I just gave my gander a neck twirl around and pick up, holding his strong white wings close to his side. The girls gave a squawk of protest, but he made nary a peep or bray. I hadn't used this disciplinary measure for awhile, hadn't needed to. But today, I was getting a little bit tired of him taking a good, healthy chomp into my hand when I was offering he and his harum some nice romaine lettuce, something I do most every morning. And he knows better, he can gauge where the lettuce ends and my skin begins. This was calculated today, intentional, premeditated. So I lifted him a few feet off the earth and held him there. Truth be told, it wasn't all disciplinary; I'd been wanting to pick him up and pet him. But he's usually so tough and proud and blustery, with a flutter rush of his tail feathers and a "keep your distance" dip to his long neck, a glare of his Moby Dick eyes warning you back. "Have you seen the great white goose?!" That was one advantage to when he was recovering from his coyote neck bite late summer, I could be as close to him as I wished for he didn't have the strength to put up a fuss. He was vulnerable and tender, his bites were like litte moth nibbles. Oh he was so defenseless and weak. I never thought I'd see his tough side again and, yes, I longed for it back. And now ... oh whatever. So I held him and stroked his neck and thought 'You know, many times when I've done this, he's hit the ground, and turned around and come after me, wings whipping the air for a good punch, beak out for a bite of me. What's going to happen now?' And you know what happened when I let him down? Nothin'. He walked over to the girls who asked if he was alright, if he'd been hurt in any way. "just my pride, just my pride" I think I heard him say. But I loved on him, I pet him, that's all. He didn't know what to do with that. What a great bird he is.
On the other bird front, Richard is moving his 5 turkeys over to a small section of the upstairs level of our neighbor Royce's barn. Not enough room at the chicken inn. Those turkeys are growing much larger, much quicker than ever imagined and though we thought the chickens and turkeys would be able to make it through the winter co-habitating, it ain't working out that way. The turkey tail feathers alone are cococking the chickens whenever the turkeys turn around. And there are mites - Richard dusted all the birds today with a white powder that suffocates the mites and kills them, but one poor turkey has been particularly droopy of late and we've had to quarantine her in her own crate and give her special treatment - some cayenne pepper in her food, a little tetracyline in her water. She's got something and we're hoping we can nip it in the bud. Richard is so good with his birds. He's learning so much all the time, getting great advice from the various bird sites on line. Very helpful.
He loves it, he loves them, and it shows. Great to see.
It's a stunningly beautiful, frigid day here. When it snows, which it's been doing off and on today, you feel as if you're in a snow globe in the middle of a gentle, light, continuous powdered sugar dusting. The fire in the kitchen wood stove hypnotizes you with warmth. So cozy. A perfect January day of puttering around, getting good work done, writing, musing, catching up, making plans ... and hugging geese.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Monday, December 20, 2010
Nearing the solstice
When I was a kid I always felt a little bit hoodwinked once the dazzle of the holidays had passed and I realized to my horror that the bulk of winter stretched ahead of me, bleak and cold and forbidding, uninterrupted until Spring break. Yech! And midwest winters could be depressing, especially to a kid. Rare it was to have a really swell blizzard. Instead you got crusty, dirty, left-over snow corroding the streets, most often souped up into a goopy mess right where you want to step. Oh woe! Oh endless agony! What a tremendous let down after the build up of ever more enticing holidays and delights from September through December - the heady rush of going back to school, leaves changing, football, Halloween, that first nip in the air, sweater weather, Thanksgiving, food, food, food, my birthday (December 2nd), Christmas! It was all grand! And in my mind's eye, Christmas was the height of winter, life was one big shake up winter scene globe with snow flurries and caroling. It felt like such a gyp when I realized that the winter solstice officially marking the end of autumn and the beginning of winter occured 3 days before Christmas. We weren't any where near the middle or height of winter, we'd just taken a few baby steps in. Sigh.
Maybe that kid realization was the first time I let in the bittersweetness of the season that I cherish so much now. I love both the joy and the sadness of the season, the beginning and ending all at once, a full embrace of both. I'm drawn to Christmas Carols like "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" and "Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming" that have such a sweet, stark, rich sadness to them. I don't know where all this is leading, but that's how I feel.
It's cold here in Vermont, about 10 right now, dropped to 12 below earlier in the week, our very own brand of mercury in retrograde. We're about to embark on some holiday traveling, putting our animals in the care of a friend. I miss being away from them all, they enlarge my life. I guess if I were hard pressed it would be the cats I miss the most. Of course we're around them the most. They sleep with us, they frolic and tease and play and warm our laps. They're my constant teachers. Lessons in taking care of something else, in being present, in how to sleep and nap like an artist, in talking in another (animal) language, in intuition. But the birds are a close second. I never thought I would appreciate them so much, but I do.
The snowfalls have been gentle and just magnificent. Not a lot of depth yet, you can still see the meadow grass sticking through like a toe-headed giant's unkempt hair. The fir trees, though, look as if a professional flocker has come in from New York to design the forest scenes. I admire the trees during my daily walk. I try as best I can take in 4 or 5 miles a day, fine with 2 if time is crunched. I take a book along and a legal pad - I love to read and write when I walk - but I let at least half of the walk be about simply letting it all in. And the forest and the skies and the way always look just a little bit different every day.
Our house is pretty cozy and Christmasy. No tree, but electric sconces in every window, a wreath on our front door and another much larger one on the side of our new gambrel roof, both wreathes constructed by us from boughs of various firs and pines and holly on our property. Most often there's Christmas music going on inside from CD's we've collected over the years and which are forbidden to be played until the day after Thanksgiving. One old cassette of the Robert Shaw Chorale I've carried around with me since the 1970's I now have to play on a dilapidated Radio Shack tape recorder. (This is the only recording I have of "O Come, O Come Emanuel.") All these old favorites remind me of the record collections Goodrich and Goodyear would come out with every year in the 60's and which we'd play on the stereo console in our living room. So weird thinking that the '60's are olden times now. I just watched "Charlie Brown Christmas" last night and remember watching it when it premiered in 1965 at a Methodist Youth Church group meeting. Oh, how times have changed. Now wait a minute, I guess we do have a tree. I put lights on one of our fir trees in back. The lights are times to pop on around 4 pm every day and stay illuminated until midnight. I love coming home down our infrequently traveled road and seeing the tree's light from way down the road like a welcoming beacon, a multi-colored lighthouse on land. When I decorated it the task took much longer than I had estimated and I toiled well into the night. Since the tree is directly down from their house and pen, the geese had quite a lot of comments along the way, some brays and calls, but mostly murmurs amongst themselves. I choose to take their murmurings as appreciative clucks.
No great earth shattering discoveries or events to recount. Just a winter's catch-up. We are actually in mercury retrograde through the 30th if you didn't know, and being a skeptical believer in just about everything, I'll pass on a few tidbits. This is not the best of times to sign contracts or begin new ventures, more a time to go back over old business, finish projects begun, put things in order, clean up files. Very aprospos for this time of year, I think. It's not the greatest time to travel, so expect delays, give yourself time, don't rush. It's a fantastic time to be in touch with friends, reconnect, reach out. Expect communication breakdowns, back up computers. Be grateful. Be appreciative. Be patient. (Those last three weren't exactly associated with mercury in retrograde; I just tossed them in for good measure.) Have a great full moon - the light at night here is eeriely beautiful - and know that the lunar eclipse may just zap you a bit tomorrow. Have a wonderful solstice all you Christians, pagans, Islamists, Hindis, Buddhists, agnostics, atheists, what-have-yous. Be kind, be gentle, have a splendid winter.
Joy to the World!!
Maybe that kid realization was the first time I let in the bittersweetness of the season that I cherish so much now. I love both the joy and the sadness of the season, the beginning and ending all at once, a full embrace of both. I'm drawn to Christmas Carols like "O Come, O Come Emmanuel" and "Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming" that have such a sweet, stark, rich sadness to them. I don't know where all this is leading, but that's how I feel.
It's cold here in Vermont, about 10 right now, dropped to 12 below earlier in the week, our very own brand of mercury in retrograde. We're about to embark on some holiday traveling, putting our animals in the care of a friend. I miss being away from them all, they enlarge my life. I guess if I were hard pressed it would be the cats I miss the most. Of course we're around them the most. They sleep with us, they frolic and tease and play and warm our laps. They're my constant teachers. Lessons in taking care of something else, in being present, in how to sleep and nap like an artist, in talking in another (animal) language, in intuition. But the birds are a close second. I never thought I would appreciate them so much, but I do.
The snowfalls have been gentle and just magnificent. Not a lot of depth yet, you can still see the meadow grass sticking through like a toe-headed giant's unkempt hair. The fir trees, though, look as if a professional flocker has come in from New York to design the forest scenes. I admire the trees during my daily walk. I try as best I can take in 4 or 5 miles a day, fine with 2 if time is crunched. I take a book along and a legal pad - I love to read and write when I walk - but I let at least half of the walk be about simply letting it all in. And the forest and the skies and the way always look just a little bit different every day.
Our house is pretty cozy and Christmasy. No tree, but electric sconces in every window, a wreath on our front door and another much larger one on the side of our new gambrel roof, both wreathes constructed by us from boughs of various firs and pines and holly on our property. Most often there's Christmas music going on inside from CD's we've collected over the years and which are forbidden to be played until the day after Thanksgiving. One old cassette of the Robert Shaw Chorale I've carried around with me since the 1970's I now have to play on a dilapidated Radio Shack tape recorder. (This is the only recording I have of "O Come, O Come Emanuel.") All these old favorites remind me of the record collections Goodrich and Goodyear would come out with every year in the 60's and which we'd play on the stereo console in our living room. So weird thinking that the '60's are olden times now. I just watched "Charlie Brown Christmas" last night and remember watching it when it premiered in 1965 at a Methodist Youth Church group meeting. Oh, how times have changed. Now wait a minute, I guess we do have a tree. I put lights on one of our fir trees in back. The lights are times to pop on around 4 pm every day and stay illuminated until midnight. I love coming home down our infrequently traveled road and seeing the tree's light from way down the road like a welcoming beacon, a multi-colored lighthouse on land. When I decorated it the task took much longer than I had estimated and I toiled well into the night. Since the tree is directly down from their house and pen, the geese had quite a lot of comments along the way, some brays and calls, but mostly murmurs amongst themselves. I choose to take their murmurings as appreciative clucks.
No great earth shattering discoveries or events to recount. Just a winter's catch-up. We are actually in mercury retrograde through the 30th if you didn't know, and being a skeptical believer in just about everything, I'll pass on a few tidbits. This is not the best of times to sign contracts or begin new ventures, more a time to go back over old business, finish projects begun, put things in order, clean up files. Very aprospos for this time of year, I think. It's not the greatest time to travel, so expect delays, give yourself time, don't rush. It's a fantastic time to be in touch with friends, reconnect, reach out. Expect communication breakdowns, back up computers. Be grateful. Be appreciative. Be patient. (Those last three weren't exactly associated with mercury in retrograde; I just tossed them in for good measure.) Have a great full moon - the light at night here is eeriely beautiful - and know that the lunar eclipse may just zap you a bit tomorrow. Have a wonderful solstice all you Christians, pagans, Islamists, Hindis, Buddhists, agnostics, atheists, what-have-yous. Be kind, be gentle, have a splendid winter.
Joy to the World!!
Thursday, November 25, 2010
What happened this morning. (Wednesday, November 24th)
It was a restless night. I woke at 12:34, 4:10, and then off and on checking the clock each time until we both decided to rise at 6. The wind was whipping around outside, you could hear the metal roofing rattle with the gusts. We opened the curtains from bed and I was surprised to see a bit of light in the sky. "Let's get him while it's still dark," Richard said, reading my mind. We were talking about Mishkin, the young gander, who we were planning to nab quickly, along with his aunt, Ginger, and put into a crate we'd fashioned in the garage the night before. We were hoping to do this before Mishkin could get his bearings and fly over the fence away from us and before his father Shmuel could put up a protective barrage of bites and wing swing punches. Richard and I kept sharing "I love yous" to bolster one another for the task at hand. We had gathered chickens to be processed before, but this time it seemed different, more momentous, a tougher, harder decision, probably because of the geese. We quickly did our inside chores - I made coffee and fed the cats while Richard stoked a nice warm fire - then we bundled up and stepped outside. The geese were striding back and forth in their pen, wings flapping, eager for their customary early morning release to the pond.
'I love you.'
"I love you."
It was chilly, a dusting of snow on the ground, a few flakes in the air. 'Just do it, just do it,' I mantra-ed to myself while sprinkling thanks to the birds for gracing us with their presence. We unlatched the chicken wire surrounding the new goose coop and stepped into their pen. Did they know something was up? They avoided us, scattered. "Corral him into the coop," Richard called out and it seemed to happen of its own accord. But quick as white lightning, he ducked out under the partially fastened fence and flapped away to the backside of the fenced area. The flock struck up a high chorus of protest and he called back as he rounded the coop with Richard in pursuit. Mishkin tried to get back to the rest, pressing himself against the fence, wings flapping, which enabled Richard to pick him up. After a bit of a struggle, Mishkin instantly relaxed, resigned, scared. We pet him and whispered and cooed him to the waiting crate, thanking him. He hunkered down into the crate and sat still.
'Let's get Ginger now,' I suggested and this time I seemed to have read Richard's thoughts as he had mine in the bedroom. Oh Ginger. One of our first pair, hatched by Richard in his man made cooler incubator. Before Shmuel's appearance on the scene, she and her sister, Mary Ann, used to follow us everywhere - uphill, over to the pond, curious about anything we were doing, unless we turned and tried to pick them up, and then they were all avoidance, shivering in place if we did corner them, but relaxing again when we'd place them on our laps to pet them. She was a fearless guard of the brood, crabbing at cars if they got too close to the others. The Annie Oakley of the flock. (Okay, I've got to stop, I'm tearing myself up.) Ginger wasn't that difficult to catch. I grabbed her up in my arms from her crouching shiver against the fence. It felt so good to hold her, I realized it had been a long time. I soothed her, carrying her down the hill to the crate and Mishkin, rubbing her neck and her chest down, cooing my appreciation. When we got to the garage, I perched her on my lap and let her nibble on my fleece shirt and wedding ring before putting her in with her nephew. There was a loud crowing from the chicken coop across the driveway and I looked up to see Richard step out the door with Whitey, his Wheaton rooster, by the legs. He had disturbed him from his perch in between his 2 girlfriends. We knew one rooster had to go. We were keeping Red Barber, our prize rooster who looks as if he stepped off a Kellogg's Corn Flakes box, but it was a coin flip between Whitey and the docile Grey and Orange other Wheaton. Whitey, though, was humping every hen in sight roughly and more often than not was causing a big ruckus, so off he went. I deposited Ginger in the crate with Mishkin as Richard put Whitey in a waiting pet carrier.
Time for coffee. A short break while we talked turkey.
"I'm thinking of keeping Snowflake," Richard said to me about his favorite. I've spoken of the way she would cuddle down into our arms when we'd pick her up, instantly relaxed. But in a moment Richard had reversed himself and was back to his original plan to take Snowflake and Sassie, the limping survivor of an earlier raccoon attack, while keeping Rasputin, a well-formed, proud turkey, ideal for breeding later. Warmed by the caffiene in a cup, Richard went out to gather the turkeys from the coop and within seconds was back outside with Sassie squawking in his arms.
"You'll never believe this," Richard said, a bit stunned. "Snowflake's gone." And it was true, she was nowhere to be found. We thought she had been in the pen last night when we had closed up, but it had been a dark foggy night, we were rushing to fix dinner for friends, we were probably distracted by the impending processing and we hadn't checked closely enough. I quickly checked over in Royce's fields, near his house. No sign of her anywhere. She'd flown the coop. Or is hiding, waiting to return. Or a hunter got her.
'Well, your choice has been made,' I chimed in. Richard agreed and we opted to take Rasputin instead, knowing we had 5 healthy turkey chicks growing bigger everyday to take their place. Done, in, crated.
From this point on, I have to admit, my behavior wasn't of stellar quality. It may have been the combination of what was being done, of schedules to be met, of my controlling manner kicking in to deal with what I was feeling, of Mishkin and Ginger's eyes looking out at me from the crates, but -- there are no buts. It was what it was. "You're driving me crazy!" Richard snapped at me. And I probably was. He took off in a bit of a huff. A quick apology message left on his voice mail to be gotten at some time in the future.
Just before he left, though, he asked me to let the geese up in the coop loose so "I can see some of the geese running free." I unlatched the gate and stepped back for Shmuel, Mary Ann, Daphne, and Felicity to run out. They usually call and caw and flap their wings in excitement. But this time they just walked out, silent.
'Look at them,' I called to Richard.
"They know something's different. They're wondering where the others are."
There were no calls, no wing flapping, nothing. I was dreading hearing them call and Ginger and Mishkin calling to them from inside the crate in the car. But it didn't happen. We had speculated whether it makes any difference, whether they'll miss them. I don't know. I don't know.
I'm sitting in the front of the Village Store writing this. I brought in Richard's car to get snow tires put on and prepare for our upcoming Thanksgiving trip while he's taken our Outback north to the processing site. He must be there by now. No idea how big a crowd of locals will show up, no idea how long it will take. He told me he was hoping it would be quick, that he could go off and busy himself, distract himself, be out of hearing of goose calls.
"They're supposed to be very good," he assured himself and me. And indeed, the processors have been highly recommended by dear friends of ours who have used their services in the past. But still, but still. I was just thinking that Richard has been the one who's unintentionally experienced so much death when it's come to our animals. Beginning with our first cat Chocolate who he took to the vets for a check-up, to see why he had been so lethargic only to be told that he was riddled with Kittie AIDS and needed to be put down. He phoned me from the vets sobbing. And then there was the time he had to put an injured Canada gosling down; another time returning home to find 7 of his chickens slaughtered by a neighbor's dog; and now, this bundle of birds. Me? I've tended to luck into the births of things. There was a time there when Richard would make all the preparations leading up to the hatching of chicks and then be out of town for the hatching itself. It got to be very frustrating. Life and death.
Thursday morning, 5-ish Thanksgiving
I'm sitting beside Richard on the couch of a friend's in Providence. We got up an hour or so ago, unable to sleep. Yesterday when he got home, Richard filled me in on what had happened. A flood of images of the small trailer behind the house surrounded by pools of water and blood, of muscovey ducks sipping from the bloody water. Of the kind woman, Cindy, stepping out from the trailer in her rubber aprons, welcoming Richard, assuring him. Of her husband, assured and business-like in his work, sharing with a customer that the first time he saw a chicken killed he fainted. Of the woman ahead of Richard telling that her husband couldn't do this, that he'd put them in their crates last night and pet them all saying "It'll be alright" and she retorted "No, it won't." Of Richard - my dear, sweet, courageous husband - being scared and emotional and then it all lifting when he had the realization that we all will die and this happens to be their day to die. Of taking Ginger in his arms and covering her eyes so she wouldn't see (that's so dear). Of that gesture calming her. Of handing her off to Cindy and turning his back quickly, knowing though that it was done quickly, painlessly. Of having to wait with Mishkin, covering his eyes too. Of coming back later and Cindy holding Mishkin's head, admiring it, and Richard taking it in, not in horror, in acceptance. Of noticing parts of birds around, a bucket of heads, and Mishkin's white, beautiful head standing out from the other darker ones.
"I hate that I'm so emotional about this," Richard said, recounting all this. "I wish I wasn't so emotional."
And I held him and told him his emotion is what I love about him and that the emotion did not keep him from doing this deed, he took action, he went, he came back to tell me about it.
And then he needed to take a walk, to be outside, to feed the fish in our pond, to search once more for Snowflake, to see our geese swimming in our pond, to see life, living things. And we mused about this whole day not being a big thing to most people around these parts.
"This is like me cleaning fish growing up, no big deal."
And I who have not cleaned fish or cleaned wild game like my cousins and my Aunt Sis, who hasn't yet taken a trip to the processor's, walked along thinking 'I don't care, this was a big day, this was a BIG day. And we've grown through it."
So there.
So there.
So I give thanks to all our birds today, alive and dead. To Ginger and Mishkin, Whitey and Snowflake and Sassie and Rasputin. To Red and Pearl and Lacitia and Dottie and Shmuel and Mary Ann and Daphne and Felicity. To Jasmine and Goldie and Grace. Thanks for the eggs, for the meat, for feeding us in so many ways. For nourishing us with the sheer sight of you, swimming on our pond, flapping your wings, crowing, calling, keening, clucking. You lift our world, elevate it just a little bit off the ground and we are grateful for that.
Happy Thanksgiving.
'I love you.'
"I love you."
It was chilly, a dusting of snow on the ground, a few flakes in the air. 'Just do it, just do it,' I mantra-ed to myself while sprinkling thanks to the birds for gracing us with their presence. We unlatched the chicken wire surrounding the new goose coop and stepped into their pen. Did they know something was up? They avoided us, scattered. "Corral him into the coop," Richard called out and it seemed to happen of its own accord. But quick as white lightning, he ducked out under the partially fastened fence and flapped away to the backside of the fenced area. The flock struck up a high chorus of protest and he called back as he rounded the coop with Richard in pursuit. Mishkin tried to get back to the rest, pressing himself against the fence, wings flapping, which enabled Richard to pick him up. After a bit of a struggle, Mishkin instantly relaxed, resigned, scared. We pet him and whispered and cooed him to the waiting crate, thanking him. He hunkered down into the crate and sat still.
'Let's get Ginger now,' I suggested and this time I seemed to have read Richard's thoughts as he had mine in the bedroom. Oh Ginger. One of our first pair, hatched by Richard in his man made cooler incubator. Before Shmuel's appearance on the scene, she and her sister, Mary Ann, used to follow us everywhere - uphill, over to the pond, curious about anything we were doing, unless we turned and tried to pick them up, and then they were all avoidance, shivering in place if we did corner them, but relaxing again when we'd place them on our laps to pet them. She was a fearless guard of the brood, crabbing at cars if they got too close to the others. The Annie Oakley of the flock. (Okay, I've got to stop, I'm tearing myself up.) Ginger wasn't that difficult to catch. I grabbed her up in my arms from her crouching shiver against the fence. It felt so good to hold her, I realized it had been a long time. I soothed her, carrying her down the hill to the crate and Mishkin, rubbing her neck and her chest down, cooing my appreciation. When we got to the garage, I perched her on my lap and let her nibble on my fleece shirt and wedding ring before putting her in with her nephew. There was a loud crowing from the chicken coop across the driveway and I looked up to see Richard step out the door with Whitey, his Wheaton rooster, by the legs. He had disturbed him from his perch in between his 2 girlfriends. We knew one rooster had to go. We were keeping Red Barber, our prize rooster who looks as if he stepped off a Kellogg's Corn Flakes box, but it was a coin flip between Whitey and the docile Grey and Orange other Wheaton. Whitey, though, was humping every hen in sight roughly and more often than not was causing a big ruckus, so off he went. I deposited Ginger in the crate with Mishkin as Richard put Whitey in a waiting pet carrier.
Time for coffee. A short break while we talked turkey.
"I'm thinking of keeping Snowflake," Richard said to me about his favorite. I've spoken of the way she would cuddle down into our arms when we'd pick her up, instantly relaxed. But in a moment Richard had reversed himself and was back to his original plan to take Snowflake and Sassie, the limping survivor of an earlier raccoon attack, while keeping Rasputin, a well-formed, proud turkey, ideal for breeding later. Warmed by the caffiene in a cup, Richard went out to gather the turkeys from the coop and within seconds was back outside with Sassie squawking in his arms.
"You'll never believe this," Richard said, a bit stunned. "Snowflake's gone." And it was true, she was nowhere to be found. We thought she had been in the pen last night when we had closed up, but it had been a dark foggy night, we were rushing to fix dinner for friends, we were probably distracted by the impending processing and we hadn't checked closely enough. I quickly checked over in Royce's fields, near his house. No sign of her anywhere. She'd flown the coop. Or is hiding, waiting to return. Or a hunter got her.
'Well, your choice has been made,' I chimed in. Richard agreed and we opted to take Rasputin instead, knowing we had 5 healthy turkey chicks growing bigger everyday to take their place. Done, in, crated.
From this point on, I have to admit, my behavior wasn't of stellar quality. It may have been the combination of what was being done, of schedules to be met, of my controlling manner kicking in to deal with what I was feeling, of Mishkin and Ginger's eyes looking out at me from the crates, but -- there are no buts. It was what it was. "You're driving me crazy!" Richard snapped at me. And I probably was. He took off in a bit of a huff. A quick apology message left on his voice mail to be gotten at some time in the future.
Just before he left, though, he asked me to let the geese up in the coop loose so "I can see some of the geese running free." I unlatched the gate and stepped back for Shmuel, Mary Ann, Daphne, and Felicity to run out. They usually call and caw and flap their wings in excitement. But this time they just walked out, silent.
'Look at them,' I called to Richard.
"They know something's different. They're wondering where the others are."
There were no calls, no wing flapping, nothing. I was dreading hearing them call and Ginger and Mishkin calling to them from inside the crate in the car. But it didn't happen. We had speculated whether it makes any difference, whether they'll miss them. I don't know. I don't know.
I'm sitting in the front of the Village Store writing this. I brought in Richard's car to get snow tires put on and prepare for our upcoming Thanksgiving trip while he's taken our Outback north to the processing site. He must be there by now. No idea how big a crowd of locals will show up, no idea how long it will take. He told me he was hoping it would be quick, that he could go off and busy himself, distract himself, be out of hearing of goose calls.
"They're supposed to be very good," he assured himself and me. And indeed, the processors have been highly recommended by dear friends of ours who have used their services in the past. But still, but still. I was just thinking that Richard has been the one who's unintentionally experienced so much death when it's come to our animals. Beginning with our first cat Chocolate who he took to the vets for a check-up, to see why he had been so lethargic only to be told that he was riddled with Kittie AIDS and needed to be put down. He phoned me from the vets sobbing. And then there was the time he had to put an injured Canada gosling down; another time returning home to find 7 of his chickens slaughtered by a neighbor's dog; and now, this bundle of birds. Me? I've tended to luck into the births of things. There was a time there when Richard would make all the preparations leading up to the hatching of chicks and then be out of town for the hatching itself. It got to be very frustrating. Life and death.
Thursday morning, 5-ish Thanksgiving
I'm sitting beside Richard on the couch of a friend's in Providence. We got up an hour or so ago, unable to sleep. Yesterday when he got home, Richard filled me in on what had happened. A flood of images of the small trailer behind the house surrounded by pools of water and blood, of muscovey ducks sipping from the bloody water. Of the kind woman, Cindy, stepping out from the trailer in her rubber aprons, welcoming Richard, assuring him. Of her husband, assured and business-like in his work, sharing with a customer that the first time he saw a chicken killed he fainted. Of the woman ahead of Richard telling that her husband couldn't do this, that he'd put them in their crates last night and pet them all saying "It'll be alright" and she retorted "No, it won't." Of Richard - my dear, sweet, courageous husband - being scared and emotional and then it all lifting when he had the realization that we all will die and this happens to be their day to die. Of taking Ginger in his arms and covering her eyes so she wouldn't see (that's so dear). Of that gesture calming her. Of handing her off to Cindy and turning his back quickly, knowing though that it was done quickly, painlessly. Of having to wait with Mishkin, covering his eyes too. Of coming back later and Cindy holding Mishkin's head, admiring it, and Richard taking it in, not in horror, in acceptance. Of noticing parts of birds around, a bucket of heads, and Mishkin's white, beautiful head standing out from the other darker ones.
"I hate that I'm so emotional about this," Richard said, recounting all this. "I wish I wasn't so emotional."
And I held him and told him his emotion is what I love about him and that the emotion did not keep him from doing this deed, he took action, he went, he came back to tell me about it.
And then he needed to take a walk, to be outside, to feed the fish in our pond, to search once more for Snowflake, to see our geese swimming in our pond, to see life, living things. And we mused about this whole day not being a big thing to most people around these parts.
"This is like me cleaning fish growing up, no big deal."
And I who have not cleaned fish or cleaned wild game like my cousins and my Aunt Sis, who hasn't yet taken a trip to the processor's, walked along thinking 'I don't care, this was a big day, this was a BIG day. And we've grown through it."
So there.
So there.
So I give thanks to all our birds today, alive and dead. To Ginger and Mishkin, Whitey and Snowflake and Sassie and Rasputin. To Red and Pearl and Lacitia and Dottie and Shmuel and Mary Ann and Daphne and Felicity. To Jasmine and Goldie and Grace. Thanks for the eggs, for the meat, for feeding us in so many ways. For nourishing us with the sheer sight of you, swimming on our pond, flapping your wings, crowing, calling, keening, clucking. You lift our world, elevate it just a little bit off the ground and we are grateful for that.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Some Thanksgiving thoughts
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.
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.
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.
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