I wrote this mid-week last week, I think it was Tuesday or Wednesday. It gets hazy in my mind:
“It sounded different this time, their cry. I’m used to hearing the geese giving off clarion calls throughout the day and if Richard’s home he’ll rush to see if anything’s amiss. I usually know nothing’s wrong. But this time it was different. I was upstairs in bed for a quick power nap, I’d just gotten off the phone with Richard 5 minutes before. I heard a squawk rustle on the grass below and though it sounded as if it should be the chickens I knew it was the geese. And I knew something was wrong. I bolted up in my bed and looked down out of the window. There were all 5 except Shmuel, standing there, looking back toward the road. They didn’t look especially troubled. Then Shumuel flew in and when he got to them, he stumbled, lost his balance. ‘Something’s wrong! He’s been in a fight with something! He’s hurt!’ I flew out of bed, grabbing some clothes, anything near, and catapulted down the stairs. As I tore through the living room I could make out an animal just across the road peering up over the rise which leads up from the pond. It was stocky, not a fox, too big. It reminded me of a prarie dog who’d been working out. What was it? A coyote? A dog? And if it were a dog, is this the new one the people down the road got to replace the huskie who killed 7 of our chickens the day before it was shot this past April? I quickly fantasized striding down the road to pick a fight with the guy. Richard had kept quiet about it, but I wasn’t above bringing up past history because his new dog just bit our gander! God, fantasies of revenge come quick. I dashed across the kitchen, and screamed out some frustration of powerlessness as I barreled through the screen door onto our front lawn. The animal, whatever it was, took off, then just as quickly circled back. It must be a coyote, I thought. But it doesn’t have a tail. It looked so different from California ones. Who cares! I wasn’t letting go of the neighbor’s dog idea, not yet, but first I needed to take care of Shmuel. I needed to get some more clothes on too.
Clothes on and I was out the back in search of the geese. I saw Shmuel trying to get a drink of water from the grey litter box turned into a drinking receptacle. He leaned forward, wobbled, caught his balance. Couldn’t do it. He looked like a drunk. Poor baby. I grabbed the white water bucket and raced over, my intention to either fill the grey box higher with water or to give him the bucket, something much closer to his head so he wouldn’t have to bend down so far. That’s when I saw the blood. It was splattered across the snow of his white feathery back. I choked back a gasp of tears. Poor baby, poor baby. And this was the animal I had intended on getting rid of. Pissed he was such a pisser, pooping all over the place. Oh Shmuel. Was he still bleeding? It didn’t look like it. There’s some blood on his neck, it must be a neck wound.
I quickly decided to gather them and corral them up by their coop. Shmuel was very obedient, dazed, the others were recalcitrant, chatty. I was pulsing with panic and anger. I couldn’t take seeing him wounded like this. He had defended them against a coyote. And I flashed at how he’d never really been tested. He’d bitten humans, thrown punches with his wings and maybe a punch had loosed the coyote’s/dog’s jaws from around his neck, but that “sticking your neck out” (just got the source of that saying) to intimidate someone else is all theatre. There’s nothing behind it but show. It makes you so vulnerable. Ah sweet Shmuel.
I got the group to the coop gate door and of course one of the young girls over shot the entrance and was separated from the group (On purpose? Who knows. Oh, I doubt it. What, Dan, do you think she was starving for attention?!) She began screaming and I’m going ‘Oh, great, now Shmuel will get all worked up wanting to be the father defender and he can’t now and everyone else will flip out too. Argh!’ I circled her back and by then, of course, everyone else was out again. I circled them around once more, poor ole Shmuel stumbling along with them, and we get back to the coop gate and the same thing happened again! Fuck. And now the turkeys came over for a look see. This was not going well. I kicked the turkeys out of the way (no, not literally) and erected a barrier that would force direct ALL the geese into their pen when I circled them back a third time and this time -- success. Everyone safe and sound.
I calmed myself. They were looking at me. I was looking at them. I needed to see where Shmuel was injured. I was able to separate him from the others and I embraced and soothed him (I hope) He nibbled on me softly and I knew that if he had his full strength back those nibbles would be leaving bruises, but for now they felt like soft kisses. Despite the circumstance, I loved being able to pet his soft white neck. I’d wished many times to be able to do this; I hadn’t wanted it to happen like this though. I combed through his feathers and thought I saw bite marks, but wasn’t sure. Shmuel was struggling a bit and I let him go. What to do? What to do? I decided to go in and get some Aloe Vera healing gel we’d had for years for a cat injury long ago back in LA. I got inside and went to where I knew it should be and couldn’t find it. Anywhere. And I searched lots of places. Especially the places where I knew it MUST be. Because I’d PLACED it there. I flew into a rage and yelled out to the empty rooms as I strode through them: “Why can’t people (namely Richard) put things back where they’re supposed to go?!!” I could picture it in my mind’s eye, but no matter how many times I went back to the places I KNEW it should be it never showed up. I was beyond livid. And at the same time, a side of me could see the assinie ridiculousness of my behavior and that side of me knew it was going to turn around and bite me in the ass. And sure enough, I became the culprit, hoisted on my own petard. There the Aloe Vera gel was on the bottom shelf of my bedside table where I must’ve MISplaced it. I thanked God/Universe/whatever that Richard hadn’t been present for my embarrassing “blowing off steam” tirade and swore to him/it/whatever that I would learn some great lesson of humility from this.
I returned to Shmuel a chastened man with the Aloe Vera gel and a rag to wash away the blood from his back. The rag worked somewhat. I slowly unfolded his wings to check to see if they’d been injured at all. No sign of damage. Then I carefully parted his neck feathers. High up the neck, there they were, 2 hefty puncture holes. A little bit of meat stuck out of one of them. Cradling Shmuel, I slowly removed the cap from the Aloe Vera, dipped my finger inside, and lightly applied the gel to the wounds. ‘You get better big guy’ I whispered. I longed to hear him bray out or bite me, but all I got now were slight wheezes and wobbles. He had t be in shock. He must be whipped. And I left him again. I would return a couple more times to observe him.“
The next day I contacted a vet who urged me to wash the wound with hydrogen peroxide and gave me a prescription for tetracycline to be dissolved in the water he drinks. “The most important thing is to get him to eat,” the vet said and so over the past few days I’ve very imperfectly turkey baster fed Shmuel with baby food while also syringe forcing the tetracycline mixture down his throat. He has drunk it from his bucket too, but it’s so hard keeping him separated to do that and not letting the others drink it as well. I’ve gone back and forth keeping him from the rest of the flock – the act breaks my heart - and bringing them together, continually judging whether I’m doing the right thing, wondering whether or not I’ve been giving the right amounts of medicine, giving him enough rest, on and on. It’s hard to know. He has shown signs of improvement everyday and I’m reminded by Richard that he is a wild animal and we’ve seen animals make miraculous recoveries here on their own. “He may never be the same,” Richard opined last night before bed after seeing Shmuel that day, “and that’s not necessarily a bad thing.” Gone may be the days of his constant territorial-ness with his neck out stretched in defiance, blue eyes piercing through me, bill ready to bite and bruise, warning the others that we’re no good, that they should run for cover. Who knows. Time will tell. I feel as if he’s a war veteran back from the front, never to be the same, not quite.
The last few mornings I have let them all out on the pond for a couple hours. I’ve spoken of the silly way of “flying” they have, very serious, barely getting off the ground, sort of like kids playing airplane, flapping their wings while running. Shmuel’s flying is a bit off right now, his neck isn’t completely healed and I think it sends his balance off, as if he’s not going where he intends to be going, slightly out of control. Further strengthening may alleviate that maladay. Again, time will tell. I watched very parentally as they swam around and thought Shmuel needed to put just a little bit more effort into his swimming, his body moving more then the others, not the easy, confident, effortless glide it used to have. ‘He’s trying to stay the lead of the pack,’ I thought. Who knows. That said, though, he was the picture of happy playfulness later on. Maybe that’s what was going on, maybe not, but I just sat on the bank at a bit of a remove and smiled and smiled. It made my heart light. Shmuel was near the shore with the 2 older geese, Mary Ann and Ginger, and began doing roll overs in the water with them; they each took turns. Shmuel would dive, butt and feet whirling up in the air, then he’d right himself in a flippy sort of way and flap his wings powerfully. A bit off balance, granted, but it looked grand. Maybe he’ll turn into a big sweetheart. I just hope this whole thing hasn’t broken his spirit. I hope I haven’t had any part in breaking his spirit by turkey baster feeding him, holding him down, separating him from his brood. “You probably have a bit,” Richard said when I spoke of this this morning. I was seeking support – an “oh, don’t be silly honey” not necessarily bald honesty. “But you did the right thing,” Richard added. I hope. Ah well.
I’m going to go check in on him. Think good thoughts for a swell gander.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Let me tell you about our wedding day.
It happened just before 5 pm on September 12th 2010 in the Newbury Town Meeting House, built in 1839. In attendance were the presiding Justice of the Peace, Wayne Richardson, and a gathering of 9 of our “most local” friends. Richard and I had contemplated extending the invitations out not only to a wider circle of Vermont friends but to those friends in other parts of New England and New York, if only as a gesture. However it got to be a complicated endeavor and we were very clear that simplicity was to be the hallmark of this event. So we chose to surround ourselves with those within about a 10 mile radius, friends who’d been instrumental in welcoming us here, in helping us restructure our home, working alongside us, being so generous in their giving. 2 of our guests had grown up in our house. Well, here’s the list of the people who were there: Susan Underwood, our town clerk; Shirley and Richard Burroughs (Shirley nee Thompson is one of those who grew up in our house); Gail and Dale Bromley (Dale was representing our house when we bought it and he and Gail, both realtors, have been so kind and fortifying through all times); Chris Mazzarella (an expert finish carpenter who’s designed and built cabinetry and framing throughout our home. He and his girlfriend, Emily, have been good friends for 3 years now. Sadly, Emily couldn’t make the wedding due to a job conflict. Not her fault, we sprung this ceremony on people very last minute.); our neighbors, Royce Thompson and Andy – ugh, I’ve forgotten Andy’s last name! (Royce also grew up in our home and is, as you’ve heard in these blogs, a factotum of not only everything about our house, but the surrounding area’s flora and fauna. A very kind and helpful friend.) And finally, there was a surprise non-local friend at the cermoney as well. Patty Anton happened to be traveling back east from LA for business in the Hartford/Boston area and phoned up to find out what we were up to and found that she’d be able to attend not only our wedding ceremony, but Richard’s 50th birthday party the day before. It was a good group.
The day was cool and grey. I got to the hall a bit early to turn on the little gas stove in the corner. Susan Underwood and Wayne Richardson and I had come to the hall earlier in the week to clear away the old voting canvas booths still up from the August primary to a back room. The room is long and wide with a fine wood enhanced echoe throughout. A raked section of benches, arranged very church-like, sits silent and upright on either side of you as you enter the hall. You can sense the people who’ve sat there over time, all of them watching on now. In front of the benches is a large open space (when cleared of voting paraphernalia) which could easily host a Virginia Reel. There’s a side docket up front to the right, looking somewhat like a small choir section. Two tall doors lead to the back rooms where junk and antiques have been crammed and stacked. On the side walls stretch tall rectangular windows, half lidded by roll down green window shades. The windows offer glimpses into the graveyards that surround the hall, the western most one hosting graves that date back to the early 19th century with the veteran’s gravesites sporting tiny American flags whipping in the wind. The graves suit the hall well. There’s no sense of unease or sadness about the place, more of heritage and time, history, life going on. Very Spoon River or Our Town. It’s all a part of the whole.
Richard and I had the ceremony filmed. Matt Bucy, an excellent filmmaker/editor/ jack-of-all-creative-trades friend, came up from White River Junction with his camera in tow. There was a dual purpose to the filming which was: to get an archive of the event for ourselves and also to include it in a documentary being made about Vermont in which Richard and my story of coming to Vermont as a gay couple will be a part. All our guests were very game with going along with the filming and Matt remained as unobtrusive as possible. As we milled about beforehand, nudging our guests not to forget to sign the release forms for the film, we learned a few new things. One was that Richard and Shirley had held the reception to their wedding in this space. “Hasn’t changed that much,” Richard commented. We also found out that the hall is unofficially overseen by Doris, a rather dour woman whose house can be seen out the western windows beyond the graveyard. Her “overseer” capacity is fully self-appointed. She was not asked or voted in. Still she makes her opinion known if any changes are inflicted upon the space not to her liking, such as a new lighting system, replastering the ceiling, moving the old cast iron/porcelain stove from the center of the room, general upkeep and sprucing. “No change!” is her battle cry. She’s lost most of those skirmishes, but she still keeps a close siege over the proceedings here. She wasn’t around on Sunday, but I’m sure she knew what was going on.
We began. Wayne stood in the center of the room with Richard and I on either side of him, the three of us facing a wide half circle of our smiling friends. People were so happy to be there, to have been asked. They kept saying how privileged they felt. It was so dear of them. Wayne had told us that the ceremony would last 4 minutes minus the comments both Richard and I would say to one another, which sounded very New England, very no nonsense, right to the point. No frills and furbelows. It suited us, it seemed to suit the hall.
Wayne had a written a little piece himself. Here’s a bit of what he said:
“Dan and Richard as the two of you come into this marriage, and as you this day affirm your faith and love for one another, I would ask that you always remember to cherish each other as special and unique individuals, that you respect the thoughts, ideas, and suggestions of one another. Be able to forgive, do not hold grudges, and live each day that you may share it together – as from this day forward you shall be each other’s home, comfort, and refuge, your marriage strengthened by your love and respect for each other.”
Not too shabby.
And since I was public that day about my comments to Richard, I would like to include them here. Earlier that day we had gone to separate parts of the house to find our muse, Richard downstairs in the kitchen, I upstairs in our new office space. I combed through quotation and poetry books to find some apt passage and the beginning sentence is an anonymous quote that helped kick off the rest of the piece for me. Here it is:
‘”If there is anything better than to be loved, it is loving.” And the great pleasure and privilege of my life is loving you, and being loved by you, Richard Waterhouse. There’s nothing that compares with hearing you say “hon” over the telephone, looking into your gorgeous blue eyes, seeing or hearing or making you laugh, making up, feeling your embrace in the morning, anytime, marveling that there are some things about you that may always be a mystery to me, the way you think, the way you experience something so uniquely in your fashion, so differently from me, and then those moments too when we share something and we seem to be thinking and feeling exactly the same. I love witnessing the great pleasure you get from living here, from our home, from your chickens and turkeys. I love witnessing you, it fills me with such warmth. You’ve won my heart so many times, Richard, and you continue to do so. You turn me on. Everyday, you teach me how to love more deeply. You help me be a better man. Thank you for the rich years we’ve spent together and God or Universe or Great Creator willing, we’ll have many, many more. I love you.’
(Richard’s comments were wonderful, but I’ll let him decide whether or not he wants to share them with a wider audience.)
True to Wayne’s prediction, after our comments, the ceremony whipped right through – the vows, the rings, the proclamation that we were married - the entire event clocked in at 10 minutes. After embraces and congratulations, we invited everyone over to our place for Perrier Jouet (provided by us) and assorted hors d’oeuvres (pot lucked in by our guests, again very New England) and there was much warmth and laughter and hearty conversation. One hilariously humbling story from years ago in LA was told by our friend Patty about her first bringing cats into our lives, an event I staunchly opposed. “The wall of No would come down,” Patty recounted and I buried my head in my hands, laughing, yes, and remembering how I had refused even entertaining the possibility of cats in our lives. “No change!” I feel for ya Doris. I was you. And what a doting felineophile I am now. Four beautiful felines who engage in all the activities that horrified me imagining back then – ripping up furniture, getting sick, pooping, bringing mice and moles and chipmunks, some dead, some not, into our home – they all happen and for now, pretty much all the time, I take it pretty much in stride.
I’m also a Vermonter now, with good Vermont friends.
And I’m a married man. Wow.
Okay, being married has to go onto the list of the reasons I’m here. I didn’t even know it would be important to me. And it is. It found me without me even looking for it. Sort of like Vermont did.
Have a splendid day!
The day was cool and grey. I got to the hall a bit early to turn on the little gas stove in the corner. Susan Underwood and Wayne Richardson and I had come to the hall earlier in the week to clear away the old voting canvas booths still up from the August primary to a back room. The room is long and wide with a fine wood enhanced echoe throughout. A raked section of benches, arranged very church-like, sits silent and upright on either side of you as you enter the hall. You can sense the people who’ve sat there over time, all of them watching on now. In front of the benches is a large open space (when cleared of voting paraphernalia) which could easily host a Virginia Reel. There’s a side docket up front to the right, looking somewhat like a small choir section. Two tall doors lead to the back rooms where junk and antiques have been crammed and stacked. On the side walls stretch tall rectangular windows, half lidded by roll down green window shades. The windows offer glimpses into the graveyards that surround the hall, the western most one hosting graves that date back to the early 19th century with the veteran’s gravesites sporting tiny American flags whipping in the wind. The graves suit the hall well. There’s no sense of unease or sadness about the place, more of heritage and time, history, life going on. Very Spoon River or Our Town. It’s all a part of the whole.
Richard and I had the ceremony filmed. Matt Bucy, an excellent filmmaker/editor/ jack-of-all-creative-trades friend, came up from White River Junction with his camera in tow. There was a dual purpose to the filming which was: to get an archive of the event for ourselves and also to include it in a documentary being made about Vermont in which Richard and my story of coming to Vermont as a gay couple will be a part. All our guests were very game with going along with the filming and Matt remained as unobtrusive as possible. As we milled about beforehand, nudging our guests not to forget to sign the release forms for the film, we learned a few new things. One was that Richard and Shirley had held the reception to their wedding in this space. “Hasn’t changed that much,” Richard commented. We also found out that the hall is unofficially overseen by Doris, a rather dour woman whose house can be seen out the western windows beyond the graveyard. Her “overseer” capacity is fully self-appointed. She was not asked or voted in. Still she makes her opinion known if any changes are inflicted upon the space not to her liking, such as a new lighting system, replastering the ceiling, moving the old cast iron/porcelain stove from the center of the room, general upkeep and sprucing. “No change!” is her battle cry. She’s lost most of those skirmishes, but she still keeps a close siege over the proceedings here. She wasn’t around on Sunday, but I’m sure she knew what was going on.
We began. Wayne stood in the center of the room with Richard and I on either side of him, the three of us facing a wide half circle of our smiling friends. People were so happy to be there, to have been asked. They kept saying how privileged they felt. It was so dear of them. Wayne had told us that the ceremony would last 4 minutes minus the comments both Richard and I would say to one another, which sounded very New England, very no nonsense, right to the point. No frills and furbelows. It suited us, it seemed to suit the hall.
Wayne had a written a little piece himself. Here’s a bit of what he said:
“Dan and Richard as the two of you come into this marriage, and as you this day affirm your faith and love for one another, I would ask that you always remember to cherish each other as special and unique individuals, that you respect the thoughts, ideas, and suggestions of one another. Be able to forgive, do not hold grudges, and live each day that you may share it together – as from this day forward you shall be each other’s home, comfort, and refuge, your marriage strengthened by your love and respect for each other.”
Not too shabby.
And since I was public that day about my comments to Richard, I would like to include them here. Earlier that day we had gone to separate parts of the house to find our muse, Richard downstairs in the kitchen, I upstairs in our new office space. I combed through quotation and poetry books to find some apt passage and the beginning sentence is an anonymous quote that helped kick off the rest of the piece for me. Here it is:
‘”If there is anything better than to be loved, it is loving.” And the great pleasure and privilege of my life is loving you, and being loved by you, Richard Waterhouse. There’s nothing that compares with hearing you say “hon” over the telephone, looking into your gorgeous blue eyes, seeing or hearing or making you laugh, making up, feeling your embrace in the morning, anytime, marveling that there are some things about you that may always be a mystery to me, the way you think, the way you experience something so uniquely in your fashion, so differently from me, and then those moments too when we share something and we seem to be thinking and feeling exactly the same. I love witnessing the great pleasure you get from living here, from our home, from your chickens and turkeys. I love witnessing you, it fills me with such warmth. You’ve won my heart so many times, Richard, and you continue to do so. You turn me on. Everyday, you teach me how to love more deeply. You help me be a better man. Thank you for the rich years we’ve spent together and God or Universe or Great Creator willing, we’ll have many, many more. I love you.’
(Richard’s comments were wonderful, but I’ll let him decide whether or not he wants to share them with a wider audience.)
True to Wayne’s prediction, after our comments, the ceremony whipped right through – the vows, the rings, the proclamation that we were married - the entire event clocked in at 10 minutes. After embraces and congratulations, we invited everyone over to our place for Perrier Jouet (provided by us) and assorted hors d’oeuvres (pot lucked in by our guests, again very New England) and there was much warmth and laughter and hearty conversation. One hilariously humbling story from years ago in LA was told by our friend Patty about her first bringing cats into our lives, an event I staunchly opposed. “The wall of No would come down,” Patty recounted and I buried my head in my hands, laughing, yes, and remembering how I had refused even entertaining the possibility of cats in our lives. “No change!” I feel for ya Doris. I was you. And what a doting felineophile I am now. Four beautiful felines who engage in all the activities that horrified me imagining back then – ripping up furniture, getting sick, pooping, bringing mice and moles and chipmunks, some dead, some not, into our home – they all happen and for now, pretty much all the time, I take it pretty much in stride.
I’m also a Vermonter now, with good Vermont friends.
And I’m a married man. Wow.
Okay, being married has to go onto the list of the reasons I’m here. I didn’t even know it would be important to me. And it is. It found me without me even looking for it. Sort of like Vermont did.
Have a splendid day!
Sunday, September 12, 2010
It'll be easy
“It’ll be easy,” Richard said when I told him that he’d set a task for the 2 of us today, meaning his suggestion for us to write something pithy and heartfelt about the other and recite it during our wedding ceremony today at 5. Yes, let it be easy, usually a good maxim for me and my penchant for rigid perfectionism, but hearing Richard saying it this morning gave me the urge to reply “Oh, yeah? Sez you!”
Yes, we’re getting married, we’re making it official, taking advantage of Vermont’s right to same-sex marriage. A lot of people feel that the right to get married was the compelling pull that drew us here in the first place, but no, not true. The pull that brought us and keeps us here is still a bit of a mystery. And marriage has never been a thing I’ve been that excited about, whether it’s heterosexual or homosexual. I do admire those who are passionate about it. I do love being in these heady times where that right may very well be argued in front of the Supreme Court of the United States later this year. I often feel as if it should mean more to me. And who knows, maybe it does. Maybe there’s a disconnect between what I say and what I feel, the head and the heart.
The other day when the Justice of the Peace stopped by to go over the script for the ceremony and I read it out loud, I was amazed by how I potent these simple words were. I thought ‘Oh, this is something important, this thing we’re about to do.’ It was a bit of a déjà vu. I looked over to Richard and smiled, wondering if he was thinking the same thing I was thinking, namely, our commitment ceremony in Los Angeles in March of 1999. It had taken us/me a while to get to that day. We’d been together for 5 years. We’d taken baby steps of commitment - moving in together, buying rings for one another; however, I had balked at the idea of a ceremony to cement the relationship. Cold feet? Perhaps. But coupled with that was my indignation that the act had to be politicized, that I couldn’t simply do it because I loved Richard. A future guest at the ceremony would later say, “This had to be about love because you certainly weren’t getting anything from the government by doing it.” But despite all my inner wranglings over whether to do it or not, one morning I surprised Richard by asking him to – what? I didn’t ask him to marry me. What did I say? ‘Wanta have a commitment ceremony?’ It couldn’t have been that, that sounds so lame. And I know it sounded good. It was well thought out for perfect dramatic effect, a nice balance between simple and heartfelt and WOW. The same balance I hope to conjure up for today. Well, I can’t remember exactly what I said back then, be that as it may. Richard was bowled over, happy, and we dove into plans for the big day. And there were invitations and a cake and showers. We decided to have the ceremony at our home, outside, weather permitting, on March 27th. We invited 75 of our closest friends to attend. And we invited our families. My sister was my Best Person. And my mom and dad, divorced for 25 years, both came. “Who would’ve thought that the event to bring mom and dad back together, “ my sister wryly intoned, “would be their son’s gay wedding.” And that’s what many mistakenly called it, a “wedding.” There was a last minute push by our activist minister presiding over the rite, Mel White, to make the day political; he wanted us to publicize it, have tv cameras there, but no, we didn’t feel it was fair to our invited friends (my mom would’ve probably loved it). And it was important to both of us that it be about our love for one another, first and foremost, that nothing over shadow that. The day was exquisite, sunny and warm, perfect. We’d had a spate of soggy weather preceding the day so we really lucked out. We set up chairs in rows on our front lawn which magically appeared around tables for the reception following a quick reception line through our living room. There were a few little snags – our photographer didn’t show up (Richard’s brother Mike came to the rescue and now takes wedding pictures as a profession) and there was an accident out on the Hollywood Freeway which held up the proceedings for an hour, forcing our dear friend Patrick to wear his fingers to the bone playing the same 3 introductory songs on his harp over and over again in slightly different tempos and keys to give a little variety. Finally we began and as we stood there under our huge camphor tree, out under the clear California sky, in front of our supportive family and friends, uttering those words that had been said in so many ways by so many people in love throughout time, the power of the act filled everything around about us. You could see it in the expressions of our friend’s faces, the tears in their eyes, you could feel it in the air, you could almost touch it. This mysterious something. We honored our parents for being there and gave them each a red rose and embraced them. More tears. Various friends spoke passages from plays or prayers, some sang, one smudged our rings with sage invoking a Navajo blessing. And we spoke our love for one another through the agreed upon liturgy. We’d memorized our rites. Richard went up on his lines, just a bit, but it felt good saving him, as if it were a performance, looking into each other’s eyes and giving one another strength, being present in this miraculous day, with our love for one another, aware that we both had decided to take our relationship to another level in the presence of the people most dear to us. At the end of the ceremony we faced the congregation and were introduced as life partners. And then we partied. Richard catered the reception dinner himself. Wine and champagne and cosmopolitans flowed generously. A jazz band played on the side patio. It was a grand day.
So we’ve had our party. We’ve had the presents and the do. And now it seems fitting to New England and to Vermont to have a simple ceremony at the Town Meeting Hall, in the presence of a Justice of the Peace and 9 of our local friends and tie the knot. It also seems appropriate that this desire to get married, like the decision to move to Vermont, came a bit out of nowhere. There’s mystery and magic in it. We were moved by a friendly force beyond our ken and control. We’ve come to expect that here. And that’s fine, letting something be easy. There are enough difficult things that life (or a New England winter say) will bring that we will have to contend with; we don’t have to manufacture difficulty. Why not focus on ease and grace and enjoying the ride. And Richard certainly continues to help teach me that.
I’m going to start writing the words for Richard now. Wish me luck.
No, wish me ease and grace and an effortless simplicity in expressing myself, in expressing my heart.
I intend a fantastic day with my husband and our dear friends.
Yes, we’re getting married, we’re making it official, taking advantage of Vermont’s right to same-sex marriage. A lot of people feel that the right to get married was the compelling pull that drew us here in the first place, but no, not true. The pull that brought us and keeps us here is still a bit of a mystery. And marriage has never been a thing I’ve been that excited about, whether it’s heterosexual or homosexual. I do admire those who are passionate about it. I do love being in these heady times where that right may very well be argued in front of the Supreme Court of the United States later this year. I often feel as if it should mean more to me. And who knows, maybe it does. Maybe there’s a disconnect between what I say and what I feel, the head and the heart.
The other day when the Justice of the Peace stopped by to go over the script for the ceremony and I read it out loud, I was amazed by how I potent these simple words were. I thought ‘Oh, this is something important, this thing we’re about to do.’ It was a bit of a déjà vu. I looked over to Richard and smiled, wondering if he was thinking the same thing I was thinking, namely, our commitment ceremony in Los Angeles in March of 1999. It had taken us/me a while to get to that day. We’d been together for 5 years. We’d taken baby steps of commitment - moving in together, buying rings for one another; however, I had balked at the idea of a ceremony to cement the relationship. Cold feet? Perhaps. But coupled with that was my indignation that the act had to be politicized, that I couldn’t simply do it because I loved Richard. A future guest at the ceremony would later say, “This had to be about love because you certainly weren’t getting anything from the government by doing it.” But despite all my inner wranglings over whether to do it or not, one morning I surprised Richard by asking him to – what? I didn’t ask him to marry me. What did I say? ‘Wanta have a commitment ceremony?’ It couldn’t have been that, that sounds so lame. And I know it sounded good. It was well thought out for perfect dramatic effect, a nice balance between simple and heartfelt and WOW. The same balance I hope to conjure up for today. Well, I can’t remember exactly what I said back then, be that as it may. Richard was bowled over, happy, and we dove into plans for the big day. And there were invitations and a cake and showers. We decided to have the ceremony at our home, outside, weather permitting, on March 27th. We invited 75 of our closest friends to attend. And we invited our families. My sister was my Best Person. And my mom and dad, divorced for 25 years, both came. “Who would’ve thought that the event to bring mom and dad back together, “ my sister wryly intoned, “would be their son’s gay wedding.” And that’s what many mistakenly called it, a “wedding.” There was a last minute push by our activist minister presiding over the rite, Mel White, to make the day political; he wanted us to publicize it, have tv cameras there, but no, we didn’t feel it was fair to our invited friends (my mom would’ve probably loved it). And it was important to both of us that it be about our love for one another, first and foremost, that nothing over shadow that. The day was exquisite, sunny and warm, perfect. We’d had a spate of soggy weather preceding the day so we really lucked out. We set up chairs in rows on our front lawn which magically appeared around tables for the reception following a quick reception line through our living room. There were a few little snags – our photographer didn’t show up (Richard’s brother Mike came to the rescue and now takes wedding pictures as a profession) and there was an accident out on the Hollywood Freeway which held up the proceedings for an hour, forcing our dear friend Patrick to wear his fingers to the bone playing the same 3 introductory songs on his harp over and over again in slightly different tempos and keys to give a little variety. Finally we began and as we stood there under our huge camphor tree, out under the clear California sky, in front of our supportive family and friends, uttering those words that had been said in so many ways by so many people in love throughout time, the power of the act filled everything around about us. You could see it in the expressions of our friend’s faces, the tears in their eyes, you could feel it in the air, you could almost touch it. This mysterious something. We honored our parents for being there and gave them each a red rose and embraced them. More tears. Various friends spoke passages from plays or prayers, some sang, one smudged our rings with sage invoking a Navajo blessing. And we spoke our love for one another through the agreed upon liturgy. We’d memorized our rites. Richard went up on his lines, just a bit, but it felt good saving him, as if it were a performance, looking into each other’s eyes and giving one another strength, being present in this miraculous day, with our love for one another, aware that we both had decided to take our relationship to another level in the presence of the people most dear to us. At the end of the ceremony we faced the congregation and were introduced as life partners. And then we partied. Richard catered the reception dinner himself. Wine and champagne and cosmopolitans flowed generously. A jazz band played on the side patio. It was a grand day.
So we’ve had our party. We’ve had the presents and the do. And now it seems fitting to New England and to Vermont to have a simple ceremony at the Town Meeting Hall, in the presence of a Justice of the Peace and 9 of our local friends and tie the knot. It also seems appropriate that this desire to get married, like the decision to move to Vermont, came a bit out of nowhere. There’s mystery and magic in it. We were moved by a friendly force beyond our ken and control. We’ve come to expect that here. And that’s fine, letting something be easy. There are enough difficult things that life (or a New England winter say) will bring that we will have to contend with; we don’t have to manufacture difficulty. Why not focus on ease and grace and enjoying the ride. And Richard certainly continues to help teach me that.
I’m going to start writing the words for Richard now. Wish me luck.
No, wish me ease and grace and an effortless simplicity in expressing myself, in expressing my heart.
I intend a fantastic day with my husband and our dear friends.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Snippets from a screening.
A flood of lusty learning about Vermont yesterday seeing the rough cut of a friend’s documentary about Vermont – "The Vermont Story: Freedom and Unity," an epic cornucopia of topics chronicled by many filmmakers, brought together under one embrace by the editing eye of Nora Jacobson. There’s still work to be done, but this was the first grand toss up onto the canvas to see what’s there and there’s a lot. So much of what was up on the screen spoke to me in mysterious ways, inexplicable connections to what drew Richard and me here to live, but here are a few things that stuck (and know I'm a history nerd from waaaaay back):
- Vermont was not one of the original 13 colonies. It was an independent republic with a constitution that predated the United State’s.
- When Vermont was being considered for statehood the stipulations were that there couldn’t be any existing claims on the land, especially by native Americans; in Vermont, this would’ve been the Abenaki tribe. There were many Abenaki here (and still are), that would travel to several camps throughout the year so as not to overtax or deplete the natural wildlife or plant life of any particular region. Ethan Allen and his brother, major proponents for statehood, went to Washington and proclaimed that there were no Indians in Vermont, that they were just “passing through.” Statehood was immediately offered. Settlers were cautioned to honor any Indian encampments, but coming upon these seasonal camps, they thought the Indians had abandoned them, so they set up their own camp and houses and when the next season arrived and the Abenaki’s returned, they found a settlement.
- Both Bill W. and Dr. Bob, co-founders of AA, were born and raised in Vermont and it is supposed that the foundational underpinnings of AA meetings with its egalitarian flavor and concept of “no set leader” was inspired by the traditional town meetings of Vermont.
- Joseph Smith, the founder of the Mormon Church, is from Vermont.
- The Underground Railroad as well as the Abolitionist movement were quite vigorous in Vermont. Vermont judges refused to enforce the Fugitive Slave Act, a law of the land before the Civil War which ordered that escaped slaves caught in the north had to be extradited to their owners in the south. There were many free blacks working and prospering in Vermont before the war. Vermont was the first state to abolish slavery. Inter-racial marriages were common here in the early to mid- nineteenth centuries.
… and so much, much more. It will touch on eugenics, secessionist movements, the hippies, gay civil unions and marriages (Richard and I will be included in portions of that section), farming, and on and on and on. Such rich soil, the indefatigable spirit of the place. I am so proud to live in this place, so grateful to whatever mysterious, synchronistic pull that brought us here. And yesterday we traveled an hour and a half to the screening through some of the most gorgeous countryside you can imagine – hills and valleys with that last burst of green before the colors turn, all basking beneath a clear, blue sky yesterday.
And hearkening back to synchronicity, we get to the gathering, eat with our fellow filmmakers and historians and contributors of many stripes and fashion, and we meet a gentlemen, a political scientist/farmer who is interviewed through one particular section of the movie, and we tell him that we live near Newbury, Vermont, to which he replied that he grew up in Newbury. He asked what road we were on and when we tell him the name of the road, he said, “I know it well. I used to walk 7 miles to see a girl who lived on a chicken farm out that way.” Our reply? ‘That’s our house. That’s where we live.’ “No shit.” Not only that, but his “girlfriend” Susan, we had seen just that morning when Richard borrowed her kayak to go out with me on the Connecticutt River for an early morning row.
It’s a small state.
A small WONDERFUL or WONDER FILLED state.
- Vermont was not one of the original 13 colonies. It was an independent republic with a constitution that predated the United State’s.
- When Vermont was being considered for statehood the stipulations were that there couldn’t be any existing claims on the land, especially by native Americans; in Vermont, this would’ve been the Abenaki tribe. There were many Abenaki here (and still are), that would travel to several camps throughout the year so as not to overtax or deplete the natural wildlife or plant life of any particular region. Ethan Allen and his brother, major proponents for statehood, went to Washington and proclaimed that there were no Indians in Vermont, that they were just “passing through.” Statehood was immediately offered. Settlers were cautioned to honor any Indian encampments, but coming upon these seasonal camps, they thought the Indians had abandoned them, so they set up their own camp and houses and when the next season arrived and the Abenaki’s returned, they found a settlement.
- Both Bill W. and Dr. Bob, co-founders of AA, were born and raised in Vermont and it is supposed that the foundational underpinnings of AA meetings with its egalitarian flavor and concept of “no set leader” was inspired by the traditional town meetings of Vermont.
- Joseph Smith, the founder of the Mormon Church, is from Vermont.
- The Underground Railroad as well as the Abolitionist movement were quite vigorous in Vermont. Vermont judges refused to enforce the Fugitive Slave Act, a law of the land before the Civil War which ordered that escaped slaves caught in the north had to be extradited to their owners in the south. There were many free blacks working and prospering in Vermont before the war. Vermont was the first state to abolish slavery. Inter-racial marriages were common here in the early to mid- nineteenth centuries.
… and so much, much more. It will touch on eugenics, secessionist movements, the hippies, gay civil unions and marriages (Richard and I will be included in portions of that section), farming, and on and on and on. Such rich soil, the indefatigable spirit of the place. I am so proud to live in this place, so grateful to whatever mysterious, synchronistic pull that brought us here. And yesterday we traveled an hour and a half to the screening through some of the most gorgeous countryside you can imagine – hills and valleys with that last burst of green before the colors turn, all basking beneath a clear, blue sky yesterday.
And hearkening back to synchronicity, we get to the gathering, eat with our fellow filmmakers and historians and contributors of many stripes and fashion, and we meet a gentlemen, a political scientist/farmer who is interviewed through one particular section of the movie, and we tell him that we live near Newbury, Vermont, to which he replied that he grew up in Newbury. He asked what road we were on and when we tell him the name of the road, he said, “I know it well. I used to walk 7 miles to see a girl who lived on a chicken farm out that way.” Our reply? ‘That’s our house. That’s where we live.’ “No shit.” Not only that, but his “girlfriend” Susan, we had seen just that morning when Richard borrowed her kayak to go out with me on the Connecticutt River for an early morning row.
It’s a small state.
A small WONDERFUL or WONDER FILLED state.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Dilemmas
I have a bloody scar curving down across my left eyebrow. This wound was delivered with surprising severity earlier this afternoon by Snowball, one of our 3 turkeys. One minute she was cooing at me in a slightly odd voice I’d never heard before – she’d hopped up on a boulder to be near me as I hung a blanket out on the line to sun dry – and as I bent closer, stroking her white feathery breast and asking her “what’s the matter?”, she lunged at me, inflicting the gash. Thinking she was out of sorts, I went around to embrace and hold her – a fairly common practice, nothing out of the ordinary – and she went for the skin between my thumb and index finger. And held on. Tight. Later, as I dabbed peroxide and Neosporin on my slash mark, I concluded that she must’ve thought my eyebrow was a caterpillar and my finger a worm. My next thought was “Well, this makes eating her at Thanksgiving a little easier.”
Okay, wait. Much like the Samarai are admonished not to fight when angry, I don’t want to eat Snowflake for revenge. And I don’t want to cast eating Snowflake for Thanksgiving in a comic light. This is a dilemma. We have gotten close to all the turkeys, we’ve named them (I know, bad move. We were counseled against it, many times.) AND we’ve named our chickens and roosters. “Processing” them will be in their futures too. This is one of the many dilemmas I’ve found about living on some semblance of a farm and raising animals that you intend to eat. I think that’s why I was so against Richard getting chickens and geese and turkeys in the first place because something inside of me knew that I would be the big softie when it came to wrestling with the predicament of to eat or not to eat, to kill or not to kill. Richard’s a sweetie, he loves all his animals, but don’t be fooled by his angelic disposition; he’s got cold steel flowing through his veins. Remember, he shot a Canada gosling in cold blood! A bullet to its head! At close range!! Okay, granted, it was a mercy killing. It had been injured, it needed to be done away with, but still, he did it! You think he’s losing sleep over whether or not to eat one of the turkeys?! Not on your life. This is a man who named a couple of his chickens “Puddin’ Pie” and “Dumpling” last year.
And there’s the geese. Another dilemma. Not that we’re thinking about eating any of them. No, not on your life, we’re agreed on that. BUT we’re seriously thinking of getting rid of them. There’s really no reason to have them. Richard’s had the experience, he sees that he enjoys chickens and turkeys much more. And they serve no purpose, they provide no product like eggs (well, okay, for 2 months. But just try to get one without getting nipped at.). They poop all over the place. Schmuel harangues and scolds us (well, me. He’s sweet as all get out to Richard. Schmuel and I got off on the wrong foot. I try to be nice to him, but he sees me coming, and his head goes down, and his neck goes out, followed by a banshee screech which sets the others off in a crazed sort of Greek chorus. But I digress.) Richard and I made a mental list of pros and cons regarding the geese the other day and we filled the con side, FILLED IT. Not a pro. And yet … our hearts melt seeing them swimming on the pond. They are so beautiful over there, a floating haiku, a meditation. It’s ridiculous. Ugh. We’re suckers. Richard has listed the 3 young uns on Craig’s List, but other than a few nibbles, nada.
And getting back to turkeys, Richard just hatched 6 new babies! And they are adorable and imprinted on us, but where are they going to go this winter? The 3 adult turkeys have been taking up space in the chicken coop ever since the raccoon attack and, yes, will probably be gone come Thanksgiving and Christmas (I just shuddered, honestly), but those 6 are going to take up a LOT of room as they fatten up all winter. And come Spring, who’s going to want them? No one eats turkey in the spring. It’s ham or lamb. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe we could disguise them, cover them in wool, teach them other kind of animal calls and people will be none the wiser.
Richard’s going to a Chicken Swap on Sunday, a quaint get together in these parts. He doesn’t actually “swap” his chickens. He gets in there, sells what he has, and skedaddles. The last two times he’s been there, it’s been a quick success. This time he really is trying to clear some space in the coop AND get rid of a few trouble makers. Too many roosters around. Oh, and I just thought of another dilemma. Today, just before leaving for work, Richard informed me that Pearl, a white hen of ours, was starting to go broody and if ever I saw her on a nest sitting on eggs or spending an inordinate amount of time crouching down on the coop floor, I was to scat her outside. Well, sure enough, when I went out to collect eggs midday, there she was, sitting, hunched over 2 eggs, that glassy, broody look coming over her eyes while outside the weather was glorious. I gathered the eggs and with a “C’mon, Pearl, time to get out in the day!” reached beneath her and tossed her out into the grass. I felt as if I were shoving a depressed person in robe and curlers out the door of an asylum. “Get out there! It’s good for you! Enough shock therapy!!” And to add insult to injury, the moment she hit the ground, still dazed in a broody high, Major, our Australorp, hopped on her and humped her. Sorry, Pearl.
I seemed to have needed to get all this off my chest. I feel much better now. My wound is clotting nicely. The turkeys are busying themselves with some havoc in the backyard. The geese are across the road getting ready for another chapter of their pond choreography. Of course they’ve waited until it’s the most perfect time of day to embark, the sunlight dusting off the leaves that are just thinking of turning color. They’ll ease out onto the surface of the water and barely, imperceptibly create a ripple. And they’ll look as if they’re fully concentrated on what they’re doing, but those geese, they’re tricky, they look at you out of the side of their head, when they’re in perfect profile, and they can see that once more they’ve melted my heart. And there they go.
Okay, they can stay.
Snowball’s days, however, are numbered.
Okay, wait. Much like the Samarai are admonished not to fight when angry, I don’t want to eat Snowflake for revenge. And I don’t want to cast eating Snowflake for Thanksgiving in a comic light. This is a dilemma. We have gotten close to all the turkeys, we’ve named them (I know, bad move. We were counseled against it, many times.) AND we’ve named our chickens and roosters. “Processing” them will be in their futures too. This is one of the many dilemmas I’ve found about living on some semblance of a farm and raising animals that you intend to eat. I think that’s why I was so against Richard getting chickens and geese and turkeys in the first place because something inside of me knew that I would be the big softie when it came to wrestling with the predicament of to eat or not to eat, to kill or not to kill. Richard’s a sweetie, he loves all his animals, but don’t be fooled by his angelic disposition; he’s got cold steel flowing through his veins. Remember, he shot a Canada gosling in cold blood! A bullet to its head! At close range!! Okay, granted, it was a mercy killing. It had been injured, it needed to be done away with, but still, he did it! You think he’s losing sleep over whether or not to eat one of the turkeys?! Not on your life. This is a man who named a couple of his chickens “Puddin’ Pie” and “Dumpling” last year.
And there’s the geese. Another dilemma. Not that we’re thinking about eating any of them. No, not on your life, we’re agreed on that. BUT we’re seriously thinking of getting rid of them. There’s really no reason to have them. Richard’s had the experience, he sees that he enjoys chickens and turkeys much more. And they serve no purpose, they provide no product like eggs (well, okay, for 2 months. But just try to get one without getting nipped at.). They poop all over the place. Schmuel harangues and scolds us (well, me. He’s sweet as all get out to Richard. Schmuel and I got off on the wrong foot. I try to be nice to him, but he sees me coming, and his head goes down, and his neck goes out, followed by a banshee screech which sets the others off in a crazed sort of Greek chorus. But I digress.) Richard and I made a mental list of pros and cons regarding the geese the other day and we filled the con side, FILLED IT. Not a pro. And yet … our hearts melt seeing them swimming on the pond. They are so beautiful over there, a floating haiku, a meditation. It’s ridiculous. Ugh. We’re suckers. Richard has listed the 3 young uns on Craig’s List, but other than a few nibbles, nada.
And getting back to turkeys, Richard just hatched 6 new babies! And they are adorable and imprinted on us, but where are they going to go this winter? The 3 adult turkeys have been taking up space in the chicken coop ever since the raccoon attack and, yes, will probably be gone come Thanksgiving and Christmas (I just shuddered, honestly), but those 6 are going to take up a LOT of room as they fatten up all winter. And come Spring, who’s going to want them? No one eats turkey in the spring. It’s ham or lamb. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe we could disguise them, cover them in wool, teach them other kind of animal calls and people will be none the wiser.
Richard’s going to a Chicken Swap on Sunday, a quaint get together in these parts. He doesn’t actually “swap” his chickens. He gets in there, sells what he has, and skedaddles. The last two times he’s been there, it’s been a quick success. This time he really is trying to clear some space in the coop AND get rid of a few trouble makers. Too many roosters around. Oh, and I just thought of another dilemma. Today, just before leaving for work, Richard informed me that Pearl, a white hen of ours, was starting to go broody and if ever I saw her on a nest sitting on eggs or spending an inordinate amount of time crouching down on the coop floor, I was to scat her outside. Well, sure enough, when I went out to collect eggs midday, there she was, sitting, hunched over 2 eggs, that glassy, broody look coming over her eyes while outside the weather was glorious. I gathered the eggs and with a “C’mon, Pearl, time to get out in the day!” reached beneath her and tossed her out into the grass. I felt as if I were shoving a depressed person in robe and curlers out the door of an asylum. “Get out there! It’s good for you! Enough shock therapy!!” And to add insult to injury, the moment she hit the ground, still dazed in a broody high, Major, our Australorp, hopped on her and humped her. Sorry, Pearl.
I seemed to have needed to get all this off my chest. I feel much better now. My wound is clotting nicely. The turkeys are busying themselves with some havoc in the backyard. The geese are across the road getting ready for another chapter of their pond choreography. Of course they’ve waited until it’s the most perfect time of day to embark, the sunlight dusting off the leaves that are just thinking of turning color. They’ll ease out onto the surface of the water and barely, imperceptibly create a ripple. And they’ll look as if they’re fully concentrated on what they’re doing, but those geese, they’re tricky, they look at you out of the side of their head, when they’re in perfect profile, and they can see that once more they’ve melted my heart. And there they go.
Okay, they can stay.
Snowball’s days, however, are numbered.
Friday, August 20, 2010
New From the Home Front
A quick catch-up before heading to Hall’s Lake for an early morning kayak. Just cuddled each of our newly hatched turkey chicks to get the imprinting ball rolling. Yes, it’s not the ideal time of year to be hatching chicks of any kind, but Richard was disconsolate over the loss of 3 of his adult turkeys to a raccoon attack a couple months back and I urged him to try ordering more. He assured me that the season to order was long past, but to his surprise this was not true, an oddity, and he found himself bidding for 12 turkey eggs. He won the bidding war, the eggs were shipped, he incubated them, and 6 out of 12 hatched 2 days ago. 2 of the unhatched were fully formed inside their eggs, but didn’t make it. One of them had started pipping the shell, however he or she had gotten themselves upside down and couldn’t pip out through the bottom and died. Richard was saddened by this. They’re such vulnerable, adorable creatures. And none of them have bumble foot (I think I’m remembering the term correctly), an arthritic-looking malady that curves some of the turkey’s “toes” 90 degrees. I had thought this new brood would be fully grown by Thanksgiving, but some quick arithmetic earlier this week put a lie to that. Where and how they’ll be kept over the winter is an issue to be dealt with sometime soon. Tomorrow is another day. And Richard’s already thinking of thinning out his various flocks. There are a couple “chicken swaps” coming up where he’s sold some pullets in the past AND we have prospective buyers for Daphne, Felicity, and Prince Mishkin (our newer geese.) I still feel the older geese will be heartbroken by the separation, though I have to keep reminding myself that idea probably comes from Disney animated features.
Autumn feels as if it’s here, especially in the mornings. We wake to all our cats burrowed in close, with no complaints and calls to get up and fix their grub, they enjoy the warmth. Of course, we get up at 5:30 or 6 so where would the complaint be? Oliver was out all night – we left the porch pet door open for him, while keeping the screen door shut to prevent anyone else from getting out – and is now crashed out on our bed like a teenager who partied hard the night before. The geese have raised their morning ruckus and are in the road, pruning and fluffing their feathers, urging on the last of their molting. They love lining up across the road preventing cars from going by, and giving the drivers “what for” if they deign to honk at them or slowly edge their way through the flock. Audacity reigns.
Yesterday around 4 of a hot day in the high 80’s, I came home with a new kayak. I’d been on the fence about buying one for a while, ever since a blissful time on a friend’s pond a month or 2 back. I’d been paying close attention to the sales price of kayak’s slashing down, down, down. The confluence of the lowering price and my deep yearning for a return to that joyous day on the water came together in a surety yesterday around 3. I pulled into Farm Way, decision made; the salesman was barely able to start into his pitch and I had the kayak picked out, oar, life preserver, and mount rack, all at a percentage of what they had originally been. Fantastic! And yes, the Connecticut River is in my near future, and I’m open to other autumn haunts for these early mornings, but yesterday, the idea of being on our pond, trying the new boat out, paddling back through the swampy areas that only the geese and ducks pad to, seemed like nirvana. The geese were aghast as I portaged this 12’ orange creamsicle-colored plastic thing across the road toward “their” pond. They stood motionless, with just a few whispers to one another as I lowered it into the water beside the pier. Even Schmuel, the ultimate neck craner, was nonplussed. I eased into the boat, pushed off from the shore, and soared out to sea. So beautiful, so still, so perfect. AND the geese followed. This was completely unexpected. Usually when we swim, they hightail it out of there. They might observe from the safety of the bank, but they don’t want to be anywhere close to these splashing, shouting, whooping creatures. Do we become something else to them when swimming, I wonder? But the kayak – the exact color of their bills, by the way – must’ve been something different altogether. They were curious and intrigued. They followed me, so beautiful, this little clutch of goose family, swimming along with slow, sure ease. For the most part it was a dance between the two of us. They’d circle me, come close, confer a bit, all very calmly done. Once Schmuel seemed to recognize the top part of my body sticking out from this orange floating arrow and began to arch out at me, but that was short lived. Mostly it was a pondy meditation on one another. Who are you, really?
When I came to shore, I propped the kayak up against our small willow tree near the pond and went back to the dock to exercise a bit and lay back to take in the gorgeous sky. The geese got out beside me and both Ginger and Schmuel approached the boat as if it were an adversary, their necks craned, bodies low, warning honks and jabbers. The boat didn’t make a move. So they all moved in for a chew and a bite. They couldn’t really gain purchase there and finally resigned themselves to acceptance. Richard soon came home, having heard of the recent purchase, and wanted a paddle out on the pond himself and again, and the curious journey and dance were repeated.
It seems like a poem of a day, light relaxed and easy on the trees. The perfect opportunity to become one with a body of water. I think I’ll go enjoy bird song and beauty from the perspective of a boat on the water.
Have a great day.
Autumn feels as if it’s here, especially in the mornings. We wake to all our cats burrowed in close, with no complaints and calls to get up and fix their grub, they enjoy the warmth. Of course, we get up at 5:30 or 6 so where would the complaint be? Oliver was out all night – we left the porch pet door open for him, while keeping the screen door shut to prevent anyone else from getting out – and is now crashed out on our bed like a teenager who partied hard the night before. The geese have raised their morning ruckus and are in the road, pruning and fluffing their feathers, urging on the last of their molting. They love lining up across the road preventing cars from going by, and giving the drivers “what for” if they deign to honk at them or slowly edge their way through the flock. Audacity reigns.
Yesterday around 4 of a hot day in the high 80’s, I came home with a new kayak. I’d been on the fence about buying one for a while, ever since a blissful time on a friend’s pond a month or 2 back. I’d been paying close attention to the sales price of kayak’s slashing down, down, down. The confluence of the lowering price and my deep yearning for a return to that joyous day on the water came together in a surety yesterday around 3. I pulled into Farm Way, decision made; the salesman was barely able to start into his pitch and I had the kayak picked out, oar, life preserver, and mount rack, all at a percentage of what they had originally been. Fantastic! And yes, the Connecticut River is in my near future, and I’m open to other autumn haunts for these early mornings, but yesterday, the idea of being on our pond, trying the new boat out, paddling back through the swampy areas that only the geese and ducks pad to, seemed like nirvana. The geese were aghast as I portaged this 12’ orange creamsicle-colored plastic thing across the road toward “their” pond. They stood motionless, with just a few whispers to one another as I lowered it into the water beside the pier. Even Schmuel, the ultimate neck craner, was nonplussed. I eased into the boat, pushed off from the shore, and soared out to sea. So beautiful, so still, so perfect. AND the geese followed. This was completely unexpected. Usually when we swim, they hightail it out of there. They might observe from the safety of the bank, but they don’t want to be anywhere close to these splashing, shouting, whooping creatures. Do we become something else to them when swimming, I wonder? But the kayak – the exact color of their bills, by the way – must’ve been something different altogether. They were curious and intrigued. They followed me, so beautiful, this little clutch of goose family, swimming along with slow, sure ease. For the most part it was a dance between the two of us. They’d circle me, come close, confer a bit, all very calmly done. Once Schmuel seemed to recognize the top part of my body sticking out from this orange floating arrow and began to arch out at me, but that was short lived. Mostly it was a pondy meditation on one another. Who are you, really?
When I came to shore, I propped the kayak up against our small willow tree near the pond and went back to the dock to exercise a bit and lay back to take in the gorgeous sky. The geese got out beside me and both Ginger and Schmuel approached the boat as if it were an adversary, their necks craned, bodies low, warning honks and jabbers. The boat didn’t make a move. So they all moved in for a chew and a bite. They couldn’t really gain purchase there and finally resigned themselves to acceptance. Richard soon came home, having heard of the recent purchase, and wanted a paddle out on the pond himself and again, and the curious journey and dance were repeated.
It seems like a poem of a day, light relaxed and easy on the trees. The perfect opportunity to become one with a body of water. I think I’ll go enjoy bird song and beauty from the perspective of a boat on the water.
Have a great day.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Poet's Choice
Poet’s Choice
I feel like such a dilettante when it comes to poetry. And that thought led me to the dictionary for a quick definition and in addition to “dabbler” or “someone who takes up an art or activity merely for amusement, esp. in a desultory or superficial way” (my intended meaning), “dilettante” ALSO means “a lover of an art or a science, esp. a fine art.” And you know, I’m so eager at times, even unintentionally as in this case, to wrap myself in a mildly negative defining of something, that this time I choose the second definition to describe myself, "a lover of fine art" for I am a lover of poetry. I can rush to say I know so little, I’ve read so little compared to others (“compare and despair” as one wise friend reminded me) BUT those poems that I have read I cherish. They stick with me. They stay with me. I love them. Deeply.
Several years ago, let’s say in the 80’s in NYC (30 years ago, geez), I became enamored with Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” There was a chapter in “Prince of Players,” a book about the American actor Edwin Booth, in which young Edwin observes his father, actor Junius Booth, entertain a friend who’d stopped backstage following a performance of some Shakespearean tragedy by reciting the entirety of the “Ancient Mariner” … off the top of his head! “Here’s a little ditty I’ve conned, I think you’ll like it.” IT’S AN EPIC POEM! A LOOOONG POEM! I can just see the friend squirming in his seat, trying to keep an interested, engaged smile on his face. No! It must've been amazing! Mesmerizing! captivating! Another great performance. And this after playing “Othello” or “Macbeth” moments before. It’s what you did! You recited poetry. Well, something about that whole notion grabbed me and convinced me that I had to do it. So I set out to memorize the entire poem. For a moment or 2 I thought that I should also become addicted to opium since it’s alleged Coleridge wrote "Rime" under the heavy influence of that drug, but I quickly dismissed the idea as tangential. I got pretty close to getting the whole poem down too. ("Water, water everywhere; and all the boards did shrink. Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.") I even worked on a piece of it with an acting coach. I think that’s when poetry really grabbed me. I’d done some Shakespeare before, dabbled around a bit with other poetry, but learning “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” was my first experience of a poem really taking hold of me. The epicness of it at least.
Then Ben Okri, a south African poet, came into my life. This would have been in the early 90s. A book of his poetry was prominently displayed in a London bookstore window when I happened to be in that town during a particularly low period of my life. I literally felt it call out to me from the bookstore window, pulling me to pay attention. “Look here! See, buy, read.” There’s a poem within that particular collection “A Letter to an English Friend” which bolstered me then and continues to do so through unfamiliar deserts in my life. A life buoy, an embrace. That mysterious and undefinable magic of art that makes you feel not quite so alone on earth. I highly recommend his work.
And since Okri, Donald Hall, Jane Kenyon, Ted Kooser, Philip Levine, WS Merwin and countless others whose names escape me at the moment have all delighted and uplifted and awakened me. I have a book by Edward Hirsch called “Poet’s Choice” that I bought back in 2006 and have read each year since then. It’s a smorgasboard sampling of his favorite poets, those whose poems, like Okri’s in mine, have come at the exact right time in his life. In the introduction to the book, Hirsch says that he can remember where he was, what he was doing when he first read certain poems. They’ve been companions during hard times. They’ve elucidated and deepened knowing. They’ve “sacramentalize(d) experience.” I love that. I believe that. And he goes on to say something else I believe, that we need poetry in our lives now more than ever in a world rife with dehumanization, with commercialization, materialism, with war, the destruction of nature. Poetry can help challenge us to find meaning in it all. We need it now more than ever because it speaks to our collective hearts. It gives voice to sorrow and anger and joy and doubt, to LIFE, to everyone’s experience, everyone’s voice. It reminds us, even in a reassuring whisper, what is truly important.
I’m so grateful and glad that some voice told me to reach for “Poet’s Choice” this morning and open its pages. Maybe the self same voice that told me to look at Ben Okri’s book in the window of that store in London a few decades back. Maybe a poet’s voice, a dilettante’s voice. To choose poetry. To see life, this day, as an unfolding poem. To see one’s self as a poet. There’s an invitation. And just for today, I choose to see myself as such. To pay attention, to be present in one’s life, to appreciate - fully.
And being a Vermonter, maybe some time today I’ll even pick up a bit of Robert Frost and give it a read.
Have a good poetry filled day, fellow poets!
I feel like such a dilettante when it comes to poetry. And that thought led me to the dictionary for a quick definition and in addition to “dabbler” or “someone who takes up an art or activity merely for amusement, esp. in a desultory or superficial way” (my intended meaning), “dilettante” ALSO means “a lover of an art or a science, esp. a fine art.” And you know, I’m so eager at times, even unintentionally as in this case, to wrap myself in a mildly negative defining of something, that this time I choose the second definition to describe myself, "a lover of fine art" for I am a lover of poetry. I can rush to say I know so little, I’ve read so little compared to others (“compare and despair” as one wise friend reminded me) BUT those poems that I have read I cherish. They stick with me. They stay with me. I love them. Deeply.
Several years ago, let’s say in the 80’s in NYC (30 years ago, geez), I became enamored with Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” There was a chapter in “Prince of Players,” a book about the American actor Edwin Booth, in which young Edwin observes his father, actor Junius Booth, entertain a friend who’d stopped backstage following a performance of some Shakespearean tragedy by reciting the entirety of the “Ancient Mariner” … off the top of his head! “Here’s a little ditty I’ve conned, I think you’ll like it.” IT’S AN EPIC POEM! A LOOOONG POEM! I can just see the friend squirming in his seat, trying to keep an interested, engaged smile on his face. No! It must've been amazing! Mesmerizing! captivating! Another great performance. And this after playing “Othello” or “Macbeth” moments before. It’s what you did! You recited poetry. Well, something about that whole notion grabbed me and convinced me that I had to do it. So I set out to memorize the entire poem. For a moment or 2 I thought that I should also become addicted to opium since it’s alleged Coleridge wrote "Rime" under the heavy influence of that drug, but I quickly dismissed the idea as tangential. I got pretty close to getting the whole poem down too. ("Water, water everywhere; and all the boards did shrink. Water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.") I even worked on a piece of it with an acting coach. I think that’s when poetry really grabbed me. I’d done some Shakespeare before, dabbled around a bit with other poetry, but learning “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” was my first experience of a poem really taking hold of me. The epicness of it at least.
Then Ben Okri, a south African poet, came into my life. This would have been in the early 90s. A book of his poetry was prominently displayed in a London bookstore window when I happened to be in that town during a particularly low period of my life. I literally felt it call out to me from the bookstore window, pulling me to pay attention. “Look here! See, buy, read.” There’s a poem within that particular collection “A Letter to an English Friend” which bolstered me then and continues to do so through unfamiliar deserts in my life. A life buoy, an embrace. That mysterious and undefinable magic of art that makes you feel not quite so alone on earth. I highly recommend his work.
And since Okri, Donald Hall, Jane Kenyon, Ted Kooser, Philip Levine, WS Merwin and countless others whose names escape me at the moment have all delighted and uplifted and awakened me. I have a book by Edward Hirsch called “Poet’s Choice” that I bought back in 2006 and have read each year since then. It’s a smorgasboard sampling of his favorite poets, those whose poems, like Okri’s in mine, have come at the exact right time in his life. In the introduction to the book, Hirsch says that he can remember where he was, what he was doing when he first read certain poems. They’ve been companions during hard times. They’ve elucidated and deepened knowing. They’ve “sacramentalize(d) experience.” I love that. I believe that. And he goes on to say something else I believe, that we need poetry in our lives now more than ever in a world rife with dehumanization, with commercialization, materialism, with war, the destruction of nature. Poetry can help challenge us to find meaning in it all. We need it now more than ever because it speaks to our collective hearts. It gives voice to sorrow and anger and joy and doubt, to LIFE, to everyone’s experience, everyone’s voice. It reminds us, even in a reassuring whisper, what is truly important.
I’m so grateful and glad that some voice told me to reach for “Poet’s Choice” this morning and open its pages. Maybe the self same voice that told me to look at Ben Okri’s book in the window of that store in London a few decades back. Maybe a poet’s voice, a dilettante’s voice. To choose poetry. To see life, this day, as an unfolding poem. To see one’s self as a poet. There’s an invitation. And just for today, I choose to see myself as such. To pay attention, to be present in one’s life, to appreciate - fully.
And being a Vermonter, maybe some time today I’ll even pick up a bit of Robert Frost and give it a read.
Have a good poetry filled day, fellow poets!
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