A fog/mist bound day. Despite my misgivings about being gone all day and not being able to look over my flock of geese, I've let them out. This is because their days on the pond seem numbered and, more specifically, this will be both Mishkin and Ginger's last day on the pond, last day of life. I am so wracked by this. At least we have commisserating compatriots. Last night just around 4 our good friends Shirley and Richard (Shirley grew up in our house) stopped by and hearing of the impending deaths, they spoke of how hard it was and is to kill (there's the word, "kill") animals, especially when you've put such care and love into raising them. And I do take some solace also from listening to Barbara Kingsolver's wonderful book "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" when she speaks of her own experiences with the same dilemma of being maternal in one sense, and, I suppose, practical in the other. And I want to buy into the thought that there is a growing of compassion being part of the whole journey of one's food from birth to plate. A gratitude, an enlarging of experience. But still, but still, but still. I feel a little treacherous, a little conniving. More will be revealed.
Richard's going to be the traveler of death tomorrow. The death wagon. Maybe he can wear a black robe with a scythe. 2 turkeys, 1 rooster, and 2 geese. He's traveling north about an hour to a processor who annually offers a service of butchering 1 to 6 birds for their neighbors rather than the big flocks they're usually hired to do. They seem like good people and have quite a menagerie surrounding them. "Lots of animals to gawk at while you wait," was the answer on our voice mail, her reply to our inquiry. I wish I could go with him, but I have my own duties to attend to before we take off on our trek south to Providence, RI, the city that was my first introduction to New England years ago. It provided well. There is good news with the geese, well, 1 of the geese. Cindy, the processor's wife, wants to do a trade for 1 of the geese. It seems someone wants a goose to breed up there. That would be wonderful. We'll keep our fingers crossed.
Buy locally, support your local farmers. Not just now, but all year long. And have a great Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Processing
It's early here, I've been awake since 3, up since, oh, 4:30 or so. Time is off for me or maybe this is the way it should be, who knows. Richard and I have gone to bed around 9 for 2 night's running due to a combination of long hours working outside building an extended roof to the goose house - we're quite proud of this accomplishment and we used a lot of old wood hanging around the place rather than having to buy new, only the essentials - and the time change which makes 5 o'clock in the evening feel more like 8. So strange feeling the dark coming in around 3. Especially these past few days when the weather has been warm and clear, sunny, hovering close to 60. I was wearing shorts to work in. And the sunsets have been gloriously stunning and colorful. It's wonderful to be outside after a good, productive day and be treated to such splendor. Fantastic. And the sun goes down and the chickens and geese and turkeys are all housed up by around 4:30. Gladly we went out for dinner last night which extended our wake time for a bit, but it's very much early to bed, early to rise here.
I'm sitting in the office on a chaise lounge. Astrid has nestled into my legs. Yesterday was her birthday. We dubbed it yesterday yesterday. We'd always heard that she must've been born mid-November, but didn't have the exact date. But yesterday morning we were listening to a podcast of Garrison Keillor's Writers Almanac (a daily occurence) and heard that it was Astrid Lindgren's birthday, the Swedish author of "Pippi Longstocking" and so November 14th it is. (I hear Richard stirring, he's up.) Astrid's my bed buddy at night, she always starts off laying down on my chest, maybe even licking my nose maternally before we both settle in. During the night she shifts to my side and on cold nights insists through persistent pawing to be let in under the covers. I oblige. And the others? Delilah beaches herself downstairs on the sofa back. Oliver and Sofia are a restless pair. Oliver's back and forth between my side in bed to prowling the house all night. If I happen to get up to go to the bathroom, he's right there with a loud urging to turn on the faucet so he can drink from a flowing water source. Sofia will sometimes settle in between Richard and me on cold nights, but often too is moving from room to room. Around about oh 4, especially in autumn and wintery months, Sofia gives off these mournful keens, so pent up with longing. The cries don't seem aimed at getting us up, they sound more like a yearning. Maybe it's to the flies or mice to come out "to play" but I think it's more of an ineffable, unquenchable longing being sounded.
The sounds of all our animals get to me. I used to be so focused on the mess they were making, their crap all over the place. The crap is still there, prodigious amounts from the geese, but my focus has shifted. I appreciate them, I like them around, they enliven and animate our world. And they move me. Letting the geese go every morning, hearing how excited they get when they see me come out of the house and make my way up the hill to their coop and then their flurry of flaps, almost proud, as if to say "We are who we are, aren't we wonderful?! Look at us!" And they flap their ritual path to the pond. And my heart sings. I love taking care of them, filling their water and feed. Arguing a bit with Richard about the construction of their coop to give a good balance, yes, to the openess of the structure, but to also give enough protection from the coming winter elements. It is a challenge to realize what are my wants and what the geese would actually appreciate. Oh, and speaking of "pond" a few sentences back, it has started to ice over in the mornings, then melt away in the warmer afternoons. Soon it will be frozen solid into March. This is all very perplexing to the geese. They don't know what to make of it all. It's fun to watch them converse amongst themselves about the state of things.
Richard gave a call to "the processor" yesterday. We've been putting it off, giving each other grimacing looks when the subject comes up of doing in our 3 adult turkeys and 2 of our geese. Yes, we made the classic mistake of naming all of them, that doesn't help. Especially Rasputin whose namesake was especially difficult to do in. And the turkeys are so sweet! They're very much independent birds, on their own, scrabbling around for food in the grass all day, but if you come up to them and want to hold them, they let you, they relax into it. Especially Snowball. (Again, the name!!) She cradles into your arms, let's you carry her around, and then nods off in your arms. And then there's Sassy, the survivor of a raccoon attack, limping gamely about, yesterday flying to the crest of the new goose house we were building and sliding back and forth trying to keep her balance.
Okay, since I wrote the above paragraph, several things have occured. About 4 to 5 hours have gone by. My writing was interrupted by a cry from the geese in the dark in back and I swore I something behind the house. We went to go outside and found that our woodpile on the back entrance porch had been upset and toppled over and the door to the chicken house had been messed with. A raccoon? A bear? No other signs of damage, no foot prints. Something must've gotten on top of the woodpile and tipped it over. I cleaned it up, did some more errands and catch up things. Richard's at work. And the processor's wife returned our call announcing that on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving they offer a service to all those around the area that only have a few birds or so. Gulp. I don't know how I feel about this. I don't know if Richard will be able to either. "We've given them a good life," he intones, trying to gird our loins to the task at hand, but I just don't know.
I'm going to have to bring this to a close, but more later.
I'm sitting in the office on a chaise lounge. Astrid has nestled into my legs. Yesterday was her birthday. We dubbed it yesterday yesterday. We'd always heard that she must've been born mid-November, but didn't have the exact date. But yesterday morning we were listening to a podcast of Garrison Keillor's Writers Almanac (a daily occurence) and heard that it was Astrid Lindgren's birthday, the Swedish author of "Pippi Longstocking" and so November 14th it is. (I hear Richard stirring, he's up.) Astrid's my bed buddy at night, she always starts off laying down on my chest, maybe even licking my nose maternally before we both settle in. During the night she shifts to my side and on cold nights insists through persistent pawing to be let in under the covers. I oblige. And the others? Delilah beaches herself downstairs on the sofa back. Oliver and Sofia are a restless pair. Oliver's back and forth between my side in bed to prowling the house all night. If I happen to get up to go to the bathroom, he's right there with a loud urging to turn on the faucet so he can drink from a flowing water source. Sofia will sometimes settle in between Richard and me on cold nights, but often too is moving from room to room. Around about oh 4, especially in autumn and wintery months, Sofia gives off these mournful keens, so pent up with longing. The cries don't seem aimed at getting us up, they sound more like a yearning. Maybe it's to the flies or mice to come out "to play" but I think it's more of an ineffable, unquenchable longing being sounded.
The sounds of all our animals get to me. I used to be so focused on the mess they were making, their crap all over the place. The crap is still there, prodigious amounts from the geese, but my focus has shifted. I appreciate them, I like them around, they enliven and animate our world. And they move me. Letting the geese go every morning, hearing how excited they get when they see me come out of the house and make my way up the hill to their coop and then their flurry of flaps, almost proud, as if to say "We are who we are, aren't we wonderful?! Look at us!" And they flap their ritual path to the pond. And my heart sings. I love taking care of them, filling their water and feed. Arguing a bit with Richard about the construction of their coop to give a good balance, yes, to the openess of the structure, but to also give enough protection from the coming winter elements. It is a challenge to realize what are my wants and what the geese would actually appreciate. Oh, and speaking of "pond" a few sentences back, it has started to ice over in the mornings, then melt away in the warmer afternoons. Soon it will be frozen solid into March. This is all very perplexing to the geese. They don't know what to make of it all. It's fun to watch them converse amongst themselves about the state of things.
Richard gave a call to "the processor" yesterday. We've been putting it off, giving each other grimacing looks when the subject comes up of doing in our 3 adult turkeys and 2 of our geese. Yes, we made the classic mistake of naming all of them, that doesn't help. Especially Rasputin whose namesake was especially difficult to do in. And the turkeys are so sweet! They're very much independent birds, on their own, scrabbling around for food in the grass all day, but if you come up to them and want to hold them, they let you, they relax into it. Especially Snowball. (Again, the name!!) She cradles into your arms, let's you carry her around, and then nods off in your arms. And then there's Sassy, the survivor of a raccoon attack, limping gamely about, yesterday flying to the crest of the new goose house we were building and sliding back and forth trying to keep her balance.
Okay, since I wrote the above paragraph, several things have occured. About 4 to 5 hours have gone by. My writing was interrupted by a cry from the geese in the dark in back and I swore I something behind the house. We went to go outside and found that our woodpile on the back entrance porch had been upset and toppled over and the door to the chicken house had been messed with. A raccoon? A bear? No other signs of damage, no foot prints. Something must've gotten on top of the woodpile and tipped it over. I cleaned it up, did some more errands and catch up things. Richard's at work. And the processor's wife returned our call announcing that on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving they offer a service to all those around the area that only have a few birds or so. Gulp. I don't know how I feel about this. I don't know if Richard will be able to either. "We've given them a good life," he intones, trying to gird our loins to the task at hand, but I just don't know.
I'm going to have to bring this to a close, but more later.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Can't make me
A wet cold day. Damp. Surprising stepping out into it. It didn't look wet from the inside. And the geese are loving it, whether out on the pond or on the edge of the road feasting on the still green grass, Shmuel standing resolute, on guard. I love them.
I have this thing that when I'm not really moved by some deep abiding quest I get locked into making innocuous, everyday things weighty. For instance, earlier this morning Richard and I were in this ongoing discussions about the goose house and its construction and whether they'll be protected from the rain and the snow and various predators and blah and blah and blah. And I was extremely passionate and stubborn, defending myself and my point of view staunchly, very Ants and the Grasshopper cautionary tale, 'we have to do it now or it'll be too late.' And Richard responded, "I'm glad you're taking an interest in all this, but really, aren't you making this all a bit too important." And he's right. Yes, I am. I have found myself in that Bermuda Triangle of stirring up distraction. I am procrastinating on a project that needs to be done, I've committed to do it, and I really don't have any interest in - no scratch that, I do have interest - I just have no wherewithal to do it. I don't want to. For the moment. And I know when I start it I will most probably have a surge of fun and commitment and renewed spirit, I've experienced this many times, and it will probably dispel this head banging disconnected feeling I'm in, but for right now, I don't want to. At least I've disconnected from the goose house importance, that's a step in the right direction. And if you observed me, you'd never guess that I was not attending to something that ought to be done. I've always been the most industrious procrastinator going. I take on jobs and chores and undertakings like no one's business. I keep myself busy, even in the backwoods of Vermont. You'd never know that all this enterprising impressiveness was to delay sitting down and doing work that would probably bring me joy. Ah well. This too shall pass.
I have this thing that when I'm not really moved by some deep abiding quest I get locked into making innocuous, everyday things weighty. For instance, earlier this morning Richard and I were in this ongoing discussions about the goose house and its construction and whether they'll be protected from the rain and the snow and various predators and blah and blah and blah. And I was extremely passionate and stubborn, defending myself and my point of view staunchly, very Ants and the Grasshopper cautionary tale, 'we have to do it now or it'll be too late.' And Richard responded, "I'm glad you're taking an interest in all this, but really, aren't you making this all a bit too important." And he's right. Yes, I am. I have found myself in that Bermuda Triangle of stirring up distraction. I am procrastinating on a project that needs to be done, I've committed to do it, and I really don't have any interest in - no scratch that, I do have interest - I just have no wherewithal to do it. I don't want to. For the moment. And I know when I start it I will most probably have a surge of fun and commitment and renewed spirit, I've experienced this many times, and it will probably dispel this head banging disconnected feeling I'm in, but for right now, I don't want to. At least I've disconnected from the goose house importance, that's a step in the right direction. And if you observed me, you'd never guess that I was not attending to something that ought to be done. I've always been the most industrious procrastinator going. I take on jobs and chores and undertakings like no one's business. I keep myself busy, even in the backwoods of Vermont. You'd never know that all this enterprising impressiveness was to delay sitting down and doing work that would probably bring me joy. Ah well. This too shall pass.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Time Change
I have a host of scabs on my head this morning. On the top, the sides, several hidden in my hair. I had a veritable bash fest yesterday. My head has been prone to scrapes and scars from the first time I started losing my hair. On certain days, the top of my head seems absolutely magnetic. If there's a sharp object nearby, a low hanging branch or metal sign or car door frame, a sloping ceiling, a nail protruding from a board above, most anything that's reasonably bump-able within an, oh, 50 foot vicinity of me, it had better run for cover. On these certain days when I do hit something, I choose to see it as a sign that I'm not paying attention, that I need to be more aware, that some God somewhere is trying to WAKE ME UP! Well yesterday the God's had a field day. I bashed and slammed my head all day long. There are skin deposits all over our property. It was as if I had been walking around with a gunney sack over my head. Granted, the day was filled with a lot of labor and construction, sometimes in very tight, squashed quarters, but still. If this was a message from the Gods, they must've been rolling around on the marble floors of Mt. Olympus screaming "He never learns!! He never learns!!" Well, the manufacturers of hydrogen peroxide and neosporin should be happy. And today maybe Max Factor as well. Oh, I'll wear a cap. Or say I got caught in a meteor shower. If there's a bright side to this, I didn't get really mad about it as it was happening -- as can be my wont. I just couldn't believe it. It was stupifying in its frequency. I felt like such a dolt. Maybe the coming time change threw me; I wasn't in any one place, just hovering between the two. Scarred, marked, branded. This too shall pass. Ugh. Oh well.
I do feel betwixt and between, between seasons, between times. Getting ready for winter. Maybe I'm resisting change, maybe that's it, that's why the head hits happened. I've been traveling a lot. Maybe I haven't really caught up on sleep. Maybe I'm not really here. I've been listening to Pima Chodren's book on the CD in my Outback during the long treks back and forth to New York. The title of the book escapes me at the moment, it has something to do with going to all the "scarey" places of one's life, the basic premise being that the great challenge and invitation of life is to be with it as it is, wherever you are, and that everything and everyone is a teacher especially the uncomfortable, disturbing, embarrassing times. And I say YES! this stuff always sounds good in theory, and then when I step into the world and try to apply it, the opposite state rears up. Like bashing one's head into things. What did strike a deep chord in me, however, was the notion that we'll always wonder who we are, some part of us will always be a mystery, to expect and accept that. This was a solace. And it makes perfect sense because everything and everyone is always changing. No one ever arrives. Nothing is ever for sure. That's a notion I needed to hear. One of those things that when it comes in I want to go "Yes!" and quickly afterwards say "But haven't I learned that yet? Didn't I got that years ago?" Obviously not. And "get" what? It's changing. Years ago it was one thing, now it's the 2010, 55 year old version. And what's to "get" anyway? You get it, let it go, get it, let it go. Over and over and over. Everything's always changing. I guess.
It's very November this morning. Bleak and brown and grey. We're in the midst of refurbishing and reconfiguring out buildings, very much a process. I get impatient with it all, I want it all to be figured out quickly, but it takes time. And the solutions Richard and I come up with in the end are most often worth the wait and the frustration of all the wrangling back and forth of how to best achieve what "we" want. We're trying to get all this construction done before the first real onslaught of winter. Topping our list of redos is the goose house. Until recently it had been the turkey house up in a corner of our orchard. I think it's too big and ungainly and open to the elements. Richard agrees to some of these points. We had an idea of piling straw bales up as a partial wall, but at the end of the day when we put the geese in, it was clear that they didn't like it. "They like to see out," Richard reminded me, "This book I'm reading by this goose expert says that they don't like being closed in, it scares them, makes them uncomfortable." So back to the drawing board. This discussion came as the last light was fading from the sky yesterday and soon after I bashed my head for the final and hardest time. I was disheartened, frustrated, sure that all the work we'd put into it had been for naught. I did not feel good. But as I breathed my harumph away, I could hear Wendell Berry speaking to me about listening to what the land wants, listening to what your animals say they need. Listen to them and they will tell you. And it was clear what they wanted. And from that "reminding" we were able to shift into a new idea of what would make them feel happy and safe and also be pleasing to look at from our kitchen window all winter long and afford the least hassle when we trek up to restock their water and feed in deep snow. So good.
I don't know where all this is going, but that's it for today. Things are good. It's good to write about it. I hope your day is going well. And I hope you use your extra hour well.
don't bash your head.
I do feel betwixt and between, between seasons, between times. Getting ready for winter. Maybe I'm resisting change, maybe that's it, that's why the head hits happened. I've been traveling a lot. Maybe I haven't really caught up on sleep. Maybe I'm not really here. I've been listening to Pima Chodren's book on the CD in my Outback during the long treks back and forth to New York. The title of the book escapes me at the moment, it has something to do with going to all the "scarey" places of one's life, the basic premise being that the great challenge and invitation of life is to be with it as it is, wherever you are, and that everything and everyone is a teacher especially the uncomfortable, disturbing, embarrassing times. And I say YES! this stuff always sounds good in theory, and then when I step into the world and try to apply it, the opposite state rears up. Like bashing one's head into things. What did strike a deep chord in me, however, was the notion that we'll always wonder who we are, some part of us will always be a mystery, to expect and accept that. This was a solace. And it makes perfect sense because everything and everyone is always changing. No one ever arrives. Nothing is ever for sure. That's a notion I needed to hear. One of those things that when it comes in I want to go "Yes!" and quickly afterwards say "But haven't I learned that yet? Didn't I got that years ago?" Obviously not. And "get" what? It's changing. Years ago it was one thing, now it's the 2010, 55 year old version. And what's to "get" anyway? You get it, let it go, get it, let it go. Over and over and over. Everything's always changing. I guess.
It's very November this morning. Bleak and brown and grey. We're in the midst of refurbishing and reconfiguring out buildings, very much a process. I get impatient with it all, I want it all to be figured out quickly, but it takes time. And the solutions Richard and I come up with in the end are most often worth the wait and the frustration of all the wrangling back and forth of how to best achieve what "we" want. We're trying to get all this construction done before the first real onslaught of winter. Topping our list of redos is the goose house. Until recently it had been the turkey house up in a corner of our orchard. I think it's too big and ungainly and open to the elements. Richard agrees to some of these points. We had an idea of piling straw bales up as a partial wall, but at the end of the day when we put the geese in, it was clear that they didn't like it. "They like to see out," Richard reminded me, "This book I'm reading by this goose expert says that they don't like being closed in, it scares them, makes them uncomfortable." So back to the drawing board. This discussion came as the last light was fading from the sky yesterday and soon after I bashed my head for the final and hardest time. I was disheartened, frustrated, sure that all the work we'd put into it had been for naught. I did not feel good. But as I breathed my harumph away, I could hear Wendell Berry speaking to me about listening to what the land wants, listening to what your animals say they need. Listen to them and they will tell you. And it was clear what they wanted. And from that "reminding" we were able to shift into a new idea of what would make them feel happy and safe and also be pleasing to look at from our kitchen window all winter long and afford the least hassle when we trek up to restock their water and feed in deep snow. So good.
I don't know where all this is going, but that's it for today. Things are good. It's good to write about it. I hope your day is going well. And I hope you use your extra hour well.
don't bash your head.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Goose Report
November 2nd
Up early for the second night running, around 3 or so, and maybe it’s not such a bad thing. Up with the cats, wondering about Mishkin, our young gander, who I discovered had been attacked by something, much like his father Shmuel a month or so back. The good news is that he seems more active and rowdy than Shmuel had been – it took some doing getting him corralled so I could catch him, he put up quite a fuss even though I had noticed him lagging behind the others yesterday morning and on closer inspection I saw the spray of orange-ish blood on his back. Shmuel has also returned to true protective mode, so there was the double obstacle of Mishkin’s athletic evasion and Shmuel’s loud alarms and lowered neck and bites.
November 3
Good morning.
Up early for the second night running, yesterday, 3 am; today, 4 so I guess it’s whittling itself down. I had been traveling for about a week and a half all across the country, so maybe my body’s still acclimating to being back home. I can hear Sofia in the mud room/entrance hall, shoveling sand in the litter box as if she were an excavator. She isn’t satisfied until half the box is on the tile floor.
Friday November 5th
Up early again, it’s 5 or so, Astrid’s on my lap, and the house is quiet save for the quiet hum of the refrigerator, a few drips from the rain outside too. I’m on a bit of a goose watch. I got home from a one day trip to NYC yesterday about 5 and the geese were out on the pond and being dusk it was a little late to lure them back to shore. They know it’s me, a few of the girls call back across the water when I speak to them, but the growing dark makes them distrustful, I guess, for they won’t come, despite the scratch I rattle in the big plastic jar. It’s done the trick many times before, but not last night. Instead, they stay on a sedge mound we call Goose Island for it’s where the Canada Geese nest every year.
Oh, just heard a bark.
I still don’t know what attacked Shmuel and Mishkin. It may very well be two different predators. “If it’s a fox,” Richard opines, “it won’t be back for a week. They move around constantly.” If it’s a coyote, though, that’s another story. They get the taste and stick around. The good news is that they haven’t killed one of them yet. Chances are if they had, they’d be back for more. And maybe with friends. I’ve seen scat up by the goose pen and by the side of the pond, but I haven’t been able to make a clear identification yet. No scat expert I. And the predator could also be a dog, we haven’t ruled that out either. So I’m on a goose watch, waiting for first light to see if they’ve weathered the night. They usually come back to shore in the morning and meander back by the chicken coop where it feels safe. We’ve had a bit of a rearrangement of coops lately – we moved what their coop over by the chicken area and, with the help of neighbors, toted the turkey shelter which had been situated up in the far end of our orchard down to where the goose pen had been. Now it’s in the process of becoming their winter home.
It’s nearly 7. It should be getting light soon. I take it that they’re safe out there. If they stayed on the island, they should be. I think the attacks happened when they were on the shore preening or sleeping. Maybe it’s a rite of passage, surviving attacks. As I said, Shmuel seems back to his old self. Mishkin, though, who was never tough to begin with, shies back from the others now and is nursing a hurt wing as well as bite marks on its neck. And I forgot that Royce offered another theory regarding the injury. An owl. Those could be talon marks on Mishkin. You’ve got to watch every which way. I spent a night or 2 turkey baster-feeding Mishkin as I had Shmuel as well as spiking his drinking water with tetracycline. But he was in much better post-attack shape than Shmuel had been. Mishkin would call for the others when he heard them, in a full high voice. He was spry. He couldn’t quite stay at the others pace when they’d fly ahead. He’d try, but stop almost immediately because of the hurt wing and then give a sort of “wait up!” cry as he waddled to keep up with them. Oh, it broke my heart.
Now I have to say this whole “healing Mishkin” scenario reminds me of EB White’s essay “Death of a Pig” in which he unsuccessfully tries to nurse a sow of his back to health knowing full well that they’re planning on slaughtering it in the fall for meat. We’ve begun “processing talks” about Mishkin and one of his sisters. And the turkeys too, of course. And being around them, caring for them, holding them, staring into their eyes, these living creatures, does give me pause. Richard’s all gung ho about it. In fact, he wants to do the killing himself. He’s asking Royce to help him and he wants to do a trial run with Whitey, our bossy rooster, soon. Whitey won’t be missed, by me or the countless hens he humps continuously and forcefully every day BUT when it comes to Snowball, Sassie, Rasputin (the turkeys), Mishkin and Daphne, it’s a whole other story. The argument for becoming vegetarian or vegan creeps ever closer. Or maybe I’m just a big pussy.
Well things have changed considerably here since I first started writing. Richard’s up, working at his laptop at the kitchen table, the cats are fed and content, a fire’s crackling in the wood stove, we’re half way through our first cup of jo, and the geese have flown/ran over from the pond. They’re standing around outside in the rain, so vulnerable looking (that’s me editorializing), waiting for someone to come feed them. “Let them be,” Richard counsels. And so I have. And as I look up I can see Shmuel slowly leading the others single file up to their new home where fresh water and a bin full of grow pellets awaits. “They look like they‘re Amish,” Richard says. “Especially the girls.” I’d say pilgrims, because of the girl’s grey. But whatever. All’s well.
Up early for the second night running, around 3 or so, and maybe it’s not such a bad thing. Up with the cats, wondering about Mishkin, our young gander, who I discovered had been attacked by something, much like his father Shmuel a month or so back. The good news is that he seems more active and rowdy than Shmuel had been – it took some doing getting him corralled so I could catch him, he put up quite a fuss even though I had noticed him lagging behind the others yesterday morning and on closer inspection I saw the spray of orange-ish blood on his back. Shmuel has also returned to true protective mode, so there was the double obstacle of Mishkin’s athletic evasion and Shmuel’s loud alarms and lowered neck and bites.
November 3
Good morning.
Up early for the second night running, yesterday, 3 am; today, 4 so I guess it’s whittling itself down. I had been traveling for about a week and a half all across the country, so maybe my body’s still acclimating to being back home. I can hear Sofia in the mud room/entrance hall, shoveling sand in the litter box as if she were an excavator. She isn’t satisfied until half the box is on the tile floor.
Friday November 5th
Up early again, it’s 5 or so, Astrid’s on my lap, and the house is quiet save for the quiet hum of the refrigerator, a few drips from the rain outside too. I’m on a bit of a goose watch. I got home from a one day trip to NYC yesterday about 5 and the geese were out on the pond and being dusk it was a little late to lure them back to shore. They know it’s me, a few of the girls call back across the water when I speak to them, but the growing dark makes them distrustful, I guess, for they won’t come, despite the scratch I rattle in the big plastic jar. It’s done the trick many times before, but not last night. Instead, they stay on a sedge mound we call Goose Island for it’s where the Canada Geese nest every year.
Oh, just heard a bark.
I still don’t know what attacked Shmuel and Mishkin. It may very well be two different predators. “If it’s a fox,” Richard opines, “it won’t be back for a week. They move around constantly.” If it’s a coyote, though, that’s another story. They get the taste and stick around. The good news is that they haven’t killed one of them yet. Chances are if they had, they’d be back for more. And maybe with friends. I’ve seen scat up by the goose pen and by the side of the pond, but I haven’t been able to make a clear identification yet. No scat expert I. And the predator could also be a dog, we haven’t ruled that out either. So I’m on a goose watch, waiting for first light to see if they’ve weathered the night. They usually come back to shore in the morning and meander back by the chicken coop where it feels safe. We’ve had a bit of a rearrangement of coops lately – we moved what their coop over by the chicken area and, with the help of neighbors, toted the turkey shelter which had been situated up in the far end of our orchard down to where the goose pen had been. Now it’s in the process of becoming their winter home.
It’s nearly 7. It should be getting light soon. I take it that they’re safe out there. If they stayed on the island, they should be. I think the attacks happened when they were on the shore preening or sleeping. Maybe it’s a rite of passage, surviving attacks. As I said, Shmuel seems back to his old self. Mishkin, though, who was never tough to begin with, shies back from the others now and is nursing a hurt wing as well as bite marks on its neck. And I forgot that Royce offered another theory regarding the injury. An owl. Those could be talon marks on Mishkin. You’ve got to watch every which way. I spent a night or 2 turkey baster-feeding Mishkin as I had Shmuel as well as spiking his drinking water with tetracycline. But he was in much better post-attack shape than Shmuel had been. Mishkin would call for the others when he heard them, in a full high voice. He was spry. He couldn’t quite stay at the others pace when they’d fly ahead. He’d try, but stop almost immediately because of the hurt wing and then give a sort of “wait up!” cry as he waddled to keep up with them. Oh, it broke my heart.
Now I have to say this whole “healing Mishkin” scenario reminds me of EB White’s essay “Death of a Pig” in which he unsuccessfully tries to nurse a sow of his back to health knowing full well that they’re planning on slaughtering it in the fall for meat. We’ve begun “processing talks” about Mishkin and one of his sisters. And the turkeys too, of course. And being around them, caring for them, holding them, staring into their eyes, these living creatures, does give me pause. Richard’s all gung ho about it. In fact, he wants to do the killing himself. He’s asking Royce to help him and he wants to do a trial run with Whitey, our bossy rooster, soon. Whitey won’t be missed, by me or the countless hens he humps continuously and forcefully every day BUT when it comes to Snowball, Sassie, Rasputin (the turkeys), Mishkin and Daphne, it’s a whole other story. The argument for becoming vegetarian or vegan creeps ever closer. Or maybe I’m just a big pussy.
Well things have changed considerably here since I first started writing. Richard’s up, working at his laptop at the kitchen table, the cats are fed and content, a fire’s crackling in the wood stove, we’re half way through our first cup of jo, and the geese have flown/ran over from the pond. They’re standing around outside in the rain, so vulnerable looking (that’s me editorializing), waiting for someone to come feed them. “Let them be,” Richard counsels. And so I have. And as I look up I can see Shmuel slowly leading the others single file up to their new home where fresh water and a bin full of grow pellets awaits. “They look like they‘re Amish,” Richard says. “Especially the girls.” I’d say pilgrims, because of the girl’s grey. But whatever. All’s well.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Away from home thoughts.
I’m on a job in Baltimore, Maryland, as I write this. Grateful for the work, grateful I can be part of a friend’s dream, grateful to meet new people, to travel. The place that I’m staying, however, gives me a creeping claustrophobia. It’s not unclean, the service is fine, all the people who work here are kind and attentive. It’s the surroundings. I’m in a Marriot Hotel nestled on the outskirts of Baltimore, a community called Hunt Valley. Just down the hill from where I’m staying is the Hunt Valley Mall and between the hotel and the mall are peppered buildings, constructions of cement and glass identical to many other communities across the nation. In fact, if I woke up with amnesia this morning and walked out side, I’d be hard pressed to tell anyone where I was. It could be Indianapolis, Indiana or Burbank, California. The architecture is all THE SAME. The malls stores are all THE SAME as they would be in Arizona or Utah – Best Buy, Panera Bread, California Pizza Kitchen, Regal Cinemas. Maybe for some people, maybe most people, I don’t know, comfort is gotten from such homogenized surroundings, but I find it hard to breathe around it. I feel a creeping claustrophobia by the SAMENESS of EVERYTHING!! ‘Am I crazy?!’ I wonder. No one else seems bothered by this robotic life style creeping into every arena of their lives. And I don’t want to get all Cassandra/Chicken Little about all of this, but it seems to have some kind of relationship to all the deadening that surround us more and more and more – processed foods, chemical fertilizers, Monsanto, genetically modified whatevers, industrialized agriculture, fossil fuel dependency, consume, consume, consume. Okay, I am getting all Cassandra about this and I really just wanted to note it and put it down. It does make me miss Vermont where, for the most part, there’s a chance at holding on and preserving some of the old ways, making them new and renewable again. Being closer in touch with the natural, the sustainable. Some times I do feel I live in a mad world where the solutions to certain problems or challenges seem so obvious and easy and nevertheless are ignored. The challenge is how to first, breathe, breathe, become aware of whatever it is I’m upset about, then to accept the situation, hold back anger and reactivity, and, taking in everything, decide upon a plan of action. How can I best help the world I live in? How do I wake up more to the challenges that surround me? How can I best use my talents to bring about change? And not confrontational, in your face, I know better and you’re an unevolved idiot change, but a kind, gentle, calm, and many times indirect change that may take years to bring about. To intend patience and commitment and clarity to a cause. It’s easy to rail. It’s easy to get riled up and blame and bluster. I can certainly fall prey to that. It’s also easy to hide away and not be part of the world. How to be part of the world and not at the mercy of its whims and seductive mood swings. Hmmm? How to be fully alive to it all?
Friday, October 15, 2010
A bit of a Catch Up
“The leaves are all off the trees,” Richard announced from our bed this morning as he peered out the upstairs window into the splattery day. “The rain’s brought the rest of them down.” You can barely hear the rain in our bedroom with its many layers of solid insulation, but here in our newly (almost) completed part office/part den/part “to be determined” there’s a constant, hushy ebb and flow on the roof, the insulation not quite as thick here in order to expose old barn beams. The winter rye grass I sewed in the garden yesterday must be enjoying this thirst quenching soak, as are the geese, out on the pond. I’m a little blue today what with the rain and the news of the barrenness of the trees and the thought of winter coming soon, long, long sterile winter, it seems like a prison sentence today. This too shall pass, I know, but there you have it. I’ve sat composing several entries to the blog over the past couple weeks, but never took that final step to get them in, so I’m going to bunch them together here as a kind of “catch up.”
A Touch of Displacement. (October 4th, 2010)
Just back from a trip overseas, to Italy, and back now, a full day of travel yesterday, back to see that peak color has passed, plunked down in our home, welcomed with purrs and nudges by our cats, glad to be back and yet feeling a stranger here. Some part of me feels as if it’s still over the Atlantic Ocean, trying to catch up. I’ve had this feeling countless times in my life after any number of journeys, but inside it always feels like the first time. A displacement. Where am I? Who am I? There are chores to do, some having to do with the recent trip - putting things packed in bags back in drawers, the cleaning up after animals after having been away - and then there are the chores of the season – screens coming down, storm doors up, patching up, mulching, there are bulbs to plant, calls to be made, deposits, activity. I was scurrying about the house, fueled by coffee, getting things done, yes, but not connected or grounded, just a buzzing around like the fly behind me in the kitchen, banging against the window, flying, buzzing, making noise, moving. So I sat, the last thing I wanted to do, and began writing, the thing I yearned to do but my mind kept telling me there wasn’t enough time. Odd, that. Especially in Vermont, in the country, in the woods. Not enough time. So to ground myself I sought out a little Henry David Thoreau. There’s a daily site I go to where you can read journal entries of his from various years. In today’s entry from October 4th, 1851 Thoreau had honored a neighbor farmer he admired and this phrase flew out to me:
“he is paid by the constant satisfaction which his labor yields him.”
He went on to describe a man never focused on what pecuniary value his crops would yield. No eye focused rigidly on the future, or on present worry or anxiety. A man, it seemed, fully present in his life, patient, grateful, happy, at ease, making labor effortless and graceful, abundant in the life he had chosen to live. Aware, awake. Thank you Henry David for that sweet praise of a good man. “A constant satisfaction.” Being satisfied for some reason has such an onus around it. Satisfied. Something has equated it with standing still, not moving, not achieving. “Divine dissatisfaction,” that praise of the artist’s constant restlessness coined by either Agnes DeMille encouraging Martha Graham or vice versa is a phrase that has stuck with me for years. I know that DISsatisfaction intimately. Its good side compels me on; its dark side oozes with perfectionism and impatience, not enoughness, and finally with “why even try?” And it shuns and scorns satisfaction, and I guess, by extension, contentment. I may be oversimplifying. Why can’t both states live together without the exclusion of one or the other? Does there have to be an either/or? I love the picture of that farmer taking sheer delight in his life. A state of satisfaction devoutly to be wished. I hereby place it at the top of my list of chores.– “Enjoy the day.” And welcome myself back to this place.
Letting the Geese Out (October 10, 2010)
There was a frost last night, you can see its hoary five o’clock shadow icing the grass and the brown maple leaves on the ground. They see me coming, the geese, Shmuel especially, standing in the window looking out, all excitement and hopping up and down where he used to start biting the glass, trying to get “at me.” All this has changed since the coyote attack. He’s still “the boss” of the group, but he’s a kinder, gentler gander. I guess that’s good. I do miss his brashness, his braying, but bottom line, I’m just glad he’s around and healthy.
I’m clad part pajamas – colorful flannel bottoms with a thick orange gap shirt above – and part proper outer gear – a taupe fleece jacket and black “Stormy Kromer” cap and, of course, boots, WARM boots, for its still in the 30’s this morning (though it will rise to the 60’s later.) I have my poetry book and a white legal pad and pen just in case I decide to hike up the rise for an early morning look see of the final bits of color after I let the geese out. And there’s my cup of coffee too.
Oh, the hose is frozen. Of course. It’s stretched out from the house up the hill. I’d wanted to give them fresh water, but that will have to wait now until the sun melts the ice inside. I’ll have to store it soon and oh, pictures of those long mornings coming up the hill, toting the water from inside. It’s really not that bad, it’s just that the idea of winter coming is not a welcome thought this year. I dash it from my mind and get present in the day for it’s gorgeous out. Oliver, our orange and white tabby, hops up on the slabs of granite half way to the goose house. These used to be foundational stones for the chicken barns that used to be here ages ago. Now they form a sort of Stonehengey arrangement. He’s awfully affectionate this morning, it’s sweet, good to have his company, but I bet he’s wondering now why he had begged to be let outside because fur or not, it’s cold out here. I pet him, lay my coffee cup and pad and pen down, and continue on uphill.
Shmuel’s excitement is catching, the general chatty hum has increased, anticipating freedom. I come up around the far side of the garden, the garden I hoed yesterday, getting the soil ready for planting rye grass several days from now to help the nitrogen level of the soil. Since the coyote attack, I’ve designed to sections of goose lounging areas. The first is their smaller pen where they are now, clamoring for release, and the second larger area – when they’re not let loose to the pond – includes the garden and above. They’ve been wonderful at eating down the last remnants of plants and fertilizing the ground and soon, once the grass has been sewn, I’ll have to reconfigure the area since they won’t be allowed down in the garden proper. Keeps things hoppin’. I unclasp a jerry rigged section of fence and sweep it back behind an apple tree to give them a wide exit out into the meadow and down to the pond. Then I cross to their smaller pen. They shy back momentarily while I reach in to unclasp the latch and then bow back to encourage them out. Honks, flapping wings, Freedom!! I run ahead a bit to show them that the piece of fence is indeed down. Shmuel’s cry is not as high as it used to be, but it’s still authoritative. He leads the wing-flapping bunch down the hill, proud, erect, keeping them in line. He’s assimilated his injuries into a new style. For instance, his neck doesn’t stretch out quite the same way it used to, there’s a bump or 2 in it, and when he flaps his wings and “flies” he’s not as graceful as before, a tad cattywampus. But still, he works it. If the other’s go off on their own flight path, he honks them back, no questions asked. All of this sends a huge smile across my face. It’s the morning to me, seeing them fly free, make their way to the pond. And then on the pond, they’re like kids, racing about, doing somersaults, adventuring anew to various spots. I love them.
Oh, and we – we meaning Richard and me and our dear visiting friend Jean – planted daffodil and crocus bulbs all over yesterday – the shore of the pond, by the stone wall, all over. Surprises that will pop up out of the snow come Spring. Hooray.
A Touch of Displacement. (October 4th, 2010)
Just back from a trip overseas, to Italy, and back now, a full day of travel yesterday, back to see that peak color has passed, plunked down in our home, welcomed with purrs and nudges by our cats, glad to be back and yet feeling a stranger here. Some part of me feels as if it’s still over the Atlantic Ocean, trying to catch up. I’ve had this feeling countless times in my life after any number of journeys, but inside it always feels like the first time. A displacement. Where am I? Who am I? There are chores to do, some having to do with the recent trip - putting things packed in bags back in drawers, the cleaning up after animals after having been away - and then there are the chores of the season – screens coming down, storm doors up, patching up, mulching, there are bulbs to plant, calls to be made, deposits, activity. I was scurrying about the house, fueled by coffee, getting things done, yes, but not connected or grounded, just a buzzing around like the fly behind me in the kitchen, banging against the window, flying, buzzing, making noise, moving. So I sat, the last thing I wanted to do, and began writing, the thing I yearned to do but my mind kept telling me there wasn’t enough time. Odd, that. Especially in Vermont, in the country, in the woods. Not enough time. So to ground myself I sought out a little Henry David Thoreau. There’s a daily site I go to where you can read journal entries of his from various years. In today’s entry from October 4th, 1851 Thoreau had honored a neighbor farmer he admired and this phrase flew out to me:
“he is paid by the constant satisfaction which his labor yields him.”
He went on to describe a man never focused on what pecuniary value his crops would yield. No eye focused rigidly on the future, or on present worry or anxiety. A man, it seemed, fully present in his life, patient, grateful, happy, at ease, making labor effortless and graceful, abundant in the life he had chosen to live. Aware, awake. Thank you Henry David for that sweet praise of a good man. “A constant satisfaction.” Being satisfied for some reason has such an onus around it. Satisfied. Something has equated it with standing still, not moving, not achieving. “Divine dissatisfaction,” that praise of the artist’s constant restlessness coined by either Agnes DeMille encouraging Martha Graham or vice versa is a phrase that has stuck with me for years. I know that DISsatisfaction intimately. Its good side compels me on; its dark side oozes with perfectionism and impatience, not enoughness, and finally with “why even try?” And it shuns and scorns satisfaction, and I guess, by extension, contentment. I may be oversimplifying. Why can’t both states live together without the exclusion of one or the other? Does there have to be an either/or? I love the picture of that farmer taking sheer delight in his life. A state of satisfaction devoutly to be wished. I hereby place it at the top of my list of chores.– “Enjoy the day.” And welcome myself back to this place.
Letting the Geese Out (October 10, 2010)
There was a frost last night, you can see its hoary five o’clock shadow icing the grass and the brown maple leaves on the ground. They see me coming, the geese, Shmuel especially, standing in the window looking out, all excitement and hopping up and down where he used to start biting the glass, trying to get “at me.” All this has changed since the coyote attack. He’s still “the boss” of the group, but he’s a kinder, gentler gander. I guess that’s good. I do miss his brashness, his braying, but bottom line, I’m just glad he’s around and healthy.
I’m clad part pajamas – colorful flannel bottoms with a thick orange gap shirt above – and part proper outer gear – a taupe fleece jacket and black “Stormy Kromer” cap and, of course, boots, WARM boots, for its still in the 30’s this morning (though it will rise to the 60’s later.) I have my poetry book and a white legal pad and pen just in case I decide to hike up the rise for an early morning look see of the final bits of color after I let the geese out. And there’s my cup of coffee too.
Oh, the hose is frozen. Of course. It’s stretched out from the house up the hill. I’d wanted to give them fresh water, but that will have to wait now until the sun melts the ice inside. I’ll have to store it soon and oh, pictures of those long mornings coming up the hill, toting the water from inside. It’s really not that bad, it’s just that the idea of winter coming is not a welcome thought this year. I dash it from my mind and get present in the day for it’s gorgeous out. Oliver, our orange and white tabby, hops up on the slabs of granite half way to the goose house. These used to be foundational stones for the chicken barns that used to be here ages ago. Now they form a sort of Stonehengey arrangement. He’s awfully affectionate this morning, it’s sweet, good to have his company, but I bet he’s wondering now why he had begged to be let outside because fur or not, it’s cold out here. I pet him, lay my coffee cup and pad and pen down, and continue on uphill.
Shmuel’s excitement is catching, the general chatty hum has increased, anticipating freedom. I come up around the far side of the garden, the garden I hoed yesterday, getting the soil ready for planting rye grass several days from now to help the nitrogen level of the soil. Since the coyote attack, I’ve designed to sections of goose lounging areas. The first is their smaller pen where they are now, clamoring for release, and the second larger area – when they’re not let loose to the pond – includes the garden and above. They’ve been wonderful at eating down the last remnants of plants and fertilizing the ground and soon, once the grass has been sewn, I’ll have to reconfigure the area since they won’t be allowed down in the garden proper. Keeps things hoppin’. I unclasp a jerry rigged section of fence and sweep it back behind an apple tree to give them a wide exit out into the meadow and down to the pond. Then I cross to their smaller pen. They shy back momentarily while I reach in to unclasp the latch and then bow back to encourage them out. Honks, flapping wings, Freedom!! I run ahead a bit to show them that the piece of fence is indeed down. Shmuel’s cry is not as high as it used to be, but it’s still authoritative. He leads the wing-flapping bunch down the hill, proud, erect, keeping them in line. He’s assimilated his injuries into a new style. For instance, his neck doesn’t stretch out quite the same way it used to, there’s a bump or 2 in it, and when he flaps his wings and “flies” he’s not as graceful as before, a tad cattywampus. But still, he works it. If the other’s go off on their own flight path, he honks them back, no questions asked. All of this sends a huge smile across my face. It’s the morning to me, seeing them fly free, make their way to the pond. And then on the pond, they’re like kids, racing about, doing somersaults, adventuring anew to various spots. I love them.
Oh, and we – we meaning Richard and me and our dear visiting friend Jean – planted daffodil and crocus bulbs all over yesterday – the shore of the pond, by the stone wall, all over. Surprises that will pop up out of the snow come Spring. Hooray.
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