give their squeezebox tweets of delight.

Writer’s Almanac. Garrison Keillor’s basso monotone telling me that it’s Walt Whitman’s birthday today. Way to go, Walt; many happy returns. I’ll have to pull out his Brooklyn Ferry poems today. What a sucker I am for his time travelly pieces. You rock, Walt. Song of Yourself, baby.

Birdsong. What a variety. The calm, comforting clucks from our hens and roosters. Red Barber’s proud crow. Bomanitious’s neck stretched gobble (he’s our Tom), sounding like some sort of goofy wind instrument constantly tuning up, never quite getting it right, wanting to give it another try. Shmuel’s demanding trumpet blast of a bray “Let us out NOW!” as I near the fence and the rest of the girls – Mary Ann, Daphne, and Felicity – crescendo into a panicked chaos of jabber. The lazy buzz and brass, then sweet call of the red wing blackbird, reminding of hotter days to come. Thrushes deep in the cool, cool woods with their sad echoey siren song as if saying “Come find me, you won’t get lost, come find me deep, deep in the woods. I’m waiting for you.”

Oh, the chain saw just went off. And no sucking sound from the pond. Bird calls code the air. And the soft liquid massage of a stream nearby, our pond emptying down the path that will soon be its only stream, landscaped, green, of the woods. Our doing.

There’s a far off murmur of a truck grumbling somewhere.
The wind doing its invisible act through the rustle of leaves on the magnolia.
Here come our geese walking single file past the screened porch, Shmuel, 3rd in line, giving high wheezy murmurs that sound as if he’s talking to himself. Or whispering sweet nothings to Mary Ann. They always look like the Snow family from “Carousel” when they walk in formation like that.
A jet high, high above, sounding extra terrestrial, incongruous, not of this world. A ghost’s inhalation.
The cats are all sleeping somewhere, conked out, but earlier I had Oliver’s almost understandable “Turn the faucet on, I need a drink” complete with body language; Sofia’s shameless, seductive Salome “Oh, baby, I’ll do anything for you if you just feed me. Feed me, baby. NOW!” ; Astrid’s brief little keens “My heart is always breaking, but I keep it together for you, for you, for you.” And Miss Crab, Delilah. She’s really not crabby, she just sounds like that, this harsh, raspy Selma Diamond complaining sound when she begs for food or attention. If she were human, I see her in curlers and a robe, a drink in one hand, a cigarette dangling from her lips, the town gossip. Richard calls the Mrs. Kravitz of cats.

And now there is a silent sound urging me to take a walk, one of those walks where I may write along the way or read or just take in all the sights and sounds along the way.

A Nature Give and Take

I walked to the top of our rise this morning, a grey, drippy morning, slight chill to the air, enough to warrant a warm wood fire inside. My head was down, I was musing about what to write, coffee in hand. Quiet. I like to get to the top of the rise without having looked back, so that when I turn the expanse of the Green Mountains in the background and the ever changing landscape is always a surprise. As I neared the crest, I brought my head up to look over to the left where Richard and I had felled 2 large ailing birch trees the other day. It had opened up the forest and the view of the far hill nicely. I turned my head straight ahead and I saw them. 3 young deer, grazing. I stopped still in my tracks, silent, and gazed. “Oh, Richard would love this,” I thought. The 2 farther up the hill turned to look at me, curious, as if they were focusing in on an eye chart, while the 1 closest to me continued to munch on grass with relaxed purposefulness. He raised his head and looked my way, and with a start and breathy snort, turned and hopped for cover in the trees, the other 2 following suit, their white behinds and upturned tails so gorgeous, like 19th century frocks. How wonderful!

And a little gift from nature was just what I needed for I, we, have been on the horns of a dilemma lately, namely what to do about the pair of Canada Geese on our pond. This is not a new phenomenon. For the 5 years we’ve resided here, this time of year has meant a pair of Canada Geese – we’re told that usually it’s the same pair every year, or at least one of the offspring – has come to our pond to lay eggs, raise their young (usually 4 gosling), teach them to fend for themselves and fly, and after flying lessons are completed to their satisfaction they leave for another year. This annual visit hasn’t been without issue. The prodigious amounts of goose poop around the edges of our pond, especially when added to our geese’s contribution, has been a gnarly topic. The past 3 years we’ve had our own domestic flock of geese and each year they’ve cobbled together an understanding of co-habitation with the Canadians. Last year it helped that both groups had offspring. This year, however, it’s gotten very contentious. When our geese get anywhere near the pond, they are dive bombed. They really battered and bruised Felicity the other day, she had to submerge and swim underwater most of the pond to get away from them, while I heaved stones from the shore to keep them off.

Compounding all of this is that we think the Canadians whole cycle is off due to the late ice covering on our pond which lasted until 2 weeks ago. If they did lay eggs, they’re no where to be found. When these attacks escalated in ferocity, we decided to discourage them from being here, and went after their eggs, but there are none anywhere near where they nest. Maybe they layed them and the weasel that’s around the pond nabbed them. It wouldn’t’ve been difficult to do. Or they haven’t laid yet and now it’s too late. There’s some frustration in the cycle. But what to do about our geese, that’s my main concern. They love the pond and now they’ve been spooked off it, they’re terrified and pent up, sometimes driven off the pond into the woods and I have to shepherd them back, concerned about them being easy prey for predators in the forest.

As I said, we’ve been trying to discourage the Canadians and run them off. We’ve chased them. Richard’s done some chain sawing of trees over near the pond, a chore he needed and wanted to do, and he discovered that they didn’t like that at all. We’ve taken to getting our .22 out and shooting above and below them. This works to a certain extent, but most of the time now they just sort of hop to another location. We don’t want to shoot them. I feel weird having a gun in my hand to just scare them. And if we got VINS to come relocate them, nothing is preventing another pair from coming in. So … hmmmmmmmmmm? In the grand scheme of things, this is a small concern, but there you have it. Nature.

Have a great day. And any suggestions about what to do are welcome.

Dilettante Gardener

Dilettante gardener

High mowing organic seed packets spread across the table top, the pictures on the packets shine with anticipation. I think I can hear an insistent whisper “Plant me, plant me, plant me” coming from within. The Vegetable Gardener’s Bible waits calmly in the willow magazine rack by our “grandfather” chair, edging its spine out above the other magazines and books – it wants to be noticed, as I pass by it chants “Pull me out, pull me out.” Many of our friends have started seeds already, that’s the April activity here. I still may. My intentions are there, but the flesh is weak. So many other dazzling little distractions. Let’s face it, I’m an inveterate dilettante when it comes to gardening. I balk at the planning it entails, the prep work, and I don’t know if I could ever be one to take the temperature of the soil, keep soil journals, ph level charts, graphs, autographed pictures of Wendell Berry nearby. I say this possibly to get my balking reluctance out of my system and then I’ll go and do it. Maybe that’s the purpose of this particular installment of my blog. I like the idea of gardening. I know I’m a hard worker. I can be very committed. And for the past few years we have had a garden – haphazard, random, but weeded, watched over, watered. And I’ve/we’ve absorbed and put into action good advice from our neighbor Royce, namely to mound rather than burrow our rows. This practice is taken to even greater lengths in the Vegetable Gardener’s Bible. So I feel behind – especially when it comes to things like tomatoes and onions, but – but – but

Enough already, here are my aims and goals for the garden this year:

Raised beds 3’ by 15’ up in the garden area. Approximately 18” high, filled with compost and top soil, built with hemlock, tiered in rows to correct the slope of our garden and cut back on weeding. The rows inbetween the raised beds will have newspaper and straw

There may be square raised beds, mini-towers, among the flower garden just outside the kitchen windows where herbs and other things – lettuces perhaps – may thrive and be in proximity to cooking.

Plant an asparagus bed.

Plant a garlic bed in the fall.

Cover our replanted blueberry bushes with netting.

Get tomatoes and onions in planting trays and pots inside before the end of April.

Plant a whole bunch of thyme on our “bad soil” bank

That’s good. That's a starter.

Okay, some quick embarrassing admissions: Last year we had an excellent green bean crop, but I neglected to pick them, most of them. They dried on the vine. I didn’t think they’d be so bountiful. Silly, silly.

As an experiment, we added very little fertilizer/compost to our garden last year and the yield was pure. Sugar snap peas and pumpkins thrived, as well as some parsnips and carrots and radishes – and those beans I let dry to a crisp – but other than that, no go.

Alright, I'm purging my system. I'm up for a fun challenge. I'm in it for the whole ride.

April

Vermont’s version of Spring calls for patience. It’s part of the whole pattern here. Not to be rushed, all part of the package, it will happen when it happens. Mud season has passed. Sure, there are plenty of potholes and chuck holes (it is “holy week” after all) and there are long washboarded stretches of road that send your teeth to rattling no matter how solid your shocks are. But the deep ruts that gave the Grand Canyon a run for its money have been graded and filled and “smoothed.” There are dandruff patches of snow still hidden under the firs and spruce on the hills and the ice has a tenuously slushy foothold on the pond, to the consternation of the Canada Geese who are itching to lay some eggs. However, this too shall pass, this too is passing as I write. I can’t tell you how grand it is for the spirit to see the white of winter disappearing. I don’t care that what’s underneath is brown and beige. The green speaks to me. The green is coming. All the daffodils we planted with our friend Jean last autumn are shark finning up through the soil, all along the stonewall and around the edge of the pond. The crocus, my very favorite harbingers, are up and cupping - purples and yellows and white and lavender – like colorful robin baby mouths.

The smaller trees have all made it through the snow without any girdling. I surrounded them with hardware cloth in October and it worked like a charm. And good thing too, because the yard is gophered through with squiggly vole burrows. Soon the cats will be out which means Sofia's daily offering of yet another squinty vole baby at our feet. The seasonal vying for territory between our geese and the Canadians has begun. Poor Daphne got separated from the other 3 and was being attacked by the Canada pair back in the swamp area. Lots of dive bombing and wing flapping and outraged squawking. I ran back and scared the Canadians off. Daphne was hunched forward in the water, her back to them, a few feathers askew. After a moment of paralysis, she realized that the coast was clear and slowly, carefully made her way through the swamp sedge and cattails to shore. She wandered about the forest, seeking safety and I lent a hand to get her past a patch of old barbed wire before she was reunited with Shmuel and the rest of the gang who gossiped the air, catching each other up on the dramatic goings on. It was interesting watching the threesome while the attack on Daphne was happening. They just stood there, stoic, listening, not riled, not upset at all, just a detached sense of what will be, will be.

After a stunner of a sun-filled day yesterday, we’ve got a 180 degreer this morning. Grey, drippy, periods of pouring, and then a still, white-grey sky, and a landscape that’s doing a November imitation. That’s April, the cruelest month here in Vermont. Cruel? Well, a big tease. An in between month, a barrier, a buffer, work is being done, spring preparation, but the resurrections don’t come fully until May. Until then we suffice with crocus mouths, maybe daffodils, pussy willows are almost gone, the final bits of thaw, ever warmer temperatures, a bit of a soggy slog. It takes faith and patience and an invitation to enjoy the way, whatever the way may be. Let nature be.

I've been wanting

I’ve been wanting to tell you about mud season and the deep chasmy ruts swamping our road, more numerous and slip-slidey treacherous than any year yet. Then the cold snap hit defying the vernal equinox, not an out of the ordinary occurrence in Vermont, and I’d then wanted to tell you about the chill, the snow replacing what had melted, halting the tease of Spring, more white upon white upon white, relentless, erasing any memory of green . And I want to tell you of the geese, of Shmuel the protector, the fierce, the proud, and of the almost daily pile up of eggs that we’ve been snatching unbeknownst to he and the girls (we think) and then mailing them to people desirous of their own flock of Pilgrims. And I want to tell you how proud and colorful and erect our Tom Turkey is, our 2 Toms actually, for one of the ones we were sure was a hen popped out its tail feathers one afternoon and its head turned deep purple and red and prehistoric. And can we talk about their waddle (is that it?) that organ just north of its beak that goes from looking like a small unicorn’s horn, slightly pale and purple, to, when excited, long and red yet flaccid, hanging over and down below its beak, engorged with blood as it feathers itself out fully in proud male regalia. It’s a bit of an erection in reverse, longer, yes, but flaccid when excited, erect yet smaller when at rest. Also, the waddle’s length grows and diminishes when the turkey’s eating because it gets in the way. One of them swallowed it one day and had to cough it up. Fascinating. I know this is a grab bag of things, but I’ve been wanting and I thought it was high time to share.

I’m in Banff, Canada at the moment, but still connected to VPR and I’m hearing winter storm warnings. Going out like a lion, is March. I’m forgetting, did it really come in like a lamb? And did the groundhog really see its shadow? Vermont is much chillier than Banff, and we’re at a much higher altitude. Don’t know if that’s a sign of pride, but there it is. Wowee-zowee.

Happy April, everyone. Go ahead and be foolish. It’s good for all of us.

Anything Green'll do!

Anything Green'll do

I've got green on the mind, in my dreams, in my wishes and yearnings - I'm even drinking out of a green Dirt Cowboy "to go" mug as I write. So it's grand that it's St. Patrick's Day and I can wallow in green all day. I'll wrap myself in swaths of green cotton and wool and stride around so nature gets the message. I'll give a good Irish keen for the end of winter, I'll mourn it's passing and set some reverse psychology in motion to hurry the change of season along. We've had the time change (a bit rushed for me), we've sprung ahead, the equinox is just around the corner. 50 degrees today! Yes! Let's melt that thick comforter of remaining snow. Let that sap flow, bring on mud season, bring it, bring it, in all it's slip slidey sloppy glory. I'm ready. I can't even remember green, can't quite imagine it on our hills out back, it's been a white, clean slate for so long. It's Time for some nature painting class. Time for bold color. C'mon Demeter, do your thing. Hey Persephone! Time to pop up out of the underworld for another Spring fling. Shamrock a little magic our way, show off, be shameless. We'll all dance a jig of gratitude and quaff a brew to you. It'll be grand, grand, grand.