Morning Emancipations

While fixing coffee this morning I remembered the jingle to a radio show that used to play in the mornings when I was growing up in Indiana, the beginning lyrics were: “In a little red barn on a farm in Indiana … etc, etc, etc” Very homespun, very corny, very “On the banks of the Wabash far away.” Nothing much happened on the show, they’d just talk, a small live audience would chuckle at the marginally humorous stories the host would tell. We did not live on a farm, we lived in the suburbs of Fort Wayne which jockeyed back and forth with Gary, Indiana, as the 2nd largest city in the Hoosier State. My cousins and most of my aunts and uncles, however, did live and work on farms in southern Indiana and the radio show would conjure them up for me. Theirs was a magical world so unlike ours, a world my mother had left and which we’d visit when we’d go “down home.” Everything was different there - the sounds, the smells, the feeling of space. It was primitive and glorious with endless places to play – big barns, abandoned buildings, fields you could run into and get lost in the tall corn stalks that would tower over you and canopy out like something exotic and tropical. Farms are in Richard’s ancestry too, in Illinois in his case. And here we are in Vermont, 2 midwestern boys doing our dilittante versions of farm life. Who woulda thunk it?

As the coffee continued to perk away, Richard and I went out to let our birds loose. The moment they heard our screen door slam our geese started honking. It’s the same honk they give when we drive up after having been away for a while. It’s “hello!”, it’s “where’ve you been?!” or, in this case, it’s “Let us OUT!!”. As we walked into sight around the edge of the chicken coop, the honks increased, interspersed with chirps and chatter and nibbles on the wire mesh that covers their front door. Once I unlatch the door and open it, I must obey goose decorum and back up several steps in order to give the girls their space, and with eyes downcast to spot the edge of the cage floor, they slowly and carefully hop/step down with a dainty plop. That over, they look to us, break into a rapid babble and begin the waving of their wings. I love this. They seem so happy to be free, to be moving and stretching, to be something with wings. They don’t want to be touched or held, oh no, they shy away from that. That will come later in the day when you trick them into coming close or playfully corner them and pick them up. Now though it’s time to cavort, to dash around the open green spaces, wings outstretched, as if they’re playing airplane. Mary Ann has actually left the ground, very fun to watch, but its definitely Kitty Hawk time; I don’t think she’s ever going to gain much height. Ginger, I fear, will never leave terra firma. But it doesn’t seem to matter, they’re just fine with who they are no matter how high they soar, and they look as if they’re having loads of fun. There’s a slightly show-off element to it all, as if they're saying “Look Ma, I’m flying!” It’s infectious. It makes me want to flap my arms and scream “I’m ALIVE!!” What a grand way to start the day. Freedom.

There's one other thing our girls are doing that just cracks me up: they're learning to hiss. I'm pretty sure that’s what you’d call it. They must’ve picked it up from the Canadian Geese on the pond who’ve set firm boundaries around their growing young whenever Ginger and Mary Ann have tried to become part of the family. Our girls would never hiss at us, but they have begun using their new found tool on our chickens and cats. Whenever Astrid or Sofia or one of the chickens come into the girl’s vicinity, they now assume the posture. They bend their necks down and slowly SLOWLY creep toward the offending intruder in an approximation of threatening, sometimes with wings spread for added effect. Then they open their bills wide to hiss, but no sound ever comes out, just air. The chickens scat immediately, which is good because even the sight of a chicken nearby used to send the girls into paroxysms of screaming panic. It was embarrassing. Our cat’s sort of back away from this “threatening posture” with a look you’d give a coo-coo person. But however you cut it, it’s success. The girls stand up straight and wiggle their tails, proud of their prowess, chattering congratulations to one another. And its commendable, we’re glad their learning to protect themselves and all, setting boundaries, but the girls are so sweet that their attempts at acting tough come off looking like Don Knotts on “Andy of Mayberry.”

After setting the goose girls free, we let the chickens out of their coop. We will have heard the muffled rooster cries for hours in bed – it’s just past 7 now. Richard opens the front door and I take the cedar post away from the back door which folds down into an exit ramp. Again, decorum on my part. I back away several steps and they one-by-one flutter and peck out into the new day. Since we processed 8 roosters last week, the testosterone level of squabbling has cut down considerably, though Midas, the very beautiful Buff Orpington rooster who has become cock of the walk, loves to show off his crow and has managed to hump every hen in sight. He’s become especially enamored of the older hens from last year. "Coo-coo-cachoo, Mrs. Robinson." Midas is a trip; he looks like one of those old time body builders with big upper torsos and stick legs. He swells his feathery chest and struts and preens, striding about like he’s walking tip-toe across hot coals. Oh and news! Our young hens have started laying eggs! We’re getting quite and large and colorfully varied haul every day. And if Midas has anything to say about it, they'll all be fertile.

Next up were Nanna and her 7 adopted chicks, all of them growing up quite nicely. She’s a walking one room schoolhouse, teaching them how to get by in chicken life, scratching the ground for feed (very powerful scratches indeed), taking dust baths, foraging through the underbrush, hopping, flying, showing them their world. They’re devoted students and fast learners. Nanna is uber protective. She’ll take any of the chickens on in a street fight. No one gets close to her brood. Even when Richard and I get close she swells her feathers out to twice her size and gives a low growlly hum. Very impressive. As we watched her disappear into the green underbrush we took in our garden, extremely lush from all the rain. Now we could use some good uninterrupted sunshine for awhile. But the potato plants, broccoli, beets, lettuces, turnips, and radishes are all doing quite nicely. We’ve never grown potatoes before and yesterday I had a fascinating study in how they grow. I had to clear out a few plants yesterday to make room for our red cabbage coming up and when I uprooted them I was treated to a picture of the roots and shoots and tiny little potatoes growing beneath the ground. It looked like a science show display of outer space with the tiny white potatoes looking like orbiting planets. Incredible. Just incredible life in all its forms.

To give the Canadian's a nod, last week, seemingly overnight, their goslings turned from drab grey to slightly minaturized versions of their folks, with all the colorings and classy patterns. Miraculous. I swear it was overnight. They're still poopin' up the side of the pond and most of our lawn, but we're keeping it in check. I jet stream spray the green stuff to kingdom come and Richard picks up the harder stuff and makes tree fertilizer from it. Isn't this a lovely topic?

Not much of a point to today’s installment, just a ramble through the morning. After 2 or 3 glorious respites from rain, it looks as if we might get a bit more wetness today and I have to reconfigure the top cover to our wood pile. There’s a leak somewhere that’s drenching some of next winter’s firewood. Not good. Some weeding of the garden is also due and if the weather holds, the chopping down of some tall grass in the orchard. I’m sure whatever outside activity I choose it will be watched with interest by our geese and chickens, who come feathering over for a look see. I like the company.