We were able to spend a couple weeks up there at the end of August/beginning of September and there were so many things I wanted to share with this site, but I never got my butt in the chair to write. Here are a few of them:
The incredible rush of joy I felt when a pair of monarch butterflies showed up one day, cavorting in the air. "There've been scads of them lately," Richard said. They used to be so common, especially in our meadow which is teeming with one of their favorite treats, milkweed, but I hadn't seen any anywhere for a long time. Dire reports of their migratory numbers in Mexico dipping precipitously and reading books like "The Sixth Extinction" did not buoy hope. So seeing these 2 strangers doing their own aerial show filled me with such delight, made me airy with possibility. No, that's not it. Made me completely present in appreciating of that moment. Things are always passing by, passing through, passing. Just see it.
Our gardens have been miraculous. I haven't been around them most of the summer, off at work, but Richard would send reports. The beans and lettuces and chard and kale have been especially prodigious. Not hot enough for tomatoes, but that's fine. Everything else showed off with bounty. I screwed up a piece of our potato crop; cured them on our porch, neglecting to cover them with burlap, and they turned green (and poisonous) so I had to dump them. Rats. Live and learn.
Richard produced his 5th annual 48 hour Film Slam here and the combination of the enthusiastic community support for the project and the entrants becoming more and more sophisticated in their filmmaking technique and storytelling ability was ecstatically satisfying. People are so grateful to Richard for bringing something so creative to the area. You see everyone so filled with new LIFE. It's a wonderful early September tradition.
So the big news. We're about to travel up to Vermont to spend a couple days and then take our geese - Shmuel, Mary Ann, and Baby Dumplin' (their gander baby) - to a new home in CT, somewhere where they will be treated as pets and cared for. I include a piece of the letter I was going to send their new owner, but decided not to when Richard asked "to what end?" So I share it with you:
"Dear ----------------,
Your correspondence has been entirely through Richard, and I
wanted an opportunity to express my gratitude that you will be providing a home
for our dear geese, Mary Ann and Shmuel.
As Richard may have mentioned, I’m letting them go with a heavy heart,
though I see the wisdom in doing so. We
had been keeping them mainly as pets, and being away in New York for a goodly
chunk of the year, the daily upkeep, especially during the winter months, gets
to be costly. So it’s time to let them
go. And thank you for the invitation to
come see them whenever I’d like. I will
probably take you up on that kind gesture.
So I pass on to you and your daughter a little background and praise of
these beautiful creature’s time in our lives as a goodbye as well as an
introduction. Writing that last sentence
I conjured them swimming in our pond, this poetry in motion. There’s a poem by Rilke called “The Swan”
where he juxtaposes the clumsy awkwardness of them on land with the glide and
ease and grace of them in the water.
It’s beautiful and suits my memory of our geese exactly.
Mary Ann and he sister Ginger were hatched in a makeshift
incubator that Richard fashioned out of an old cooler. Very ingenious. They imprinted on us and followed us
everywhere, to the top of the hill behind our house, swimming, everywhere. They were wary of us picking them up by
instinct, but after the squawk and complaint of getting them, they eased into
being in our arms and on our laps to a certain degree, usually chewing on
something shiney, like our rings.
Shmuel came into the picture about a year or so later. Richard combed the internet for a gander and
found one in Massachusetts just across the Rhode Island border and I stopped to
pick him up on my way up from New York one trip. A Jewish family had a compound just off a
busy country road teeming with geese, chickens, and goats, and Shmuel was
impressively large and the sire of most of the other geese at the place. I had to choose him. He took to the girls immediately, especially
Mary Ann. They have been an inseparable
couple almost from day one. Richard had
wanted to change his name to “Professor” to keep a Gilligan’s Island theme, but
I loved the name Shmuel, so it stayed.
He’s been a great protector and father, though the siring offspring
capacity has dwindled over the years.
He’s territorial, but if you smack his beak a good one when he flutters
his tail feathers and lowers his neck at you, he usually backs off. A good strong “NO!” with a pointed finger
works too, but watch your finger; his bites can mean business. Both are usually very easy to shepherd into
their holding pens when they acclimate to their surroundings. They love lettuce, parsley, dandelion
leaves. I feel especially close to
Shmuel because I nursed him back to health after he was attacked by a coydog
while defending our flock of 5 (that year).
He had 2 nasty fang marks on his neck and it was touch and go for
awhile. I hydrogen peroxided the wounds,
got some tetracycline for his water, quarantined him from the other geese for
awhile, and fed him baby food through a turkey baster. He was so weak at first. I longed for the day when he’d give me a good
bite, then I’d know he had his mojo back.
It took about 4 months to get completely back to fine fettle, but he/we
did it.
They’ve been wonderful birds. I marvel at how beautiful they are. Of course these days I’m taking in everything
I can about them since I know my days around them are numbered. Probably my favorite time of day is at dusk
when either I shepherd them slowly into their pen or watch them from a little
distance shepherd themselves. It’s so
meditative, the pace slow and sure, completely in sync with the day,
nature. It’s lovely, predictable, a
ritual, like monks walking to vespers.
I’ll miss their conversation, Mary Ann’s tough, no nonsense deep whiskey
voice, Shmuel’s trumpet call and wheezy comment and jabber when he’s figuring
something out, commenting. I wish you
enjoyment of both of them and I wish them an easy transition to living with
your loving care."
Not looking forward to that trip, but I'll let you know how it goes. Chapters.