Both New York and Vermont are having their particular versions of "cold snap" - New York's chill has hovered in the upper 30's and 40's while Vermont's went to 4 degrees yesterday morning, icing the flowers that had popped up for a Spring stretch. As I mentioned before, I'm in New York for work so Vermont is kept alive by my imagining and by daily calls with Richard. Goose eggs continue to pop out in prolific fashion. Schmul is as cantankerous and protective as ever and the girl's necks are almost feather free from his rough love making -- Schmul grabs their necks in his beak and presses them onto the ground but they don't seem to be complaining much. Richard swears he hears strains of "Oh my man, I love him so" coming from the coop. A pair of Canada geese recently circled our pond and were coming in for a landing to scout out nesting areas when they spied Schumul and the girls loitering around the icy shoreline and the Canadian's promptly banked back up and flew off to other sites. That's fine by me. Canada geese are beautiful, but since Richard is planning on letting the girls hatch a few eggs of their own rather than ship them all out, one family of geese on the pond, with their attendant feces is enough, thank you very much. AND in April Richard is receiving his long delayed shipment of turkey eggs; he intends on raising Thanksgiving birds for this November's feasts. Pictures of the mature turkeys look very fine indeed, plump and proud and colorful. Richard also just hatched a new batch of chicks which will help re-populate his flock after a recent bloodbath.
Last week Richard came home to find 8 of our chickens slaughtered about the yard and hill, a kind of chicken Columbine. I was crushed by the news. I couldn't sleep the next night imagining the carnage and wishing I could be there to mourn their passing. Yes, they were chickens, but we'd named them - Nanna and Grace, Taffy and Blackie, Dottie - and they hovered somewhere between pet and farm animal, sometimes a pest and bother, but mostly good mothers, good providers of eggs, a colorful additions to our place, pecking and scrounging, running and squawking. Even Mumblestump was traumatized by the event. Richard found him inside the coop, his usual boastful demeanor stilled by shock. There were gashes and bite marks on his back, many of his fine feathers gone; Richard feared that he might have to put him down. Thank God that a few days later he began to crow again. I'm sure he had been a hero, the male, as he so often has before against staggering odds. Poor baby. Richard phoned with the fresh news moments after he'd gotten home as he was quick collecting up the bodies to deposit them into the woods so animals could feast on them and they wouldn't go to waste. He too was in shock and the emotion wouldn't hit him until the next day. He tried to stuff it down, deeming it silly, they were just chickens, etc. I urged him to let whatever came up out. And so he did. We took it for granted that a coyote or fox had been the culprit and that this was to be expected, that we'd lucked out not having any events like this until now. Richard and Royce further secured both pens and fences and so the subject stood for several days until a new drama arose. Our friend Butch said that it didn't sound like a fox or coyote, that if it had been one of them they surely would've taken one of the birds with them. Then came the further news that some of our next door neighbor's chickens had been killed and that it had been another neighbor's young huskie dog that had done it and now the dog was missing. I knew this dog, a sweet, rambunctious, untethered dog that would come out to sniff and frolic around me whenever I would pass its place on my walks down the road. He had chased a Bull Moose down our road in July and Richard found out from still other neighbors that there had been many complaints about the dog that its owner had ignored. It had harassed sheep and other animals and had been generally wild and undisciplined and running free. The rumor is that someone shot it, very possibly our neighbor after his chickens were killed. Richard said it's like Peyton Place up there now with charges and countercharges and sides being taken. He has opted to not even mention that his chickens were killed though he would like to be compensated for them in the future. He just doesn't feel this is the time to enter into the fray. I, of course, am chomping at the bit to confront the woman, but it's really none of my business. He's probably right. It's sad all round. Drama in the hinterlands.
I'm trekking up to Vermont tomorrow via Dartmouth Coach and then back the next day on Amtrak - a 7 hour plus ride. Ugh. Why, you may ask? I need a hit of New England. I'm a Vermont junkie, jonesing for a little bit of serenity, a walk down our road, a taking in of the views, a big deep breath of our place up there. I long to be around the sap flowing and the bits of mud season, to see our cats and geese and chickens, to wake up in my own bed for one morning. It'll be a while before the next opportunity provides itself. It's worth it. Also, driving back and forth, though an adventure, is wearing. I had thought of bringing my subaru outback down to the city, but though it may be a good idea a little bit later, right now the prospect of jockeying it around from parking place to parking place in the city is not fun. AND during my most recent trip up and back to the Green Mountain State I got a speeding ticket that puts a couple points on my license. Ugh. I called up the Vermont DMV to see if, as in Los Angeles, one could take a class online or in person to erase those points. No, was the answer, those points would be on my license for TWO YEARS. Oh well. My responsibility. Just a little over eagerness trying to shorten the 5 hour plus drive. Slow down, Daniel. Take a lesson from the way Spring comes in Vermont, slowly, slowly, slowly.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
First Goose Egg!
Let the word go forth! One of our geese has laid her first egg!! Don't know for sure whose it is, but hip, hip, hooray! Royce found it this morning, not in the coop as expected, but out back in the hay I had spread down weeks and weeks ago. It doesn't surprise me one bit because all three loved lounging there during the day. Grand news though. I attach a few pictures passed on to me from Richard that show the egg itself, the girls and Schmul taking a dip, Ginger and Mary Ann shaking off after getting out of the pool, and all three of them again, lounging around newly freshened hay. Doesn't the sky look fantastic?! So fresh and clear. It just grabs me in the gut and heart, makes me smile, makes me want to be there right now. Enjoy!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Touching Base
I have been truant about writing, mostly due to having been in New York City working on a project that will keep me away from Vermont for a while. How long that "while" may be is still up in the air. A friend wrote me this morning to tell me that they had recently happened upon the blog and read all the back installments and it gave them such a sweet sense of the place and I realized now more than ever I do need to find time to write of and about Vermont to keep that "sweet sense of the place" alive in me. I do miss it so, the smells, the sights, the embrace of it all. I long to take a nice meander down our road and take in the slow changing of the seasons. There's still ample snow on the ground, but the temperatures have been rising into the high 40's during the day, which is prime for the sugar maple sap to flow. Richard says that our road is alive with little trucks back and forthing with their huge plastic gathering vats in back, filled or unfilled depending upon the direction they're driving. Soon sugar shacks will be steaming up and the men will gather round with beers and conversation as the sap slowly boils down to syrup. The warmer temperatures have also stimulated our fine big white gander Schmul.
"He's been mating with the girls," Richard told me.
'How can you tell' I rejoined.
"It's pretty obvious."
Richard proceeded to recount that he'd been the barnyard voyeur the day before watching his very own version of the nature channel.
"Ginger and Mary Ann just submit, they flatten out on the ground like pancakes and he climbs up on top of them. And he's big! He grabs their necks in his beak and positions them. He's not as rough as the roosters are with the hens, but Ginger and Mary Ann look a little the worse for wear. Some of their feathers are gone on their backs, on their necks."
'Poor babies.'
"But they seemed fine with it. He couldn't quite get positioned right on Ginger and Mary Ann seemed jealous while he was doing it. She'd nip at both of them until he finally climbed off Ginger and flattened Mary Ann to the ground. Then Ginger nonchalantly walked over to the water bucket and drank while he was doing Mary Ann."
'Brazen hussies.'
A pause.
'So how does he know when to stop?'
"What do you mean?"
'If they have eggs inside them, how does he know not to mount them? If he did, wouldn't it squash the egg inside them if he flattens them out so?'
Richard didn't really have an answer beyond "they just know."
More later.
"He's been mating with the girls," Richard told me.
'How can you tell' I rejoined.
"It's pretty obvious."
Richard proceeded to recount that he'd been the barnyard voyeur the day before watching his very own version of the nature channel.
"Ginger and Mary Ann just submit, they flatten out on the ground like pancakes and he climbs up on top of them. And he's big! He grabs their necks in his beak and positions them. He's not as rough as the roosters are with the hens, but Ginger and Mary Ann look a little the worse for wear. Some of their feathers are gone on their backs, on their necks."
'Poor babies.'
"But they seemed fine with it. He couldn't quite get positioned right on Ginger and Mary Ann seemed jealous while he was doing it. She'd nip at both of them until he finally climbed off Ginger and flattened Mary Ann to the ground. Then Ginger nonchalantly walked over to the water bucket and drank while he was doing Mary Ann."
'Brazen hussies.'
A pause.
'So how does he know when to stop?'
"What do you mean?"
'If they have eggs inside them, how does he know not to mount them? If he did, wouldn't it squash the egg inside them if he flattens them out so?'
Richard didn't really have an answer beyond "they just know."
More later.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Quick check-in
Home. After a dreary, drippy, soggy day yesterday that brought back memories of growing up in Indiana winters, today was more to my liking. Not really cold, but more of a Vermont January thaw variety and that's just fine. I was going to go into a sentence here explaining that a lot of my time is being spent in Manhattan these days so I put pressure on Vermont to be perfect when I do visit, but that's really not true. I like this place any way it presents itself. I love Vermont. It's home. It fortifies me, soothes me, grounds me, delights me any old way it wants to be. Even today with the snow having big patches of grass sticking out like Walt Whitman's unkempt hair of graves. Even with the snowmobilers once more not obeying the signs to stay on the designated VAT trail across our land. Even with the thaw yesterday exposing where we've put our chicken and goose coop shavings on our land. Even with that, it's beautiful to me.
So some updates. Richard hatched 13 little chicks this past week and they're healthy and rambunctious and cute as all get out. Our older chickens are producing at least 10 eggs a day, so we're thinking of selling eggs locally. It's unreal going out to the coop each morning and seeing this mass of eggs in one nest, like some egg fairy came and deposited them. Man! Our geese are stunning. With the weather going through a warm spell, we let them out of their pen during the day to stride around the property. Schmul is an incredible guard and protector. He's so handsome standing watch as the girls graze or swim in the kiddie pool we popped out again for the warm-ish days. Every once in awhile he'll give a sterling trumpet to the air and wave his wings to announce that he's going to shepherd them to another part of our property. He's going to be a great father. Richard spied fox tracks around both the goose enclosure and the chicken coop, but nothing since that night. Knock on wood, he or she did a little scouting out, saw they couldn't get in, and moved on. That would be nice. No new tracks since then.
I'm in my kitchen now, wood fire in the stove, just finished supper, Richard's away so I'm here alone, save for my 4 beautiful cats. Astrid's on my lap, grounding me. The other's in their own way seem to be saying "It's fine not to be doing anything. It's good to just be here. If you want to go to bed at 8, go to bed at 8 - we'll be right there with you, we're expert nappers and sleepers, you know that." Alright, maybe I'm putting words in their mouths, but what the hey, they don't seem to mind. I think I'm going to cave to their siren songs.
But before I go, I'm going to have to list another reason I love Vermont. Let's call this number 30 because I've completely lost count. "The Local Buzz" our local coffee shop on the main drag in Bradford, Vermont. Within the first 6 months of living here I began imagining a place that served GOOD coffee, strong coffee, and also gave the options of various espresso beverages. The Local Buzz offers that and more - excellent sandwiches, pastries, cookies, and baked goods, heirloom tomatoes, local produce and products. And people are coming. People are supporting it. It has wifi. It has atmosphere. It has promise. I am so happy to be an investor in this place. Hip-hip-hooray.
And now to bed. Enjoy the pics of the geese. Aren't they gorgeous?!
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Back in the saddle again ...
Dirt Cowboy Coffee House in Hanover, NH sipping a little Fair Trade Guatamalan organic coffee and realizing it’s January 9th and I haven’t blogged for a coon’s age. I’ve been back and forth to Manhattan, I can list a whole array of excuses, but still, still, still … so today is a combination catch-up, miscellany, and Happy New Year!
AND THEN THERE WAS A BLUE BUD LIGHT CAN
It’s beautiful here. I’ve been in New York for about a week, and I love New York, I delight in being there for so many reasons, but nothing puts a smile on my face like Vermont. Whether it’s the dark clear night we had last night with Orion and the Pleiades and Cassiopeia shimmering through, so clearly, so sharp; or the sweeping white rise of the hill behind our house with the fir and spruce along the wall line crest stretching up for the first buttery rays of the sun this morning; or the fresh feathery snow that makes everything seem new, I’m just a sucker for this place. And it’s frigidly cold, it’s hovering around 5 degrees, and I don’t care, I’m slap happy, I have to get out in it this morning! I had intended a 4 mile walk, rambling around for at least an hour, but we had a bit of a time crunch (weird imagining a “time crunch” in Vermont) and the 4 mile, hour or so trek shrank to 20 minutes and one mile tops. So I quick whipped through some chores - filled the cast iron firewood holder with wood and carried some boiling water and collard greens up to Schmul, Ginger and Mary Ann, who are all getting along famously, thank you very much – and ventured out into Dr. Zhivago-land. Pristine countryside. Appreciation unbounded. Oh earth, oh sky, oh nature!
And then there was a blue Bud light can.
Right there in the snow, just above “Dead Man’s Curve,” tossed out of a truck, I imagined, a logging truck, but who knows really. There have been other cans, most every walk I pick up a few. And it always stops me short. I can’t think how any one could even think of doing it. Here, of all places. Vermont and litter just don’t go together in my mind. You look out at this stunning beauty and … well, maybe they think the Bud light can is beautiful. It’s a nice shade of blue. It sort of breaks up the white nicely. Maybe that’s it, it was an aesthetic decision. They thought “maybe that one gay guy that goes for walks and reads and writes as he walks, yeah, the “weirdo”, maybe he’d appreciate a touch of blue against the white. Maybe he likes beer. No, wait, gays don’t really like beer, do they? Just expensive wines and cosmopolitans. Well, we’ll just stick with the blue, then. Go ahead, toss it out the window, Todd, go ahead.”
It does make me think of an anti-littering law that comedian Rick Reynolds came up with a few years back, namely that whatever someone littered should be shoved up their butt. That would include cigarette butts, Big Gulp cups, and most certainly a blue Bud light can. It could work. I think we should give it a try. Have Bernie Sanders champion the cause in Congress.
GHOSTS
My life is surrounded by ghosts these days. Not trying to be morbid, not really depressed, it’s just a fact. The play I’m writing is peopled with ghosts, the book I’m reading, “Free for All” Kenneth Turan’s excellent “greatest theatre story ever told” about Joe Papp and the Public Theatre, is teeming with all kinds of ghosts; even our woods in Vermont are filled with intact stone walls marking ghosts of once cleared farm fields taken over by forest; and New York City, frigid New York City, where I lived for a full decade and returned for 3 to 4 month stints to do plays while I was living in Los Angeles, New York City has ghosts on every block. I’m sure many people throughout New York’s history have had the same feelings. EB White wrote about it in his 1948 essay “Here is New York” rhapsodizing about what had happened in the city’s history only blocks away in every direction, even the spot where he was sitting and writing his piece.
For me, the ghosts come in all forms. There are the ghost of buildings, theatres no longer in existence – the Morosco, Circle in the Square downtown, the Promenade, the Regency revival movie house. And with the Morosco and Regency there are the ghosts of the protests to prevent their demise, protests peopled by Joe Papp and other ghosts. Up near where I’m subletting an apartment for the next 4 months on the West Side is the ghost of a grand old bowling alley I used to frequent in the ‘80’s. It resided around 75th and Amsterdam and now is the home to some glass and steel structure, a gym I think. Oh, the good times we had in that ramshackle bowling alley, parties, league nights, echoes of laughter and shouts, the cold taste of beer. There were only about 8 or 10 lanes as I recall and you had to alter your game a bit to compensate for the lane’s decided list. That was part of the fun. And the ghosts of the characters that worked at that place: the stern, bespectacled man behind the shoe counter, spraying Lysol into every shoe before and after you used them; the bartendress with the brashly colored red hair. Gone, gone, gone.
There are also the ghosts of friends, some who have passed away, and others who have simply passed away from my life, who I wish well wherever they may be, grateful for the glow of the time I spent with them. There are ghosts of romantic encounters, rehearsals, performances, parties, dinners, ACT-UP protests, walks, bicycle treks, Circle Line tours, subway rides, apartments, lofts. There are ghosts of me at every age I’ve been while living in or visiting this magnificent city.
Here’s one. New Year’s Eve 1973/74. Aprospos having just brought a New Year in. This is a story of a 19-year old ghost of me. I’d graduated high school that May, had traveled around a bit, done some construction down in Florida for several months, then returned to my hometown of Fort Wayne, Indiana, in December where my friend’s Pam Russell and Steven Willette and I concocted a spur of the moment idea to drive to NYC to celebrate New Years in Times Square. We would drive to Pam’s aunt in Connecticutt, park our car, train into New York, and spend night’s “crashing” on friend’s floors. We’d see some shows, eat at Momma Leone’s, it would all be a grand adventure. Pam and Steven were not only friends, they were an item. I was also attracted to Steven, but up to that trip, any attraction I’d had for men had been kept an idea rather than an acted upon reality. This trip marked a heart pounding adventure into new territory in that department too on the night Steven and I slept beside one another in Pam’s aunt’s attic.
But to stay on story - New Year’s Eve. I’d been to New York before on a high school theatre trip and loved being back there free from chaperones. And the added buzz from the secret experiments that Steven and I were transacting added to the holiday emancipation. We had gone to a performance of Godspell early in the evening. Was Momma Leone’s that night too? Not sure. Whenever we did go there I remember rooms filled with garish faux sculptures of David-like personages, wrapped with twinkling Christmas lights. And the food was fantastic. (Gone, gone. Like “Luchow’s”) We got to Times Square at 11:30 and forced ourselves into the crowd until we couldn’t move any further. Pam was a bit paranoid and claustraphobic, but took it all in good stride. It helped that we were all stoned and that the crowd was in good spirits. I remember when the ball dropped everyone started jumping up and down and you had no control over anything. I was cinched so tightly in beside everyone else in that crowd, that when they as one started hopping up and down, I was lifted off the ground myself. I had no choice. I was being jumped up and down. Steven smiling, me laughing, even Pam seemed to be enjoying herself, everyone bubbled with cheeriness. And as soon as the festivities were over, Times Square cleared. Amazing, impressive, ghost like.
Maybe there are already ghosts of what is to come too. The ghost of who I was waiting beside the ghost of who I will be. That’s comforting, already there, waiting for me to arrive.
AND THE BALL DROPPED IN GROTON
This New Year, Richard and I spent a grand night with friends at Brown’s Market Bistro in Groton, Vermont, and I’ll have to count Brown’s and the New Year’s celebration itself, surrounded by friends coming from as far away as Providence RI, as 2 more reasons that I love living in Vermont. It was a laugh-filled, food-filled, wine-filled, fun-filled night. And the snow that night! We cut through back country roads to and from the restaurant and the trees along the way were perfectly flocked. Our friends just arrived from Rhode Island were transfixed by the sheer beauty of it all and sat in the back seat of our outback ooohing and ahing all the way to dinner. How gratifying to hear beauty appreciated, the moment noted, nature applauded. Hip-hip indeed.
As midnight approached, Chuck, the gracious owner, topped the festivities off by wrapping several heavy cake pans with lights, then connected them to an orange extension cord and tossed this glowing orb over an art-filled wall, where it perched, until the final 10 second countdown when he slowly lowered it to the floor bringing us into 2010. The ball got caught on the frame of an oil painting on the way down, but it was easily dislodged, a minor snafu. We all kissed and hugged one another then, with arms around one another, sang a rousing verse of “Auld Lang Syne” to us, to all our loved ones here and gone, even to the Bud Light beer can tossers, what the hell.
Happy New Year to everyone!!
AND THEN THERE WAS A BLUE BUD LIGHT CAN
It’s beautiful here. I’ve been in New York for about a week, and I love New York, I delight in being there for so many reasons, but nothing puts a smile on my face like Vermont. Whether it’s the dark clear night we had last night with Orion and the Pleiades and Cassiopeia shimmering through, so clearly, so sharp; or the sweeping white rise of the hill behind our house with the fir and spruce along the wall line crest stretching up for the first buttery rays of the sun this morning; or the fresh feathery snow that makes everything seem new, I’m just a sucker for this place. And it’s frigidly cold, it’s hovering around 5 degrees, and I don’t care, I’m slap happy, I have to get out in it this morning! I had intended a 4 mile walk, rambling around for at least an hour, but we had a bit of a time crunch (weird imagining a “time crunch” in Vermont) and the 4 mile, hour or so trek shrank to 20 minutes and one mile tops. So I quick whipped through some chores - filled the cast iron firewood holder with wood and carried some boiling water and collard greens up to Schmul, Ginger and Mary Ann, who are all getting along famously, thank you very much – and ventured out into Dr. Zhivago-land. Pristine countryside. Appreciation unbounded. Oh earth, oh sky, oh nature!
And then there was a blue Bud light can.
Right there in the snow, just above “Dead Man’s Curve,” tossed out of a truck, I imagined, a logging truck, but who knows really. There have been other cans, most every walk I pick up a few. And it always stops me short. I can’t think how any one could even think of doing it. Here, of all places. Vermont and litter just don’t go together in my mind. You look out at this stunning beauty and … well, maybe they think the Bud light can is beautiful. It’s a nice shade of blue. It sort of breaks up the white nicely. Maybe that’s it, it was an aesthetic decision. They thought “maybe that one gay guy that goes for walks and reads and writes as he walks, yeah, the “weirdo”, maybe he’d appreciate a touch of blue against the white. Maybe he likes beer. No, wait, gays don’t really like beer, do they? Just expensive wines and cosmopolitans. Well, we’ll just stick with the blue, then. Go ahead, toss it out the window, Todd, go ahead.”
It does make me think of an anti-littering law that comedian Rick Reynolds came up with a few years back, namely that whatever someone littered should be shoved up their butt. That would include cigarette butts, Big Gulp cups, and most certainly a blue Bud light can. It could work. I think we should give it a try. Have Bernie Sanders champion the cause in Congress.
GHOSTS
My life is surrounded by ghosts these days. Not trying to be morbid, not really depressed, it’s just a fact. The play I’m writing is peopled with ghosts, the book I’m reading, “Free for All” Kenneth Turan’s excellent “greatest theatre story ever told” about Joe Papp and the Public Theatre, is teeming with all kinds of ghosts; even our woods in Vermont are filled with intact stone walls marking ghosts of once cleared farm fields taken over by forest; and New York City, frigid New York City, where I lived for a full decade and returned for 3 to 4 month stints to do plays while I was living in Los Angeles, New York City has ghosts on every block. I’m sure many people throughout New York’s history have had the same feelings. EB White wrote about it in his 1948 essay “Here is New York” rhapsodizing about what had happened in the city’s history only blocks away in every direction, even the spot where he was sitting and writing his piece.
For me, the ghosts come in all forms. There are the ghost of buildings, theatres no longer in existence – the Morosco, Circle in the Square downtown, the Promenade, the Regency revival movie house. And with the Morosco and Regency there are the ghosts of the protests to prevent their demise, protests peopled by Joe Papp and other ghosts. Up near where I’m subletting an apartment for the next 4 months on the West Side is the ghost of a grand old bowling alley I used to frequent in the ‘80’s. It resided around 75th and Amsterdam and now is the home to some glass and steel structure, a gym I think. Oh, the good times we had in that ramshackle bowling alley, parties, league nights, echoes of laughter and shouts, the cold taste of beer. There were only about 8 or 10 lanes as I recall and you had to alter your game a bit to compensate for the lane’s decided list. That was part of the fun. And the ghosts of the characters that worked at that place: the stern, bespectacled man behind the shoe counter, spraying Lysol into every shoe before and after you used them; the bartendress with the brashly colored red hair. Gone, gone, gone.
There are also the ghosts of friends, some who have passed away, and others who have simply passed away from my life, who I wish well wherever they may be, grateful for the glow of the time I spent with them. There are ghosts of romantic encounters, rehearsals, performances, parties, dinners, ACT-UP protests, walks, bicycle treks, Circle Line tours, subway rides, apartments, lofts. There are ghosts of me at every age I’ve been while living in or visiting this magnificent city.
Here’s one. New Year’s Eve 1973/74. Aprospos having just brought a New Year in. This is a story of a 19-year old ghost of me. I’d graduated high school that May, had traveled around a bit, done some construction down in Florida for several months, then returned to my hometown of Fort Wayne, Indiana, in December where my friend’s Pam Russell and Steven Willette and I concocted a spur of the moment idea to drive to NYC to celebrate New Years in Times Square. We would drive to Pam’s aunt in Connecticutt, park our car, train into New York, and spend night’s “crashing” on friend’s floors. We’d see some shows, eat at Momma Leone’s, it would all be a grand adventure. Pam and Steven were not only friends, they were an item. I was also attracted to Steven, but up to that trip, any attraction I’d had for men had been kept an idea rather than an acted upon reality. This trip marked a heart pounding adventure into new territory in that department too on the night Steven and I slept beside one another in Pam’s aunt’s attic.
But to stay on story - New Year’s Eve. I’d been to New York before on a high school theatre trip and loved being back there free from chaperones. And the added buzz from the secret experiments that Steven and I were transacting added to the holiday emancipation. We had gone to a performance of Godspell early in the evening. Was Momma Leone’s that night too? Not sure. Whenever we did go there I remember rooms filled with garish faux sculptures of David-like personages, wrapped with twinkling Christmas lights. And the food was fantastic. (Gone, gone. Like “Luchow’s”) We got to Times Square at 11:30 and forced ourselves into the crowd until we couldn’t move any further. Pam was a bit paranoid and claustraphobic, but took it all in good stride. It helped that we were all stoned and that the crowd was in good spirits. I remember when the ball dropped everyone started jumping up and down and you had no control over anything. I was cinched so tightly in beside everyone else in that crowd, that when they as one started hopping up and down, I was lifted off the ground myself. I had no choice. I was being jumped up and down. Steven smiling, me laughing, even Pam seemed to be enjoying herself, everyone bubbled with cheeriness. And as soon as the festivities were over, Times Square cleared. Amazing, impressive, ghost like.
Maybe there are already ghosts of what is to come too. The ghost of who I was waiting beside the ghost of who I will be. That’s comforting, already there, waiting for me to arrive.
AND THE BALL DROPPED IN GROTON
This New Year, Richard and I spent a grand night with friends at Brown’s Market Bistro in Groton, Vermont, and I’ll have to count Brown’s and the New Year’s celebration itself, surrounded by friends coming from as far away as Providence RI, as 2 more reasons that I love living in Vermont. It was a laugh-filled, food-filled, wine-filled, fun-filled night. And the snow that night! We cut through back country roads to and from the restaurant and the trees along the way were perfectly flocked. Our friends just arrived from Rhode Island were transfixed by the sheer beauty of it all and sat in the back seat of our outback ooohing and ahing all the way to dinner. How gratifying to hear beauty appreciated, the moment noted, nature applauded. Hip-hip indeed.
As midnight approached, Chuck, the gracious owner, topped the festivities off by wrapping several heavy cake pans with lights, then connected them to an orange extension cord and tossed this glowing orb over an art-filled wall, where it perched, until the final 10 second countdown when he slowly lowered it to the floor bringing us into 2010. The ball got caught on the frame of an oil painting on the way down, but it was easily dislodged, a minor snafu. We all kissed and hugged one another then, with arms around one another, sang a rousing verse of “Auld Lang Syne” to us, to all our loved ones here and gone, even to the Bud Light beer can tossers, what the hell.
Happy New Year to everyone!!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
What's good for the gander ....
gan·der n
1. an adult male goose
2. an offensive term used about or to somebody who is thought to be unserious and frivolous
3. a look or glance at somebody or something (informal)
Interesting definitions. Surprising to me that the word “gander” in addition to the commonly known “male goose” can be an offensive term. “Unserious.” “Frivolous.” Hmmm? I know I’ve locked onto these terms in the past when I’ve considered Richard’s love of poultry from a detached and judgmental position. Well, most of that has gone to the birds, especially of late. The latest development? During my trip back north from a week stay in New York, Richard informed me that he’d found a gander for sale for $45 just across the Rhode Island line in Massachusetts which just happened to be – miracle of miracles! – to be on my route home since I had just been visiting a friend south of Providence. Richard asked me if I would be so kind to stop by, buy him, box him up, and bring him home. Now I may have given an informal look or glance at this idea, but quickly tabled it for the greater cause of health care reform at our household and said a resounding YES to the Public Option of more poultry at our home. After all, Richard does have a legitimate business interest in this. He wants to get as many Pilgrim goose eggs laid as possible and ship them off to interested buyers around the country. And since we have 2 geese of laying age AND since each one of them could produce 30-40 eggs each in the goose laying period from late February through April AND since many major hatcheries have discontinued Pilgrim geese this year, this could be a profitable enterprise. And we could get a few more goslings ourselves. Not a bad proposition; they’re adorable.
So I drove my Subaru Outback Massachusetts way and visited the Berman’s who very kindly gave me a tour of their compound, a glorious and warm menagerie of goats and chickens and geese and dogs and cats. Lovely, lovely. It took me a little while to choose from the male geese, Schmul being the pappy of the other 3 and the larger, obviously. He was dominant and squawky, but I was able to pick him up a couple times and coo in his ear, ducking swipes he made at my nose. And oh what a fine and proud fellow he was. And a protective and fine father I was assured. After about 45 minutes of back and forth, my decision was made, and a box was made up for Schmul with hay and holes a plenty. The packing process went with ease and the box was put into the back for the 3 plus hour drive. Along the way, I would coo to him, give assurances and love. He did well. He even gave a nice hearty and brassy honk at the gas station I stopped at along the way, a fine trumpet to the air.
We arrived home before nightfall, and Richard came out of our house, all smiles, eager as a kid on Christmas morning. We carried the box up to the pen to introduce Schmul to the girls. It was cold, about 14 degrees or less. Chilly. But they warmed pretty quickly to one another, the girls a little stand-offish and proper at first and then Ginger started flirting with a little nibble on Schmul’s tail feathers. Since then Ginger has gone to following him everywhere, granted “everywhere” is a fairly small area, but still it’s pretty sweet. Love is in the air.
I’m sorry this installment is brief, but there are pictures. I’m also writing this from afar, Richard and I are in Tempe through the 27th and our dear neighbor Royce is taking care of our flock in our absence. As always when I’m away, Vermont is in my heart. I'm so glad and grateful that we live there, so grateful for all our friends, and grateful for all the ganders in our life, especially the frivolous and unserious ones that turn into hidden riches, their own version of the goose that lay the golden egg.
Happy Holidays!!
We’re also in the midst of a renaming quandary. I love Schuml, but Richard wants to carry on the “Gilligan’s Island” theme. We may have to go with Professor Schmul. Not bad.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Coaxing Recalcitrant Geese To And From Their Coop
Last night I was shepherding the geese back up to their coop and something happened that has never happened before. Snow covering the ground is a new experience for them, and they had been out in it all day, sticking mostly to the backyard, our covered porch, and around about the chicken coop where they got their exercise harassing the various breeds of poultry that would come out for a brief stretch. Now as the light in the sky dimmed – 4:30 pm, still amazing to me - they pretty much knew it was time to head up hill to their lodgings. They have given me a little trouble in the past, acting like kids that don’t want to go in yet, complaining for a little more time to stay outside and play. This was different. Maybe it was the white of the landscape that had erased all trace of familiarity. Maybe it was the slog of trudging through snow where once there had been firm, shallow earth and grass. Maybe it was an instinctive maternal energy, I don’t know, but after a mild resistance to going uphill, they both stopped and sat down on the snowy ground as if they were on a nest. I urged them on once, cooing encouragement, and they walked a few more steps, only to stop and nestle down again. And it wasn’t a stubborn defiant act; it was restful, calm, “this is where I belong and it is good.” They looked so sweet and content. But the fact remained that they had to get to their coop and they weren’t budging. And so, expecting them to scatter, I reached over to cradle them both in my arms and carry them AND THEY LET ME!! If you have been reading this blog you’ll know how rare verging on impossible this is. Though they’re devoted to and firmly imprinted on both Richard and me and follow us in a quick waddle or arm flapping flurry wherever we go outside, when we do turn directly to them for a bit of affection, a hug or a nuzzle, they scurry dash away, as if we’re trying to look up their skirts or something. Not this time. I bent down and reached around them both and lifted them off the ground. There was a brief flapping of webbed feet straining for earthy purchase in the air, but it was gone almost immediately. They relaxed. I congratulated them on their behavior and enjoyed the cuddle of goose down all the way to their open door. A quick dispatch through the door, a rustle, a quick trip to the galvanized feed pail to fill up their food tray, a water bucket check to be sure that it hadn’t iced over during the day, and then a slow shut of the door, wishing them both a good night. Once the door was shut, I stood there waiting to hear them cluck talk to one another in muffled tones and then the watery sploosh of them submerging their heads in the water bucket before taking a silent drink. It’s the sound of all’s well with the world to me.
Right now, both Richard and I are nestled inside, hunkered down for the 4 to 9 inch snow that’s forecast for today, the eastern version of the storm that’s been working its way across the country. The Vermont edition of said storm looks quite fetching so far. The chickens are staying in today. I went up around 8 to let the geese out, late for us, and Ginger came to the door, immediately assessed the situation and the countryside and with an “Are you kidding?” attitude, retreated back into the house. Mary Ann, who’s become the more adventurous of the 2, came to the door next and almost jumped down, her head down in intense concentration gauging the jump, her right foot doing test waves in the air. But it was not to be. Ginger’s constant chattering in the background may have worn her down for she too stepped away from the door. Plan 2 needed to go into effect. What is Plan 2 you ask? I have no idea. Actually, it would be Plan 3 for Plan 2 would be to just keep them in their house all day, a Plan we discovered Royce had opted for a couple of the days we had been gone recently.
Plan 3! Open their back pen. First step, continue covering the fenced in area adjacent to the coop so there’s a little protection and they can come out and slowly get used to the new climate with a sense of extended shelter. I went down to the now snow covered pile of old barn wood we’d taken off before putting the new pine siding up and placed it over the back entrance and then stooped hobbit-like and walked in the fenced in area underneath the sheltering boards and opened the back door which then turns into a comfortable ramp for them to use. I had to scrape a path through the wood shavings at the door, shavings that cushion the bottom of their coop, a bottom frequently in need of refluffing with a rake. You can figure out why it’s in need of constant refluffing. I was no sooner out of the pen then they both ventured out, curious, seemingly quite comfortable, exploring and poking through the fallen brown leaves and cornstalks on the ground, grateful for an outdoor stretch. I tossed in a bunch of lettuce and cabbage leaves Richard got yesterday from a feed store, compost in place of the grass they usually forage for all day. They liked that. They didn’t much care for the dried timothy grass I tossed in as well. It’s supposed to be good for them, but we may have to soak it before they find it palatable. All in all, though, Plan 3 seems to be working. The only thing we’re wary about are predators. A weasel could easily get in the back pen. We’re banking that it may be a little too early in the season for predators and that geese are much larger than chickens, possibly better able to defend themselves, but what do we know, this is our first winter wintering our poultry; we’ll learn through experience. We’re monitoring the coop from our back kitchen window to make sure they’re fine. So far, so good.
Off to other writing now, just wanted to keep checking in. It’s pretty gorgeous here. I would say about 3 to 4 inches on the ground so far. Not much snow falling at the moment, just a lot of blowing about. It’s good. It’s all good.
Have a great day.
Right now, both Richard and I are nestled inside, hunkered down for the 4 to 9 inch snow that’s forecast for today, the eastern version of the storm that’s been working its way across the country. The Vermont edition of said storm looks quite fetching so far. The chickens are staying in today. I went up around 8 to let the geese out, late for us, and Ginger came to the door, immediately assessed the situation and the countryside and with an “Are you kidding?” attitude, retreated back into the house. Mary Ann, who’s become the more adventurous of the 2, came to the door next and almost jumped down, her head down in intense concentration gauging the jump, her right foot doing test waves in the air. But it was not to be. Ginger’s constant chattering in the background may have worn her down for she too stepped away from the door. Plan 2 needed to go into effect. What is Plan 2 you ask? I have no idea. Actually, it would be Plan 3 for Plan 2 would be to just keep them in their house all day, a Plan we discovered Royce had opted for a couple of the days we had been gone recently.
Plan 3! Open their back pen. First step, continue covering the fenced in area adjacent to the coop so there’s a little protection and they can come out and slowly get used to the new climate with a sense of extended shelter. I went down to the now snow covered pile of old barn wood we’d taken off before putting the new pine siding up and placed it over the back entrance and then stooped hobbit-like and walked in the fenced in area underneath the sheltering boards and opened the back door which then turns into a comfortable ramp for them to use. I had to scrape a path through the wood shavings at the door, shavings that cushion the bottom of their coop, a bottom frequently in need of refluffing with a rake. You can figure out why it’s in need of constant refluffing. I was no sooner out of the pen then they both ventured out, curious, seemingly quite comfortable, exploring and poking through the fallen brown leaves and cornstalks on the ground, grateful for an outdoor stretch. I tossed in a bunch of lettuce and cabbage leaves Richard got yesterday from a feed store, compost in place of the grass they usually forage for all day. They liked that. They didn’t much care for the dried timothy grass I tossed in as well. It’s supposed to be good for them, but we may have to soak it before they find it palatable. All in all, though, Plan 3 seems to be working. The only thing we’re wary about are predators. A weasel could easily get in the back pen. We’re banking that it may be a little too early in the season for predators and that geese are much larger than chickens, possibly better able to defend themselves, but what do we know, this is our first winter wintering our poultry; we’ll learn through experience. We’re monitoring the coop from our back kitchen window to make sure they’re fine. So far, so good.
Off to other writing now, just wanted to keep checking in. It’s pretty gorgeous here. I would say about 3 to 4 inches on the ground so far. Not much snow falling at the moment, just a lot of blowing about. It’s good. It’s all good.
Have a great day.
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