I got my wish and other developments

I’d been having a hankering to hold one of our geese, especially one of the goslings (Prince Mishkin, Daphne, or Felicity), but they’ve been so closely guarded by their folks that this has been a near impossibility. Last year I loved being able to hold Ginger and Mary Ann every once and awhile. Richard reminds me that they probably didn’t enjoy it that much since we’d have to corner them, sending them into frozen, squatting shakes, but what does he know? When we did get them onto our laps and rubbed them under their wing feathers and cooed at them and had something shiny for them to chew on, they liked it fine. Alright, I’m deluding myself. And anyway, ever since Schmul’s arrival and becoming over-protective mothers, Ginger and Mary have become neck stretching harridans, the only thing missing are curlers in their hair and a rolling pin to wave around in the air threateningly. Who’d want to hold their skanky selves now anyway. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I have held Schmul a couple times lately, however that doesn’t count because it was purely for survival since he was coming at me like “Jaws” (or “Bills”) and I’d whipped his neck around and then embraced and lifted him in an attempt to calm him down. Note to self: this doesn’t work, Schmul turns into Hydra, snapping the air in hopes of chomping off my nose.

This morning, though, when Richard and I went up to the pen around 6 to let the geese out, Prince Mishkin and one of the gosling girls inadvertently got themselves on the other side of the pen door and were momentarily separated from the rest of their family.
“Now’s your chance,” Richard uttered.
‘What do you mean?’
“You can go in there, shut the gate, and hold one of them.”
So I did. And there erupted such an agony of distress and panic from parents and kids alike. It was as if I were a Nazi guard in “Sophie’s Choice.” The goslings threw themselves at the fence, screaming and crying, trying to get to their parents who were keening wildly on the other side. I felt horrible. I looked to Richard who gave a shrug with an expression somewhere between “what did you expect?” and “so now what you gonna do?” But did this heartbreaking scene deter me? No, I’d come this far, I thought, the damage is done, full speed ahead. The babies scrambled for cover, darting away from my approaching boots. The parent’s caterwauling continued. Mishkin was breathless with terror, I just couldn’t go after him, but Daphne (or Felicity, I don’t know which one it was) was another matter. I thought that since she had been imprinted on Richard her hatchmeister for several weeks before becoming part of the goose clan, that she would calm when in my arms. Wrong! It was as if she were a pioneer girl the Injuns (so unpc) had kidnapped from a Wagon Train in all those old westerns and when the settlers come to retrieve her they discover that the heathens have brain-washed her into believing in all their heathenish ways, such as “the White Man wants to kill you.” I picked her up – just like John Wayne did Natalie Wood in “The Searchers” - and for the briefest of moments I savored the pleasure of how downy soft she was, how next to nothing her body weight, how my hands went right past all this fluff disguised as substance gone right to a soft inner core. And then her screams ratcheted up in volume and she shat down my right leg. And looked to Richard, helpless, and he said “Get them back together.” And so the scramble to put Natalie, DAPHNE! down and open the gate, and guide the 2 now permanently damaged goslings out to where their parents waited in a flustered, frustrated huff. I got a good scold from Shmul and the girls and they walked off, calming themselves, as I stood, lower lip protruding, as Richard deadpanned, “Well … you got your wish.”

Other developments? I dug all the Burdock root out of our stone wall bank, big elephant eared, deep-rooted invasive things that we later saw people selling at a local market as a root vegetable (You got to be kidding!!) I’ve resewn the bank with white and red clover. It seems to be taking. Tiny little 2 leaved growths are popping up leprechaun-sized. I’ve also strewn the seeds along the side of our pond which is 2 feet higher due to the silt at the bottom of our pond being shoved up there last fall. Trying to get something more to grow there. We have a newly planted willow tree plus this gorgeous, stunning single flowered iris popping up. Can’t wait for the clover. Was informed this week that red clover is the Vermont State Flower.

Gout weed is an invasive weed that smells like cilantro and has stalky seed-filled flowers reminiscent of Queen Anne’s lace. Never heard of it before moving here. I’ve been battling this intruder on another part of our bank. There’s a whole section of our orchard where it’s taken over. The only way to frustrate its invasion is by planting something else that will smother it out, like lilies. That’s the plan. It’s time consuming, but I welcome tasks like this, weeding and bringing a bank back to a bit of order, a controlled overgrowth, very English garden, balance and chaos, nature and man’s hand mixed. The task helps me weed out unwanted thoughts in a parallel kind of way. Giving myself over to the task at hand.

My legs are welted up with black fly bites. I slathered myself with Skin So Soft the other day, but to no avail. The unseen biters made their way through, drawing little pools of blood down my backside.. They are a bit of a scourge here. And on sunny days where you want your shirt off, basking in the limited Vermont tan weather, there’s a double lotion layer needed: sun screen and bug repellent. My legs are evidence that, as of yet, the two don’t seem to work well together.

Happy Summer Solstice! It’s so green mountain state here, verdant, and rich, and bursting with life - the air, the ground, the trees! Our pond is so CLEAN!!!!! We’ve taken a few dips – skinny and clothed – and the swim is spectacular, if spring fed bracing in sections. And the minnows like nibbling on you EVERYWHERE!

That’s enough rambling for now. Have a great day!

This too shall pass

I don't know if it was a drill or a true panic, but the 6 Canada Geese - the gander, goose and their 6 quickly maturing gosling - just lickity-split across our front lawn in perfect, stiff legged formation, high-tailing it across the road to the safety of the pond. Who cares about a legitimate reason to fly off into a "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!!" fright these days! Dread and dire conjurings seem to be the mood du jour. Even in nature. And here I am in nature, back home again after having been in the city, New York City to be exact, for a rather long stint, and I'm feeling my own version of mild panic. Mine is more of the displaced, restless, who am I again? Where am I again? variety. Granted, this will pass, I know it, I've experienced it many times, I'm a vet, and I feel a bit foolish going through it all over again, having to conjure up patience with myself, to let it take its course. "Can't I just skip this part?!" Because it always FEELS like the first time. Like wandering through a bout of depression. 'This will never end! I want this over now!' screams some run-for-the-pond part of me. And the lens through which I view the world is that of a critic's. Everything needs FIXING! And there's not enough TIME! And THINGS, imaginary THINGS snap at my heels demanding attention, like self-imposed DEADLINES, and CHORES, and BILLS, and what am I doing with my LIFE and really? You really want to entertain what am I doing with my life thoughts TODAY when you're in a spin cycle of displaced, restlessness?

Sofia just came in through the pet door with a mouse clamped in her maw, a little gift to cheer me up. Thanks, Sofia.

Back from flushing that little morsel down the toilet. The air is alive with poultry sounds: the stereo crowing back and forth of our 2 roosters, one's at the coop, sounds like the Wellsummer, and the other's back to my left in the orchard, the Orpington, both in good voice, round, echoey tones; there's a mourning dove in the woods across the way, commisserating with my mood - thanks; there's various chatterings of sparrows and chickadees and other undefinables; every once in a while a goose argument whips up in the backyard - OUR geese this time - and vanishes away. And quiet surrounds it all, embraces it all. Well, not quite. There have been a few big trucks, moving van size trucks, laden with wood chips passing by, incongruously LOUD. Here comes one now, I can hear it's engine's strain coming up our gradual incline.

Oh, it would feel so GREAT some days to be able to join a clutch of Canada Geese, strip down to just feathers, and for no reason at all, maybe to just get it out of my system, run screaming across the front lawn, screaming out the world, screaming out whatever thought or feeling might be residing inside me, weighing me down, and just head for the pond, swim away from it all. Or just shit along the banks all day and have someone else clean it up. Ho-hum. Maybe a little molting too. Make room for new feathers, new skin, new thoughts. That would be grand.

I'm off for a walk. Have a grand day!

The First Gosling!

Our first new gosling has been born!! We’re pretty sure that it’s Mary Ann’s, a girl, presently residing under her mother, tucked beneath with a nudge from a beak when Richard craned in for a peek. No imprinting on humans this go round. Ginger is on nest duty, sitting on the 4 remaining eggs, a bit nervous and jittery Richard reports. Schmul is spending most of his time in the coop with the girls rather than patrolling outside, though he did come out to chase the Canada gander away from the area when he came snooping around. Everyone is calmer, quieter - still protective, but not so harried and paranoid. I’m glad I’m traveling up again tomorrow to see first-hand what’s going on rather than just hearing news passed on from Richard. It sounds like a sweet time.

This time last year the girls were wee things themselves, hatched in an ingenious incubator cobbled out of an old rectangular green cooler, designed by Richard with some added electrical guidance from Royce. By little twists of fate and timing, I had been the one present when the hatching and/or delivery of various chicks had occurred before the geese, Richard having been out of town on family business, so this time he was determined to be present. He had put in a transparent piece of plexiglass on the top of the cooler so he could see the goings on inside without opening the lid and letting the moisture out, humidity needed to soften the shells and help the goslings peck out of their hard shells. As they started to come out, so tiny and adorable with these huge over-sized webbed feet, Richard kept shoving me away from the plexiglass, saying to them: “Imprint on me! I’m your papa!” And though he knew the moisture needed to be contained, Richard couldn’t contain himself from opening and re-opening the lid and finally had to help Mary Ann out of her shell. There for a while we thought that aid might have stunted her in some way, but those fears were unfounded.

They both grew by leaps and bounds, graduating to ever bigger holding pens and jabbering for our attention and presence. When we finally took them outside to sun in a pen when the warmer weather came their cries whenever we’d get out of their sight were mistaken for cries of distress by the Canada Geese nesting on our pond and they flew to the rescue like the goose equivilant of child services in a huff of alarm, hissing and stretching their wings overhead “Karate Kid” style. A close call. (You can read about this at more length by referencing blogs from last year.)

This year will be different. I love Schmul and his protective presence around the yard, but I do miss the idea of being the only “men” in the girl’s lives. I feel like we’re parents giving our daughters over to a young suitor, a future husband. And he must be Mormon because there’s a whole lot of “Big Love” going on in our backyard. Those hussies. We’ll see how it all works out, letting nature do its thing, both with the raising of our little flock and how that flock interacts with the Canada brood nesting on the pond this year. I had urged Richard to move the Canadians off the pond to avoid any showdowns and allow our crew to have free rein of the pond, but he didn’t do it. He’s a big advocate of letting nature take its course. He’s also a bit squeamish about interfering in the affairs of pets and animals, even when said interference means trimming claws or combing natty knots out of hair. But he’s also had the whole run of the place while I’ve been working in New York City and trudging across to an icy pond to shew away geese while having to do chores and other jobs and general upkeep probably didn’t top his “to do” list. Again, we shall see. It should be interesting.

Last year the girls befriended the Canada Goose family and were allowed into their inner circle, as if they were a pair of odd, dear aunts from another wing of the family. The Canada gander would hiss out boundary settings when they got a little too close to their goslings, but other than that the girls were allowed to swim near them, rest on the bank of the pond beside them, take part in “family gatherings.” It was sweet to watch. I’d often wonder what was going through our girl’s little goose heads when it came to reconciling us being their imprinted parents while these other swimming, feathered, different yet similar creatures seemed so like kin. And the Canada gander seemed nonplussed when we would call the girls home for the night and they would come swimming over, flapping their wings and running with us back to their pen, and obediently stepping into their coop to be latched in for the night. But they cohabited in a state of détente, tolerating one another’s quirks, and this probably due to their being no male influence around the girls. Now with Schmul I don’t think the meeting of goose minds will be quite so smooth. I hope to be proven wrong, but ever since the Canadian’s arrival whenever Schmul has walked over to the pond with the girls, the Canada gander has come swooping over, dive bombing them, and Schmul has reacted in fear. In fact, our geese won’t go over there anymore, won’t even cross the road. Richard prefers to see that as a good thing, especially with new babies being born. And how will Schmul react when the Canadian brood comes across the road to munch on THEIR lawn? More will be revealed.

This just in ... !!

News Flash from home – as flashy as you can get in Vermont. Something seems to be going on in the goose coop. Richard reports that Ginger and Mary Ann aren’t as squawky and het up as they had been before. When he got close to the coop window this morning, instead of the familiar furor of scolding protests, the girls calmly clucked and chatted. Richard surmises something’s up beneath, that there’s either movement in the eggs or – glory be – some eggs have hatched. No idea yet. They may be a little more civil, but they’re still not giving him a peak. We do know the egg count is down from 8 to 5, several of the eggs were cracked when the girls rolled them to the back of the coop for a more hay cushioned area during the recent frost. Royce opined that if the eggs cracked, Ginger and Mary Ann probably ate them. You need your energy sitting on a nest all day and night.

This past week I took a quick dash up to our place on my day off – taking off from New York City at 9 pm and arriving around 2 am for a one and a half day stay. A bit of a tiring stretch, but well worth it for an infusion of New England countryside. Schmul was in rare father-to-be form, pacing the perimeter of the coop, his own private maternity ward walk, on patrol, on guard. Whenever Richard and I would get anywhere near, he’d come out to confront us, stretching his neck down and out to its full length and when we’d point our finger at him with a firm “no” he’d turn and screech out a high alarm, echoed immediately by the girl’s lower Selma Diamond register from inside the coop on the nest. This was repeated continuously throughout the day as we walked back and forth from the house to the garden we were weeding and planting right near the goose coop. I had to hand it to him, though; he was doing his job. Being the male, protecting the women folk. It was impressive. When I went to turn him in that night he refused to go. Usually I can grab his beak, turn him, and wave him up to the back gate of their pen with ease, but he would not be turned. I tried to turn him and pick him up, another maneuver which has worked in the past. Nope. He squirmed and bit and flapped his wings. At one time I had his beak closed with one hand, and stretched away at arms length away from me, and he took swipes at me with his wings. You could hear the wind whip and whoosh with the force of each thrown punch, as if he were wielding a sword. He was not going to back off without a fight. Finally, I was able to pick him up, tote him up to the gate to the coop fence, toss him gently in only to have him turn quickly and grab hold of my jeans in his beak and wrench his neck back and forth. This was a fight to the finish. He’s something.

Earlier that day I had marveled at him. In the late afternoon he went up to the coop and escorted the girls – first Ginger and then about an hour later, Mary Ann – off their nest for a leisurely stroll around the property. They munched grass together, took a swim and a wash in the kiddie pool, another munch or 2, a stretch, a walk around the house. I’m sure this was all instinctual, but it looked so gentlemanly, as if he were Cary Grant in a white dinner jacket, taking his bedraggled babes out for a quick night on the town, treating them with class. So beautiful.

The next morning, just before I left for the ride back to the city, Schmul seemed surprised when Mary Ann got off the nest and walked out for a munch without him having gone to get her. There was such a bickering and jabbering back and forth as they ate grass beside one another:

Schmul: What are you doing?!
Mary Ann: What do you mean “What am I doing?”
Schmul: You’re off your nest!
Mary Ann: Yeah, I’m off my nest!
Schmul: Get back in there!
Mary Ann: You get back in there!
Schmul: I come and get you. That’s when you get off your nest.
Mary Ann: Oh, those are the rules, huh?!
Schmul: Yeah, those are the rules.
Mary Ann: Gimme a break.

She turns her back and eats some grass.

Schmul: Get back on your nest.
Mary Ann: Whatareyagonnado? Bite me?
Schmul: Oh for cryin’ out loud!
Mary Ann: Yeah, you do that pretty well. Soundin’ the alarm every 5 seconds!
Scmul: I’m lookin’ out for your best interests!
Mary Ann: How’s a constant Code Red in my best interests? Every 5 minutes “Emergency! Emergency!!” You don’t think our kids are hearing that through their shells? They’re gonna be a bunch of wacked out weirdos!
Schmul: You patrol for a while, see how you like it.
Mary Ann: Gladly. I’ll switch places with you anytime you like. I’d like to see how wide your ass gets sittin’ on a nest day and night.
Schmul: Oh, now I like your ass.
Mary Ann: Quit, quit, You can’t make me fall for you, I’m mad.
Schmul: Is that a smile I see?
Mary Ann: I said Stop it! I’m pissed!
Schmul: Try some of my grass over here, baby. It’ll make you feel better.
Mary Ann: I don’t want to feel better.
Schmul: Sure you do.
Mary Ann: Oh Schmul.
Schmul: Oh baby.
Ginger: (from inside the coop) Oh brother!

More news on the coming goslings soon

Ties back home!

It's chilly here in New York City. Officially it's hovering around 59 degrees, but the whipping wind feels November to me, despite the brilliant sunshine and I've got a heater going back in my room. But this marginal complaint is nothing compared to the 5 inch snowfall up on our hill in Vermont. Richard said driving up toward our place from the closest village, the landscape changed from wet to white flocked Christmas time. And in 2 days it'll be 75 and it'll all be gone, vanished, vamoose.

AND chicks are hatching, turkeys are hatching, and geese are a week away from hatching. Life pipping through. Ginger and Mary Ann and Schmul are as protective as always, squawking to beat the band whenever Richard gets anywhere near their coop. "Stay Away!" seems to be their mantra. I'm imagining all these goings on from 5 hours south, feeling divided from the Green Mountain Place, pricing rental car prices at Hertz for a quick dash up on my day off and startled to find the price to rent a hybrid from Hertz has jumped $40 a day from what it had been 4 weeks ago! And that's with a AAA discount! Compels me to watch Michael Moore's "Capitalism: A Love Story" again and pay closer attention.

Still I'm feeling the pull, the pull to be back. It'll be the beginning of May and maybe I could help get the garden in, sugar snap peas and beets and carrots and parsnips, some nice lettuces. That would be worth the drive, grounding myself in that rich soil. Just breathe the air up there. Take in the quiet, nary a traffic sound around. That would be good, that would be worth the ride. We'll see.

Enjoy the pictures of the new born turkeys and the snowy countryside!

Vermont on my mind

I've been intending to sit and write of Vermont for several days now, more than a week really, and life got in the way. New York got in the way. I made a quick, less-than-24-hour trip up to Vermont a week ago Monday, a needful thing, to be near Richard and to be in our "home in the woods." The forecast was drippy rain, but the rain did hold off for moments, long enough for a quiet trek down our dirt road, a quiet stroll by myself, letting the trees know I hadn't forgotten about them. The snow was completely gone, of course, and the grass was a dull, dirty yellow. There were plenty of beer cans strewn around the sides of the road along with other trash, including a white lab bag filled with used rubber gloves and syringes. Lovely. Harumph. But even that didn't dampen my delight at being back in the hood. Deep breaths, easy thoughts, a slowed pace. The road wasn't as rutted as I had expected; the town had kept up with filling any dips and crevices pretty well. Our town taxes at work.

Back at our place the snow's thaw has revealed 3 of our young trees girdled by rodents during the winter, 2 sugar maples and 1 ash. Richard and I felt like kicking ourselves because we'd been warned and urged to put a guard around the trees to prevent such an occurence. Ah, well. We've decided to make the most of this "opportunity" and take them out as soon as possible and replacing them with another evergreen and some flowering ornamentals.

The pond is almost completely thawed and another pair of Canada geese have nested there. They dive bombed Schmul and our girls when they went over to nibble along the bank. I want the Canada geese out because I'd rather our brood had run of the pond, but Richard is undecided about a plan of action. He wants nature to take its own course. In this case, though, we know what's going to happen. If the Canadians are allowed to stay, they will not let our girls and gander near the pond. More will be revealed. Goose egg production continues to be popping. Richard sneaks little peeks of the girls straining to lamaze their eggs out with deep, panting breaths. He's tempted to let them go broody because they seem to be acting up quite a bit, scolding him whenever he's near. Schmul's gone to leaping up to bite him. It seems like a world away. And it is.

A couple years ago a friend of mine connected me with a site called "This Date from Henry David Thoreau's Journal" and I've gone back to reading it of a morning to connect me with Vermont. Today's entry was from 1857 and speaks of a walk in the woods and a neighbor's dog smelling his scent and come to visit and accompany him. Sigh, sound of yearning.

But you know, I'm going to get 2 doses of Spring. New York has been in glorious blossom for a week or so. Central Park is spectacular! And the leaves on the trees are unfurling and freshly newborn. Everything is new. It's invigorating. Vermont's a month to 2 weeks behind, so by the time I get up there next, it should be a grand treat. 2 Springs, 5 hours apart. Not bad.

Spring here and there

Both New York and Vermont are having their particular versions of "cold snap" - New York's chill has hovered in the upper 30's and 40's while Vermont's went to 4 degrees yesterday morning, icing the flowers that had popped up for a Spring stretch. As I mentioned before, I'm in New York for work so Vermont is kept alive by my imagining and by daily calls with Richard. Goose eggs continue to pop out in prolific fashion. Schmul is as cantankerous and protective as ever and the girl's necks are almost feather free from his rough love making -- Schmul grabs their necks in his beak and presses them onto the ground but they don't seem to be complaining much. Richard swears he hears strains of "Oh my man, I love him so" coming from the coop. A pair of Canada geese recently circled our pond and were coming in for a landing to scout out nesting areas when they spied Schumul and the girls loitering around the icy shoreline and the Canadian's promptly banked back up and flew off to other sites. That's fine by me. Canada geese are beautiful, but since Richard is planning on letting the girls hatch a few eggs of their own rather than ship them all out, one family of geese on the pond, with their attendant feces is enough, thank you very much. AND in April Richard is receiving his long delayed shipment of turkey eggs; he intends on raising Thanksgiving birds for this November's feasts. Pictures of the mature turkeys look very fine indeed, plump and proud and colorful. Richard also just hatched a new batch of chicks which will help re-populate his flock after a recent bloodbath.

Last week Richard came home to find 8 of our chickens slaughtered about the yard and hill, a kind of chicken Columbine. I was crushed by the news. I couldn't sleep the next night imagining the carnage and wishing I could be there to mourn their passing. Yes, they were chickens, but we'd named them - Nanna and Grace, Taffy and Blackie, Dottie - and they hovered somewhere between pet and farm animal, sometimes a pest and bother, but mostly good mothers, good providers of eggs, a colorful additions to our place, pecking and scrounging, running and squawking. Even Mumblestump was traumatized by the event. Richard found him inside the coop, his usual boastful demeanor stilled by shock. There were gashes and bite marks on his back, many of his fine feathers gone; Richard feared that he might have to put him down. Thank God that a few days later he began to crow again. I'm sure he had been a hero, the male, as he so often has before against staggering odds. Poor baby. Richard phoned with the fresh news moments after he'd gotten home as he was quick collecting up the bodies to deposit them into the woods so animals could feast on them and they wouldn't go to waste. He too was in shock and the emotion wouldn't hit him until the next day. He tried to stuff it down, deeming it silly, they were just chickens, etc. I urged him to let whatever came up out. And so he did. We took it for granted that a coyote or fox had been the culprit and that this was to be expected, that we'd lucked out not having any events like this until now. Richard and Royce further secured both pens and fences and so the subject stood for several days until a new drama arose. Our friend Butch said that it didn't sound like a fox or coyote, that if it had been one of them they surely would've taken one of the birds with them. Then came the further news that some of our next door neighbor's chickens had been killed and that it had been another neighbor's young huskie dog that had done it and now the dog was missing. I knew this dog, a sweet, rambunctious, untethered dog that would come out to sniff and frolic around me whenever I would pass its place on my walks down the road. He had chased a Bull Moose down our road in July and Richard found out from still other neighbors that there had been many complaints about the dog that its owner had ignored. It had harassed sheep and other animals and had been generally wild and undisciplined and running free. The rumor is that someone shot it, very possibly our neighbor after his chickens were killed. Richard said it's like Peyton Place up there now with charges and countercharges and sides being taken. He has opted to not even mention that his chickens were killed though he would like to be compensated for them in the future. He just doesn't feel this is the time to enter into the fray. I, of course, am chomping at the bit to confront the woman, but it's really none of my business. He's probably right. It's sad all round. Drama in the hinterlands.

I'm trekking up to Vermont tomorrow via Dartmouth Coach and then back the next day on Amtrak - a 7 hour plus ride. Ugh. Why, you may ask? I need a hit of New England. I'm a Vermont junkie, jonesing for a little bit of serenity, a walk down our road, a taking in of the views, a big deep breath of our place up there. I long to be around the sap flowing and the bits of mud season, to see our cats and geese and chickens, to wake up in my own bed for one morning. It'll be a while before the next opportunity provides itself. It's worth it. Also, driving back and forth, though an adventure, is wearing. I had thought of bringing my subaru outback down to the city, but though it may be a good idea a little bit later, right now the prospect of jockeying it around from parking place to parking place in the city is not fun. AND during my most recent trip up and back to the Green Mountain State I got a speeding ticket that puts a couple points on my license. Ugh. I called up the Vermont DMV to see if, as in Los Angeles, one could take a class online or in person to erase those points. No, was the answer, those points would be on my license for TWO YEARS. Oh well. My responsibility. Just a little over eagerness trying to shorten the 5 hour plus drive. Slow down, Daniel. Take a lesson from the way Spring comes in Vermont, slowly, slowly, slowly.