Here’s an installment I wrote a week ago while in New York to celebrate my mom’s 80th Birthday:
“July 22nd. Good morning. Eyes open at 4:30 am, out of bed at 5; still got my Vermont mojo going though I’m in NYC for a few days, staying at an absent friend’s place. I have news from the northern front, though, from Richard. Accompanied by the insistent and haranguing honking of Schmul below them, the Canadian Geese took flight from our rise yesterday, but instead of landing in the water across the road, they kept rising ever higher and disappeared over the tall pines and firs on the other side of the pond. Gone. My heart sunk at the news.
“But they came back after a couple hours,” Richard added after an appropriate storyteller’s pause.
‘Oh.’ I let out a sigh of relief. The inevitable has been put off for one more day. It’s so bittersweet witnessing the cycles of nature like this. It’s like autumn beginning early. They may be gone by the time I get back up there on Sunday. I’d get out of there too if I were them, what with the constant badgering our geese give them. Sometimes the two families dwell beside one another in blissful détente, grazing idly. The other day, for instance, it was beautiful seeing them standing beside one another, calm and impervious, as the sky opened up with a crashing downpour. They were very “no big deal, we’ll be alright; we’re geese, we’re in this together.” But then, as if an inner “Now wait a minute!” wakes up in our bunch, they begin jabbering, going after the Canadians with a threatening charge, necks extended, bills snapping. Xenophobia, alive and well. When Richard and I speculated about what Schmul must’ve been feeling as he honked at the Canadians flying overhead, we went over various options -“He’s cheering him on!” or ‘I think he feels bad that he can’t fly” - but Richard finally landed on the most probable choice: “And stay out!!!” That’s Schmul’s very own version of “Take Back Vermont!” or “We the Geese!” like the “We the People. The revolution is coming come November!” Tea Party, anti-Obama, anti-government guy who emblazons his rhetoric across his white packaged hay bales right by the on ramp to the interstate. (This “guy” purportedly got mad at one of his cows a few years back and punched it between the eyes, breaking his arm in the process. Also his relative owns the run-down barn that heralds the biggest “Take Back Vermont” sign in our neck of the woods. His name is Appleton and his wife, 30 years his junior, is still making babies with him. She home schools her kids, but also runs for the school board so she can dictate policy there. Hmmm??)"
It’s August 1st, a fantastic day, blue, sunny, a touch of autumn in the air (45 degrees yesterday morning! I can’t believe it!) The Canadian’s have been gone for almost a week now and we miss them. I don’t know if that goes for Schmul, probably not, and he has calmed down considerably since the Canadian’s departure, as has our entire flock, but still, the Canada geese lent a certain class, an easy detached grace to all of their comings and goings. I liked seeing them around. Until next year then, I wish you well on your travels.
Speaking of travels, we trekked 2 hours to the northwest part of the state yesterday, up and down sharply serpentining roads, until we landed at the exquisite grounds of Jeff and Paul, a hydrologist and horticulturist, who throw an annual shindig, combination dinner/salon/party amid teeming flowers and trees and plants, vegetables and fruit, greenhouses galore, and ever flowing wine. Quite wonderful. A gorgeous day. Loads of laughter, great conversation, new friendships forged. Ever fascinating to hear the variety of stories surrounding the subject: "so what brought YOU to Vermont?" Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Easy Does It
Flying lessons have been going on here. The other morning I was standing at the sink in our upstairs bathroom watching Richard down below clad in his shorts and furry topped rubber boots, clomping from coop to coop, cleaning up, chatting with the various birds as he did, and then a quick succession of squawks sent our eyes skyward. The entire Canada Goose family were taking their first flight together! I looked back down to Richard who stood in the doorway of the chicken coop, a study in joy, his face a mix of a smile and open-mouthed awe. The flight was very Kitty Hawk, over as quickly as it began, not much height or distance covered. One of the goslings wiped out on landing, skidding across the gravel of our driveway on his chest, but immediately righting itself, dusting itself off and rejoining the group, none the worse for wear. The goal was to fly from the rise behind our house to the pond (a goal they’re now achieving with ease.) But not bad for a first flight, not bad at all.
I wondered if the goslings had had any warning from their parents, any inkling that something momentous was about to happen? Is it even momentous to them? Did the parents even know what was going to happen? Maybe instinct just took over and they didn’t question it. One moment they’re all feeding on the hill – what took them to the top of the hill they don’t spend any time figuring out -- and the next moment the adults call out, take to the air, and something inside of the goslings says “That’s where I should be. Go!” and they join them. I love that about nature, one’s nature. Something inside says “This is what we do, we’re geese, we fly.” And the next moment they’re airborne! An innate trust in wings. Glorious!
But what about our geese? Schmul and Mary Ann and Ginger and Daphne and Felicity and Prince Miskin? What happens when they get that self-same calling to “Fly! Fly!!” and they can’t. Does it hurt their feelings? Do they feel “less than” when they see the Canadians up in the air when all they can do is flap their wings and run fast? Do they get caught up in comparing themselves and end up the loser, feeling “not enough?” Is there such a thing as a goose inferiority complex?
(A moment of pondering)
Nah!
First of all, this isn’t a Disney animated feature. They’re geese! Not a lot of thought and feeling going around in those goose heads. Just “Where do I eat?” and “I’ll shit here.” And second, knowing our bunch, they probably think THEIR version of “flying” is THE way. Maybe flapping their wings and running like nitwits is THEIR calling. That way they get to feel the best of both worlds – the flap of flying while still staying grounded. Who needs to be up in the sky anyway? Very overrated.
My spirit has felt very earthbound lately, and I don’t mean grounded. Nothing seems to be calling my spirit to fly, I have no desire to do much of anything. Things get done, I do things but nothing excites or stirs me. I know this mood, it has visited many times in my life, a mixture of restlessness and frustration and ennui. There may be a reason for the mood’s visit, there may not be. It doesn’t matter. It’s here. And coming along for the visit are its best friends: perfectionism, impatience, and persecution. This too shall pass, I know that. Usually I want to force it to pass, but this time I’m trying, to the best of my ability, to let it be, to let it run its course, and try to rise above it. Easy does it. Easy does it. Easier said than done. I do take solace from nature – mourning doves cooing, our cats napping, our garden growing, eggs hatching, our sweet turkeys following us around, even the one injured in a recent raccoon attack hobbles over to come see me. These all buoy my spirit. But when I see our geese incessantly picking fights with the Canadians in the latest chapter of turf wars like a bad road show of “West Side Story,” I start to wonder if my inner complaining discontent is catching? Am I responsible? Yeah, Dan, right. Ah well. And while I’m on it, the Canadians are so zen compared to our geese who complain and stir up drama and distress all the time. They would’ve been right at home at the health care town meetings last August.
Our geese disappeared yesterday. They weren’t on the pond. They weren’t anywhere on our property. Sometimes they wander over to our neighbor Royce’s, so I went to check over there. No sign of them. Now Richard began to get concerned too. After all, one of Royce’s nephews near here had his Pilgrim geese snatched from his barnyard in broad daylight last year by some goose napping no-gooder. And then we noticed that the Canada Geese were gone as well. “They followed the Canadians over to Ron and Tabitha’s pond,” Richard divined. That’s down the road a quarter mile and then down a hill, it’s the pond we took our trout last summer in a mad Dunkirk at dusk when we were draining our pond. So I went to investigate, down the road and down the hill, and just as the pond came into view it was as if a hidden assistant director on a nature show shoot whispered “Cue the geese” into his walkie-talkie and both goose families swam placidly out from behind the reeds and cattails. And the Canadians were now our geese’s best friends. As I stood watching, both groups took turns doing their best synchronized swimming routines, and all this while not only acting as chums, but acting as if I wasn’t even around. Academy Awards should’ve been handed out for a new category of ensemble goose acting. I left them to continue practicing their craft.
There is grace in the most unexpected places.
The other afternoon, Richard and I went kayaking on a friend’s pond near here. The pond’s on the land of an old camp that our friend along with 20 others invested in in order to preserve its beauty and prevent a planned development. My mood had been as heavy as the humidity that day, but the moment we set off from shore … bliss, as if it had been waiting for me in the air. It lifted a smile out of me, like a magician’s trick, presto chango! Everything was instantly light. And as I cut through the clear glass surface of the water, Richard chuckling behind me, I had a sweet memory that it had been a summer in New England 20-some years ago when I’d first kayaked, on Merry Meeting Lake in Southern New Hampshire at my friend Derek’s place. And like then, there was a swinging rope across the way (in New Hampshire you had to take a motor boat, crossing several connecting lakes to arrive at it, but here it was less than a 5 minute paddle away). A black rope was fastened high up in a good, tall tree and Richard and I took turns grabbing the rope in our hands, scaling up the large, granite boulders near shore, and then, giggling, swinging out over the lake and at the height of the arc letting loose with a shout or a squeal for a split second of flight and splashing down into the cool embrace below. Ecstasy!
(Oh, just as I wrote this, another set of squawks made me look up in time to see the Canadians flying over the front screen porch, the goslings wobbling a little in mid-air as they maneuvered past the telephone and power lines across the road, and then landing perfectly on the surface of our pond. There was an immediate jabber of what I labeled excitement and a flutter of wing flaps to congratulate themselves on a job well done. Well done.)
Have a good, flight-filled day.
I wondered if the goslings had had any warning from their parents, any inkling that something momentous was about to happen? Is it even momentous to them? Did the parents even know what was going to happen? Maybe instinct just took over and they didn’t question it. One moment they’re all feeding on the hill – what took them to the top of the hill they don’t spend any time figuring out -- and the next moment the adults call out, take to the air, and something inside of the goslings says “That’s where I should be. Go!” and they join them. I love that about nature, one’s nature. Something inside says “This is what we do, we’re geese, we fly.” And the next moment they’re airborne! An innate trust in wings. Glorious!
But what about our geese? Schmul and Mary Ann and Ginger and Daphne and Felicity and Prince Miskin? What happens when they get that self-same calling to “Fly! Fly!!” and they can’t. Does it hurt their feelings? Do they feel “less than” when they see the Canadians up in the air when all they can do is flap their wings and run fast? Do they get caught up in comparing themselves and end up the loser, feeling “not enough?” Is there such a thing as a goose inferiority complex?
(A moment of pondering)
Nah!
First of all, this isn’t a Disney animated feature. They’re geese! Not a lot of thought and feeling going around in those goose heads. Just “Where do I eat?” and “I’ll shit here.” And second, knowing our bunch, they probably think THEIR version of “flying” is THE way. Maybe flapping their wings and running like nitwits is THEIR calling. That way they get to feel the best of both worlds – the flap of flying while still staying grounded. Who needs to be up in the sky anyway? Very overrated.
My spirit has felt very earthbound lately, and I don’t mean grounded. Nothing seems to be calling my spirit to fly, I have no desire to do much of anything. Things get done, I do things but nothing excites or stirs me. I know this mood, it has visited many times in my life, a mixture of restlessness and frustration and ennui. There may be a reason for the mood’s visit, there may not be. It doesn’t matter. It’s here. And coming along for the visit are its best friends: perfectionism, impatience, and persecution. This too shall pass, I know that. Usually I want to force it to pass, but this time I’m trying, to the best of my ability, to let it be, to let it run its course, and try to rise above it. Easy does it. Easy does it. Easier said than done. I do take solace from nature – mourning doves cooing, our cats napping, our garden growing, eggs hatching, our sweet turkeys following us around, even the one injured in a recent raccoon attack hobbles over to come see me. These all buoy my spirit. But when I see our geese incessantly picking fights with the Canadians in the latest chapter of turf wars like a bad road show of “West Side Story,” I start to wonder if my inner complaining discontent is catching? Am I responsible? Yeah, Dan, right. Ah well. And while I’m on it, the Canadians are so zen compared to our geese who complain and stir up drama and distress all the time. They would’ve been right at home at the health care town meetings last August.
Our geese disappeared yesterday. They weren’t on the pond. They weren’t anywhere on our property. Sometimes they wander over to our neighbor Royce’s, so I went to check over there. No sign of them. Now Richard began to get concerned too. After all, one of Royce’s nephews near here had his Pilgrim geese snatched from his barnyard in broad daylight last year by some goose napping no-gooder. And then we noticed that the Canada Geese were gone as well. “They followed the Canadians over to Ron and Tabitha’s pond,” Richard divined. That’s down the road a quarter mile and then down a hill, it’s the pond we took our trout last summer in a mad Dunkirk at dusk when we were draining our pond. So I went to investigate, down the road and down the hill, and just as the pond came into view it was as if a hidden assistant director on a nature show shoot whispered “Cue the geese” into his walkie-talkie and both goose families swam placidly out from behind the reeds and cattails. And the Canadians were now our geese’s best friends. As I stood watching, both groups took turns doing their best synchronized swimming routines, and all this while not only acting as chums, but acting as if I wasn’t even around. Academy Awards should’ve been handed out for a new category of ensemble goose acting. I left them to continue practicing their craft.
There is grace in the most unexpected places.
The other afternoon, Richard and I went kayaking on a friend’s pond near here. The pond’s on the land of an old camp that our friend along with 20 others invested in in order to preserve its beauty and prevent a planned development. My mood had been as heavy as the humidity that day, but the moment we set off from shore … bliss, as if it had been waiting for me in the air. It lifted a smile out of me, like a magician’s trick, presto chango! Everything was instantly light. And as I cut through the clear glass surface of the water, Richard chuckling behind me, I had a sweet memory that it had been a summer in New England 20-some years ago when I’d first kayaked, on Merry Meeting Lake in Southern New Hampshire at my friend Derek’s place. And like then, there was a swinging rope across the way (in New Hampshire you had to take a motor boat, crossing several connecting lakes to arrive at it, but here it was less than a 5 minute paddle away). A black rope was fastened high up in a good, tall tree and Richard and I took turns grabbing the rope in our hands, scaling up the large, granite boulders near shore, and then, giggling, swinging out over the lake and at the height of the arc letting loose with a shout or a squeal for a split second of flight and splashing down into the cool embrace below. Ecstasy!
(Oh, just as I wrote this, another set of squawks made me look up in time to see the Canadians flying over the front screen porch, the goslings wobbling a little in mid-air as they maneuvered past the telephone and power lines across the road, and then landing perfectly on the surface of our pond. There was an immediate jabber of what I labeled excitement and a flutter of wing flaps to congratulate themselves on a job well done. Well done.)
Have a good, flight-filled day.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
1:19 am Sunday, July 18th
And another! I woke with Astrid snuggled up close to me as the sky ripped open with rain, rain, rain cascading down and the crash/boom/crack of yet another storm. And wind, wind whipping through the trees. I feel for the crabapple Richard and I thought we needed to stake just today. The wind has not been treating it kindly. What a drink the land is getting. What a triple feature of storms. And the walls are being lit up like a spook house. I love it. Oh, our poor chickens and geese. Hunker down! And now ... is it moving on or is another chapter about to begin? All anticipation. A high crackle of thunder echoing way up in the sky answers "I'm not done yet." A sky dragon. The rain picks up a snare crescendo annnnd ... fades out. A tease? Yes, it's fading, fading, fading to nothing. A rumble. The giant's worn itself out and is going back to sleep. And so am I.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
11:04 Saturday, June 17th
Another storm's coming through! A real cracker! Thunder splitting the sky. That one sounded like an old theatrical bolt made by a long piece of metal in the wings. The rain's streaming down. This is exciting! And a cool wind is bringing the sweet smell of freshness through the screen windows. Richard's sleeping through this whole thing. Oh, the wind's picking up! Wow. It's dark in the room save for the glow from the computer screen and the flashes of lightning. Cool! That one lit up the night!! It feels as if we're at sea. Why, I don't know. This reminds me of the great storms we used to get back in Indiana, big booming thunder claps accompanied by lightning bolts that would rip the sky asunder. Fantastic. Lots of water pouring down. Then a pause, as if the storm were over, and another rush of rain. Now again, silence, as if someone were conducting this, a pleasant patter, a far off crack and grumble. Will this one now pass over like the last one? Perhaps. This is all very entertaining. I'm wondering how the geese and chickens are taking this? The grass we put on the goose house to muffle the rat-a-tat of rain on their metal roof has blown off and I fear it makes them nervous. What must they think? do they get frightened? Are they chattering to one another, gazing out at the sky, the shadow silhouettes of the trees flashing across the meadow, then dark again. Who knows. Well, it is passing. Maybe there'll be a whole series of these throughout the night. They are traveling west to east, right over our Cape Cod house. It's blitzkrieging on now, perhaps to the Connecticutt River by now, off into New Hampshire. Hope everyone's safe and battaned down and enjoying the great show!
10:30 pm Saturday, June 17th
A tremendous thunder storm with Valhalla-like lightning strikes just blustered through, a lot of sound and fury, a big blow, and now peace, peace. A distant rumble, a tiny bit of rain, but gone, gone, as if nothing even happened. Lovely.
Now the frogs have started croaking again.
Now the frogs have started croaking again.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Vermont - July 12th, 2010
A time of mixed blessings.
We’ve been having a series of raccoon attacks. The first on the evening of July 4th got 3 Wellsummer chicks, and the second, despite precautions, nabbed 3 of Richard’s 6 turkey chicks, crippling a 4th. There was no joy in Mudville that night. Poor Richard. By admission, he’d gotten a bit cocky, impervious to predators. On the 4th, coming home from a fantastic fireworks display, he’d left the back door of the coop open, something he’d done many times before with no ill effect. But not this time. “And they were all hens!” he moaned to the heavens. He’d been “cursed” with a majority roosters in all his hatchings of eggs and now this seemed like a double blow. Royce warned him to expect more attacks now that the raccoon had the taste. These raccoons live underneath Royce’s old barn next door, he sees them every night, they come to the woodpile just outside his kitchen door. We caught one of the cubs by our coop the day after the murders in broad daylight. And he looked so cuddly and harmless, like a tiny koala bear. But he began snarling as we corralled him into a plastic pet carrier and Richard began a misery of deciding what to do with him. This kind of dilemma brings morbid humour out of Royce. “We could toss the carrier into your pond and fish it out later.” Richard just couldn’t decide, wouldn’t decide, didn’t feel like killing it, couldn’t do it. Later that evening, still unwilling to make a decision, he gave the carrier to Royce who offered to “take care of things.” I was surprised to find out a few days later that he hadn’t shot it as I had expected he would, but had taken it over near Wells River and let it loose in the woods there.
But Royce warned that our turkeys were not safe now. He’d taken care of just one of the raccoons, a baby, and there were sure to be more, adults, and word would be sent to others that there were prime pickin’s here. I’d seen enterprising raccoons at work years before near Woodstock, NY doing summer theatre when they had raided a kitchen pantry whose screen door had been left unlatched despite instructions to the contrary. We came home from rehearsal to find peanut buttered paw marks streaking the kitchen floor and counters like a crime scene, split open packages of spaghetti and pasta, jars of jam unscrewed, a havoc of cereal and potato chips and crackers, the remains of a mid-afternoon bacchanal. And they were brazenly waiting outside with their pals, waiting for another raid. That night it turned into a Stephen King story “Raccoon!” I went up to my second story room – and there were no tree branches nearby, no ledge or outcropping on the house to gain purchase, just clapboard siding and a sheer drop. I was sitting on my bed, going over a script that I was trying to memorize, and got the uneasy feeling that someone was watching me. I turned to the window and there were three long snouted bandit faces looking in at me. I swear I could hear the theme to “Mission Impossible” going. I gave a shout, but they were undeterred, not the least bit frightened. With an “Oh, he saw us” nonchalance, they slowly shimmied out of the window frame, and somehow “hopped down” 10 feet to the forest floor and sauntered off to plan another raid. Raccoons mean business.
I’d shared this story to Richard before, so heeding that and Royce’s admonition, Richard put the turkeys back in the garage in an old moveable cage that they had grown up in. The next night, though, he tried letting them spend the night outside as they had many nights before, flying to the top of the metal sheeting covering our woodpile where they had up-until-then slept undisturbed. In the morning, they were fine. He tried the next night, and again, fine. But on the third night, disaster struck. I’d been away in New York for a few days and he hadn’t told me about it, so when I finally asked where the other 4 turkeys were, these sweet, jabbery birds that had firmly imprinted themselves on both of us and had followed us everywhere much like the goose girls had done last summer, Richard spilled the beans. “I couldn’t tell you, I was too upset,” he said. When I told him how sorry I was and asked if he was alright he continued, “I feel as if I let them all down.” Not fun.
The past few nights we’ve been putting the turkeys in with the chickens and closing up the coop tight. Every one seems to be getting along well. We’ve named the 2 unharmed turkey survivors Lynne and Alfred, after the famous acting husband and wife team The Lunts. We’re not really sure what sex either of them is, which direction their leaning, but that seems to perfectly fit what I’ve heard about the predelictions of the real Lunts. Our crippled bird remains namelss. We’ve already named one of our limping birds “Laura” in honor of the “Glass Menagerie” character, so we’re not sure what will stick with this one. We’ve debated about splinting the leg, but Richard has said “no” because he feels it’s been wrenched out of its socket, making the leg pretty worthless. We have no idea how extensive the injuries are. That said, the bird seems in good spirits, it’s eating and drinking well. We’ll see what happens.
In the “more cheerful news” department, the Canada Geese have started a form of flying lesson on the pond, teaching their fold to skim the top of the water as they flap as hard as they can and then diving beneath its surface at the end of the flight. Soon they’ll be flying from the rise behind the house. Our geese hold their own form of flying lessons with Schmul in the lead. They flap their wings mightily and all run as fast as they can, nary a one getting off the ground, though they seem to congratulate one another quite a bit after each run. I wonder if they’ll feel “less than” when their Canadian compatriots take to the air and they can’t. Will they dream of flying, I wonder? Maybe what they do is their idea of flying, a more grounded, flappy version. The other day I was so surprised to catch our geese crooking their heads to look waaaay up in the air at a passing jet. Did they really see it? There was nothing else in the sky at that moment. Did they think it was some sort of far away bird? Who knows. It was fascinating.
The thick mugginess of a week ago has abated, but it’s still very much summer, now in the 80’s rather than the high 90’s. The pond has been exquisite, we’ve been diving in almost daily and it’s been WARM, a perfect blend of sun warmed upper level and spring cooled lower levels. Brilliant. The geese all give us a WIDE berth whenever we dive into the pond. They go to the far, far side of the pond and walk up into the woods and watch from a protected distance until we get our swimmy ways out of our system.
The garden hasn’t really taken this year. We tried not ameliorating the soil AND not using organic seeds this year. That’s the last year for both of those experiments. But to be fair, the weather had been really goony leading up to planting. Everything went in late and then it stayed cool for a long time. Sugar snap peas are strong, wax beans are coming through with a close second, but beets have been disappointing and carrots and chard as well. I just planted some peas and radishes and more chard. We’ll see. I worked in a lot of compost this time, trying to make up for the soil deprivation I inflicted. Live and learn.
Speaking of swims, I’m going for one now to wake myself up from my afternoon torpor. Hope this finds you well.
We’ve been having a series of raccoon attacks. The first on the evening of July 4th got 3 Wellsummer chicks, and the second, despite precautions, nabbed 3 of Richard’s 6 turkey chicks, crippling a 4th. There was no joy in Mudville that night. Poor Richard. By admission, he’d gotten a bit cocky, impervious to predators. On the 4th, coming home from a fantastic fireworks display, he’d left the back door of the coop open, something he’d done many times before with no ill effect. But not this time. “And they were all hens!” he moaned to the heavens. He’d been “cursed” with a majority roosters in all his hatchings of eggs and now this seemed like a double blow. Royce warned him to expect more attacks now that the raccoon had the taste. These raccoons live underneath Royce’s old barn next door, he sees them every night, they come to the woodpile just outside his kitchen door. We caught one of the cubs by our coop the day after the murders in broad daylight. And he looked so cuddly and harmless, like a tiny koala bear. But he began snarling as we corralled him into a plastic pet carrier and Richard began a misery of deciding what to do with him. This kind of dilemma brings morbid humour out of Royce. “We could toss the carrier into your pond and fish it out later.” Richard just couldn’t decide, wouldn’t decide, didn’t feel like killing it, couldn’t do it. Later that evening, still unwilling to make a decision, he gave the carrier to Royce who offered to “take care of things.” I was surprised to find out a few days later that he hadn’t shot it as I had expected he would, but had taken it over near Wells River and let it loose in the woods there.
But Royce warned that our turkeys were not safe now. He’d taken care of just one of the raccoons, a baby, and there were sure to be more, adults, and word would be sent to others that there were prime pickin’s here. I’d seen enterprising raccoons at work years before near Woodstock, NY doing summer theatre when they had raided a kitchen pantry whose screen door had been left unlatched despite instructions to the contrary. We came home from rehearsal to find peanut buttered paw marks streaking the kitchen floor and counters like a crime scene, split open packages of spaghetti and pasta, jars of jam unscrewed, a havoc of cereal and potato chips and crackers, the remains of a mid-afternoon bacchanal. And they were brazenly waiting outside with their pals, waiting for another raid. That night it turned into a Stephen King story “Raccoon!” I went up to my second story room – and there were no tree branches nearby, no ledge or outcropping on the house to gain purchase, just clapboard siding and a sheer drop. I was sitting on my bed, going over a script that I was trying to memorize, and got the uneasy feeling that someone was watching me. I turned to the window and there were three long snouted bandit faces looking in at me. I swear I could hear the theme to “Mission Impossible” going. I gave a shout, but they were undeterred, not the least bit frightened. With an “Oh, he saw us” nonchalance, they slowly shimmied out of the window frame, and somehow “hopped down” 10 feet to the forest floor and sauntered off to plan another raid. Raccoons mean business.
I’d shared this story to Richard before, so heeding that and Royce’s admonition, Richard put the turkeys back in the garage in an old moveable cage that they had grown up in. The next night, though, he tried letting them spend the night outside as they had many nights before, flying to the top of the metal sheeting covering our woodpile where they had up-until-then slept undisturbed. In the morning, they were fine. He tried the next night, and again, fine. But on the third night, disaster struck. I’d been away in New York for a few days and he hadn’t told me about it, so when I finally asked where the other 4 turkeys were, these sweet, jabbery birds that had firmly imprinted themselves on both of us and had followed us everywhere much like the goose girls had done last summer, Richard spilled the beans. “I couldn’t tell you, I was too upset,” he said. When I told him how sorry I was and asked if he was alright he continued, “I feel as if I let them all down.” Not fun.
The past few nights we’ve been putting the turkeys in with the chickens and closing up the coop tight. Every one seems to be getting along well. We’ve named the 2 unharmed turkey survivors Lynne and Alfred, after the famous acting husband and wife team The Lunts. We’re not really sure what sex either of them is, which direction their leaning, but that seems to perfectly fit what I’ve heard about the predelictions of the real Lunts. Our crippled bird remains namelss. We’ve already named one of our limping birds “Laura” in honor of the “Glass Menagerie” character, so we’re not sure what will stick with this one. We’ve debated about splinting the leg, but Richard has said “no” because he feels it’s been wrenched out of its socket, making the leg pretty worthless. We have no idea how extensive the injuries are. That said, the bird seems in good spirits, it’s eating and drinking well. We’ll see what happens.
In the “more cheerful news” department, the Canada Geese have started a form of flying lesson on the pond, teaching their fold to skim the top of the water as they flap as hard as they can and then diving beneath its surface at the end of the flight. Soon they’ll be flying from the rise behind the house. Our geese hold their own form of flying lessons with Schmul in the lead. They flap their wings mightily and all run as fast as they can, nary a one getting off the ground, though they seem to congratulate one another quite a bit after each run. I wonder if they’ll feel “less than” when their Canadian compatriots take to the air and they can’t. Will they dream of flying, I wonder? Maybe what they do is their idea of flying, a more grounded, flappy version. The other day I was so surprised to catch our geese crooking their heads to look waaaay up in the air at a passing jet. Did they really see it? There was nothing else in the sky at that moment. Did they think it was some sort of far away bird? Who knows. It was fascinating.
The thick mugginess of a week ago has abated, but it’s still very much summer, now in the 80’s rather than the high 90’s. The pond has been exquisite, we’ve been diving in almost daily and it’s been WARM, a perfect blend of sun warmed upper level and spring cooled lower levels. Brilliant. The geese all give us a WIDE berth whenever we dive into the pond. They go to the far, far side of the pond and walk up into the woods and watch from a protected distance until we get our swimmy ways out of our system.
The garden hasn’t really taken this year. We tried not ameliorating the soil AND not using organic seeds this year. That’s the last year for both of those experiments. But to be fair, the weather had been really goony leading up to planting. Everything went in late and then it stayed cool for a long time. Sugar snap peas are strong, wax beans are coming through with a close second, but beets have been disappointing and carrots and chard as well. I just planted some peas and radishes and more chard. We’ll see. I worked in a lot of compost this time, trying to make up for the soil deprivation I inflicted. Live and learn.
Speaking of swims, I’m going for one now to wake myself up from my afternoon torpor. Hope this finds you well.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
I got my wish and other developments
I’d been having a hankering to hold one of our geese, especially one of the goslings (Prince Mishkin, Daphne, or Felicity), but they’ve been so closely guarded by their folks that this has been a near impossibility. Last year I loved being able to hold Ginger and Mary Ann every once and awhile. Richard reminds me that they probably didn’t enjoy it that much since we’d have to corner them, sending them into frozen, squatting shakes, but what does he know? When we did get them onto our laps and rubbed them under their wing feathers and cooed at them and had something shiny for them to chew on, they liked it fine. Alright, I’m deluding myself. And anyway, ever since Schmul’s arrival and becoming over-protective mothers, Ginger and Mary have become neck stretching harridans, the only thing missing are curlers in their hair and a rolling pin to wave around in the air threateningly. Who’d want to hold their skanky selves now anyway. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I have held Schmul a couple times lately, however that doesn’t count because it was purely for survival since he was coming at me like “Jaws” (or “Bills”) and I’d whipped his neck around and then embraced and lifted him in an attempt to calm him down. Note to self: this doesn’t work, Schmul turns into Hydra, snapping the air in hopes of chomping off my nose.
This morning, though, when Richard and I went up to the pen around 6 to let the geese out, Prince Mishkin and one of the gosling girls inadvertently got themselves on the other side of the pen door and were momentarily separated from the rest of their family.
“Now’s your chance,” Richard uttered.
‘What do you mean?’
“You can go in there, shut the gate, and hold one of them.”
So I did. And there erupted such an agony of distress and panic from parents and kids alike. It was as if I were a Nazi guard in “Sophie’s Choice.” The goslings threw themselves at the fence, screaming and crying, trying to get to their parents who were keening wildly on the other side. I felt horrible. I looked to Richard who gave a shrug with an expression somewhere between “what did you expect?” and “so now what you gonna do?” But did this heartbreaking scene deter me? No, I’d come this far, I thought, the damage is done, full speed ahead. The babies scrambled for cover, darting away from my approaching boots. The parent’s caterwauling continued. Mishkin was breathless with terror, I just couldn’t go after him, but Daphne (or Felicity, I don’t know which one it was) was another matter. I thought that since she had been imprinted on Richard her hatchmeister for several weeks before becoming part of the goose clan, that she would calm when in my arms. Wrong! It was as if she were a pioneer girl the Injuns (so unpc) had kidnapped from a Wagon Train in all those old westerns and when the settlers come to retrieve her they discover that the heathens have brain-washed her into believing in all their heathenish ways, such as “the White Man wants to kill you.” I picked her up – just like John Wayne did Natalie Wood in “The Searchers” - and for the briefest of moments I savored the pleasure of how downy soft she was, how next to nothing her body weight, how my hands went right past all this fluff disguised as substance gone right to a soft inner core. And then her screams ratcheted up in volume and she shat down my right leg. And looked to Richard, helpless, and he said “Get them back together.” And so the scramble to put Natalie, DAPHNE! down and open the gate, and guide the 2 now permanently damaged goslings out to where their parents waited in a flustered, frustrated huff. I got a good scold from Shmul and the girls and they walked off, calming themselves, as I stood, lower lip protruding, as Richard deadpanned, “Well … you got your wish.”
Other developments? I dug all the Burdock root out of our stone wall bank, big elephant eared, deep-rooted invasive things that we later saw people selling at a local market as a root vegetable (You got to be kidding!!) I’ve resewn the bank with white and red clover. It seems to be taking. Tiny little 2 leaved growths are popping up leprechaun-sized. I’ve also strewn the seeds along the side of our pond which is 2 feet higher due to the silt at the bottom of our pond being shoved up there last fall. Trying to get something more to grow there. We have a newly planted willow tree plus this gorgeous, stunning single flowered iris popping up. Can’t wait for the clover. Was informed this week that red clover is the Vermont State Flower.
Gout weed is an invasive weed that smells like cilantro and has stalky seed-filled flowers reminiscent of Queen Anne’s lace. Never heard of it before moving here. I’ve been battling this intruder on another part of our bank. There’s a whole section of our orchard where it’s taken over. The only way to frustrate its invasion is by planting something else that will smother it out, like lilies. That’s the plan. It’s time consuming, but I welcome tasks like this, weeding and bringing a bank back to a bit of order, a controlled overgrowth, very English garden, balance and chaos, nature and man’s hand mixed. The task helps me weed out unwanted thoughts in a parallel kind of way. Giving myself over to the task at hand.
My legs are welted up with black fly bites. I slathered myself with Skin So Soft the other day, but to no avail. The unseen biters made their way through, drawing little pools of blood down my backside.. They are a bit of a scourge here. And on sunny days where you want your shirt off, basking in the limited Vermont tan weather, there’s a double lotion layer needed: sun screen and bug repellent. My legs are evidence that, as of yet, the two don’t seem to work well together.
Happy Summer Solstice! It’s so green mountain state here, verdant, and rich, and bursting with life - the air, the ground, the trees! Our pond is so CLEAN!!!!! We’ve taken a few dips – skinny and clothed – and the swim is spectacular, if spring fed bracing in sections. And the minnows like nibbling on you EVERYWHERE!
That’s enough rambling for now. Have a great day!
This morning, though, when Richard and I went up to the pen around 6 to let the geese out, Prince Mishkin and one of the gosling girls inadvertently got themselves on the other side of the pen door and were momentarily separated from the rest of their family.
“Now’s your chance,” Richard uttered.
‘What do you mean?’
“You can go in there, shut the gate, and hold one of them.”
So I did. And there erupted such an agony of distress and panic from parents and kids alike. It was as if I were a Nazi guard in “Sophie’s Choice.” The goslings threw themselves at the fence, screaming and crying, trying to get to their parents who were keening wildly on the other side. I felt horrible. I looked to Richard who gave a shrug with an expression somewhere between “what did you expect?” and “so now what you gonna do?” But did this heartbreaking scene deter me? No, I’d come this far, I thought, the damage is done, full speed ahead. The babies scrambled for cover, darting away from my approaching boots. The parent’s caterwauling continued. Mishkin was breathless with terror, I just couldn’t go after him, but Daphne (or Felicity, I don’t know which one it was) was another matter. I thought that since she had been imprinted on Richard her hatchmeister for several weeks before becoming part of the goose clan, that she would calm when in my arms. Wrong! It was as if she were a pioneer girl the Injuns (so unpc) had kidnapped from a Wagon Train in all those old westerns and when the settlers come to retrieve her they discover that the heathens have brain-washed her into believing in all their heathenish ways, such as “the White Man wants to kill you.” I picked her up – just like John Wayne did Natalie Wood in “The Searchers” - and for the briefest of moments I savored the pleasure of how downy soft she was, how next to nothing her body weight, how my hands went right past all this fluff disguised as substance gone right to a soft inner core. And then her screams ratcheted up in volume and she shat down my right leg. And looked to Richard, helpless, and he said “Get them back together.” And so the scramble to put Natalie, DAPHNE! down and open the gate, and guide the 2 now permanently damaged goslings out to where their parents waited in a flustered, frustrated huff. I got a good scold from Shmul and the girls and they walked off, calming themselves, as I stood, lower lip protruding, as Richard deadpanned, “Well … you got your wish.”
Other developments? I dug all the Burdock root out of our stone wall bank, big elephant eared, deep-rooted invasive things that we later saw people selling at a local market as a root vegetable (You got to be kidding!!) I’ve resewn the bank with white and red clover. It seems to be taking. Tiny little 2 leaved growths are popping up leprechaun-sized. I’ve also strewn the seeds along the side of our pond which is 2 feet higher due to the silt at the bottom of our pond being shoved up there last fall. Trying to get something more to grow there. We have a newly planted willow tree plus this gorgeous, stunning single flowered iris popping up. Can’t wait for the clover. Was informed this week that red clover is the Vermont State Flower.
Gout weed is an invasive weed that smells like cilantro and has stalky seed-filled flowers reminiscent of Queen Anne’s lace. Never heard of it before moving here. I’ve been battling this intruder on another part of our bank. There’s a whole section of our orchard where it’s taken over. The only way to frustrate its invasion is by planting something else that will smother it out, like lilies. That’s the plan. It’s time consuming, but I welcome tasks like this, weeding and bringing a bank back to a bit of order, a controlled overgrowth, very English garden, balance and chaos, nature and man’s hand mixed. The task helps me weed out unwanted thoughts in a parallel kind of way. Giving myself over to the task at hand.
My legs are welted up with black fly bites. I slathered myself with Skin So Soft the other day, but to no avail. The unseen biters made their way through, drawing little pools of blood down my backside.. They are a bit of a scourge here. And on sunny days where you want your shirt off, basking in the limited Vermont tan weather, there’s a double lotion layer needed: sun screen and bug repellent. My legs are evidence that, as of yet, the two don’t seem to work well together.
Happy Summer Solstice! It’s so green mountain state here, verdant, and rich, and bursting with life - the air, the ground, the trees! Our pond is so CLEAN!!!!! We’ve taken a few dips – skinny and clothed – and the swim is spectacular, if spring fed bracing in sections. And the minnows like nibbling on you EVERYWHERE!
That’s enough rambling for now. Have a great day!
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