Flighty thoughts

Wednesday afternoon

Only 5 ducks on the pond now, 2 disappeared while I was in Nebraska over this past weekend. I didn’t realize how close I’d gotten to them until Richard shared the news with me in bed yesterday morning.  It makes me sad, they’re such comical figures.  Upon reflection, Richard said that he was sad too.  They’ve become a solid part of our place ever since they hatched early this spring.  We’ve watched them go from tiny little waddly survivors, scared to death of the prospect of even getting near our pond across the road to being full time residents there.  We smile each time they make their slightly mad laughing sounds that echo off the pond’s surface.  I’d like to think that they’re laughing with us, not at us, no judgment, but who knows, they may very well be commenting in a “what fools these mortals be” fashion, from their watery vantage point. Or it means nothing, it’s just the way they squawk talk.  Of course with the disappearance, the subject of a predator came up.  We lost a whole bevy of ducks last year in one fell swoop.  This time Richard prefers to believe a male and a female simply flew the coop, heading to warmer climes.  And there was no sign of struggle or violence.  I’d like to go with the migration explanation, but they’re vulnerability really affects me.  It brings up all these powerlessness issues.  I feel out of sync with the cycles of nature.  It’s a real task to let things be, to let them be what they are.  For instance, the 2 that are gone aside, we really have no idea how the rest of them are going to fare this winter, where they’re going to go when the pond ices over.  This doesn’t seem to bother Richard; why does it bother me?  Royce opines that they’ll stay as long as there’s a food source and then they’ll go.  How do they know where to go?  Being motherless ducks, do they depend on trial and error or is the knowledge lodged in their cells and feathers somewhere from bird generations immemorial?  A mixture of both?  I’m really riled up about all this.  Maybe it’s because I’m not good with death.  And it is the season of slaughter.  Hunters all around us, trucks parked alongside roads, camouflaged clad males everywhere.  Orange hats and vests, reflective gear a necessity.  Even my favorite dog Anu, Robert and Lenice’s dear yellow lab, has a bright orange kerchief around its neck whenever I pause to pet her on my Fuller Road walks.  It’s deer season.  There’s death everywhere.  Thank God for Anu’s running and tearing around, her licks, her gleeful embrace of life as a balancing agent.

We’re deciding which geese are going to go this year.  Richard’s already made up his mind.  The little bully gander that chases and bites his chickens has been marked for the stewpot.  Yesterday, Richard made up a little ditty and was singing it gleefully to the gander, dancing around him as he did.  The refrain was something along the line of  “You’re going to die!  You’re going to die!  Goodbye, goodbye!”  Richard’s an angel.  Also the goose with the deformed beak will probably go as well.  She’s just not able to get enough food and is getting pretty scrawny.  

I went over to Thunder Ridge Ranch in New Hampshire yesterday to pay down a deposit for our Thanksgiving turkey (this year we’ll be having a turkey and a goose from last year’s processing.)  They wanted to know which day I planned on picking it up – Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday – because they’ll plan on killing it the night before.   They also wanted to know the poundage of the bird I want and the highest pound bird I’d take.  They had been worried that they’re birds were going to be on the small size this year, but over the past few weeks they’d really been piling on the pounds.  I replied that we’d like a 20 pounder, but could go as high as 30.  “30 pounds is a pretty big bird,” the woman replied.  I didn’t know; I was just speculating on what would be helpful to them.  Who knew 30 pounds is considered a porker bird?

As often happens with hatching our own chickens, we’ve had an overabundance of roosters. You just never know what the hen/rooster ratio is going to be when hatching, it’s a craps shoot.  And there are many times when Richard, who has become pretty much a chicken expert, thinks that he’s raising some really good hens until they either face each other down in a kind of West Side Story knife fight stance or they start in to crow one morning, a raspy, muted attempt at maleness, when we were all but certain we had another egg layer.  2 weeks ago, we had 8 guys, and now we’re down to 4.  They’re all good birds - sweet, handsome fellows.  We try as best we can to assure they’re going to good homes, that they’ll be a sire among hens and will live a good life rather then immediately ending up in a stewpot.  One more free ad in Its Classified this week and then we’ll go from there.

Back from a quick walk around 3:30 and didn’t see any of the ducks on the pond.  An “oh no” grip in my stomach.  I quacked my best duck imitation.  Nothing.  Had they all gone?  I looked up the hill, our backyard.  Not a sign.  And then from out of the beige dried cattails swam the 5 remainers, cruising toward me with a “what’s up?  Got any corn for us?” nonchalance.  They looked so tiny with half their bodies below water.  So vulnerable.  I guess it’s like people, just love ‘em.  Love ‘em while they’re here.

Thursday morning.

Frigid this morning.  And when I looked out the window I saw that the entire pond had a thin, crinkly saran wrap layer of ice on it.  Where are the ducks, I wondered.  Richard, reading my mind, said, “There they are, walking on the surface.”  And sure enough, there they were, rolling with it.  I guess.  I’m concerned how they and the geese will take it.  As if this is going to be a big disappointment, they will be deprived of their connection with the water, the “who they are” really, for months.  I’ve been told I really need to make an effort to ground myself because there is very little earth in my … what … sign, chart, life?  I feel that, right now for instance, a bit untethered, affected by everything, tossed about by the winds of change, season change.  So what is the equivilent of “grounding” for water fowl?  Do they need to “water” themselves?  Does that connect them to the earth, to the essence of who they are?  Does it fortify and connect them?  Maybe.  Might be something to that.  I wish them well.