Woke in a cloud this morning, everything hazy white, opaque outside, just the silhouettes of the coops and the garden. A big comforter blanket around our house. Up with chores, the squawks and clucks all about. As Richard fed the chickens, I dodged the geese who were demanding grub which we’re low on. Then to the garden where I did a quick once over all the tomatoe vines for hornworms – the past few days I’ve sent 7 to their squirmy maker – then to the pole beans where webbed leaves semaphored that bean beetles were about. 7 of them are now at the bottom of a jar of sudsy water. I wonder if it being autumn, with leaves just beginning to turn in the woods, signals the predators to come out and feast on the first signs of decay? Everything in the garden is still craning for life, that last big burst, dodging frost warnings. We have about 12 good sized butternut squash swaddled amid those huge African looking leaves. Blossoms are still trumpeting out, bright, bold orange. Life! Life! Life! We have about 8 or so acorn squash. The tomatoe vines are teeming with fruit and we’ve already made 2 big batches of green tomatoe chutney that we canned in pint Ball jars. There are pole beans and broccoli, celery, a couple cantelope and about 6 small watermelon, all yearning for warm days. Not a whole lot of those in Vermont’s short growing season. I’m so proud of the garden, it looks grand.
We called in the owls over the weekend. Our friend Susan came with a cassette recording that she played over and over in the moonlit night as we sat around in lawn chairs, wrapped in fleece and flannel. It was a cold night. We all behaved, followed her instructions, sat still, didn’t say a word. We sat for a good half hour, the only sound the click and whirl of the rewind of the recording on her cassette player. Nothing. I could tell she was getting discouraged and a few of our stalwarts were getting cold. But then the moment we began talking, we heard a big hoot in a nearby tree. Like disobedient school kids chastened, we sat down and bit our tongues. Why, I don’t know, because it was our chatter that had attracted it. Again, Susan played the recording. She had said that once they came they would begin a chatter reminiscent of monkeys to display their territorial disgust that a foreigner was in their midst. Jingoism in the animal kingdom. And sure enough, after another break where we began talking to one another, another owl showed up in a nearby tall pine and began a breathy hoot and howl chatter. I was back by our goose enclosure when this was happening and they were stirred up and whispering to one another, their white coats like crook-necked ghost bobbing about. I agree with Richard when he said: “Isn’t it wonderful at our age to get a group together like this and do something completely new.” Yes, yes, yes!
A correction from a blog a few days ago. We went to Middlebury over the weekend and went to the Folklife Center there where the photographic and audio offering was of a drag club that had been in Dummerston, Vt. until 2004. Dummerston is the site of a famous annual Apple Pie contest, the town’s down near Brattleboro in the southern part of the state. My mom and I went one year and though it took awhile to get there we finally found this quaint little town nestled in the woods, tents set up with vanilla ice cream and pies, pies, pies and most of the town populated with leather clad motorcycle riders! Most of whom were 35 plus years old. Very funny, very incongruous, very Vermont. Of course this place would have a famous once a month drag show with Mama and Kitty and Sophie and Chloe. The photos were wonderful and the interviews telling and insightful. My favorite quote: “Everyone has their own drag. It’s their ‘if only I could …’. Fill in the blank and that’s your drag.”
The sun is out. Daphne, one of our loudest geese, just answered one of the roosters crows. It’s time for me to get out and paint a little primer and the newly clapboarded east side of our house.
Have a great day!
Monday, September 12, 2011
Thursday, September 8, 2011
What's in store the next few days ...
We trek over to our friends in Middlebury tomorrow -- all the way up to Burlington and then back down around the Green Mtns since all the scenic roads over them have been pretty well crippled by Irene. (It's still amazing to see what the storm has done to people in this state.) While there we'll see a new play by a friend of ours which uses letters written by Vermonters, soldiers and their families, during the Civil War to tell the state's personal history of the conflict. One little historical tidbit: Vermont contributed more soldiers per capita than any other state in the union.
The following day in the morning we'll visit the Folk Art museum there that has impressive audio archives of people from the state encompassing many different issues and themes, very reminiscent to me of Story Corps. They have some unique exhibit going on there about a drag Cowboy bar that used to be in existence in Bennington (???) and was quite famous in its day. Ah Vermont Folk lore.
Then home in the evening to host a potluck dinner with friends where Susan Mann, our friend and sister of our neighbor Royce - both of whom grew up in our house - has promised to "call in the owls" from the woods. She is supposed to be incredibly good at it. Can't wait.
Sunday is Richard's 51st birthday and there will be a party at our dear friend, Charlotte's home in Hanover and I think earlier in the day, to pay homage to those who died 10 years ago, I'll visit St. Thomas's Episcopal Church in Hanover where they are slated to perform Mozart's Requiem.
Good news today -- probably old news to others, but new news to me: Phish, the famous Vermont rock band that disbanded before we moved here, has slated a concert to raise Flood Relief Funds! Way to go Boys!! I wish you great and abundant success!!
The following day in the morning we'll visit the Folk Art museum there that has impressive audio archives of people from the state encompassing many different issues and themes, very reminiscent to me of Story Corps. They have some unique exhibit going on there about a drag Cowboy bar that used to be in existence in Bennington (???) and was quite famous in its day. Ah Vermont Folk lore.
Then home in the evening to host a potluck dinner with friends where Susan Mann, our friend and sister of our neighbor Royce - both of whom grew up in our house - has promised to "call in the owls" from the woods. She is supposed to be incredibly good at it. Can't wait.
Sunday is Richard's 51st birthday and there will be a party at our dear friend, Charlotte's home in Hanover and I think earlier in the day, to pay homage to those who died 10 years ago, I'll visit St. Thomas's Episcopal Church in Hanover where they are slated to perform Mozart's Requiem.
Good news today -- probably old news to others, but new news to me: Phish, the famous Vermont rock band that disbanded before we moved here, has slated a concert to raise Flood Relief Funds! Way to go Boys!! I wish you great and abundant success!!
Back home after 2 months
Back home after 2 months in the city. I reacquaint myself with everything, settle back into the pace, the quiet. I like it. There doesn’t seem to be such a struggle this time.
Well, there has been a tussle, a left over from the city. My gmail and Facebook were hacked on September 2nd, contacts stolen, e-mails erased, a fairly transparent money scam saying I was stranded in Madrid sent out to all. After 5 days I have regained possession of my old gmail address, but not Facebook yet. Despite my disdain for anything that smacks of techno computereze and my utter frustration that a LIVE customer service representative is NOWHERE TO BE FOUND on either site to help shepherd one through the morass, I have not run away. I’ve stayed at it. I’ve walked away, come back. Gone a bit overboard, seen the error of my ways, dallied with black and white thinking ie “That’s it!! I’m quitting all these sites! I’m getting rid of my iphone. They’re all a sign of group speak, addictions disguised as conveniences! I’m becoming a part of the pack. It’s madness, Madness, MADNESS!” But for the most part, I’ve been able to keep a balance. To see how unimportant it is while still trying to rectify the situation. Maybe there’s been a change in me. Maybe it’s the effect of being back here, back with Richard, back with the green and the animals and the space. A little bit of everything.
Little things make me smile, petting the cats, for instance. This morning, Delilah, our big girl, looked up at me and launched into her morning ritual of “pet me, pet me, pet me …” a stuck record, her meow a monotone, insistent crabbiness, like Selma Diamond in fur. But once you bend down and begin to stroke her coat, she transforms into a kind of princess, rubenesque still, yes, but so graceful and sweet, her face full of pleasure, paws clutching in, then stretching out, her purr, a marvelous motor idling. The whole thing becomes a meditation, it’s poetry, it grounds me.
Drippy and grey today, the last remnants of Hurricane Lee taking a New England visit. We dodged a bullet a week ago when Irene splattered through. The eye of the storm went right over our house stopping the rain and wind as if a faucet had been shut off up in the sky. Strange and wonderful. We were completely unaware of the flash flooding and damage all around us until the calls of concern came in from friends around the world. Our state, our dear state.
On with the day. Just wanted to make a check in after almost 3 months.
And if anyone has a tip about getting back on Facebook after having been hacked, that would be great.
Well, there has been a tussle, a left over from the city. My gmail and Facebook were hacked on September 2nd, contacts stolen, e-mails erased, a fairly transparent money scam saying I was stranded in Madrid sent out to all. After 5 days I have regained possession of my old gmail address, but not Facebook yet. Despite my disdain for anything that smacks of techno computereze and my utter frustration that a LIVE customer service representative is NOWHERE TO BE FOUND on either site to help shepherd one through the morass, I have not run away. I’ve stayed at it. I’ve walked away, come back. Gone a bit overboard, seen the error of my ways, dallied with black and white thinking ie “That’s it!! I’m quitting all these sites! I’m getting rid of my iphone. They’re all a sign of group speak, addictions disguised as conveniences! I’m becoming a part of the pack. It’s madness, Madness, MADNESS!” But for the most part, I’ve been able to keep a balance. To see how unimportant it is while still trying to rectify the situation. Maybe there’s been a change in me. Maybe it’s the effect of being back here, back with Richard, back with the green and the animals and the space. A little bit of everything.
Little things make me smile, petting the cats, for instance. This morning, Delilah, our big girl, looked up at me and launched into her morning ritual of “pet me, pet me, pet me …” a stuck record, her meow a monotone, insistent crabbiness, like Selma Diamond in fur. But once you bend down and begin to stroke her coat, she transforms into a kind of princess, rubenesque still, yes, but so graceful and sweet, her face full of pleasure, paws clutching in, then stretching out, her purr, a marvelous motor idling. The whole thing becomes a meditation, it’s poetry, it grounds me.
Drippy and grey today, the last remnants of Hurricane Lee taking a New England visit. We dodged a bullet a week ago when Irene splattered through. The eye of the storm went right over our house stopping the rain and wind as if a faucet had been shut off up in the sky. Strange and wonderful. We were completely unaware of the flash flooding and damage all around us until the calls of concern came in from friends around the world. Our state, our dear state.
On with the day. Just wanted to make a check in after almost 3 months.
And if anyone has a tip about getting back on Facebook after having been hacked, that would be great.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Showdown at Goose Island!!
Did the White Gander and his dames take back the pond from the Dastardly Pair from up north with their 5 new offspring OR is the swimming hole still off limits to Pilgrims and full steam ahead for Canooks?
FLASH! Newborns on Goose Island. The claim that the Canadians have hatched quintuplets has been corroborated by a sighting of the 2 adults and 5 shrimpy little fur balls on the banks of the pond at approximately 11:57 am Eastern Daylight Savings Time. “These Canadians like to get their young out on the water pronto,” I’m quoting myself here. “If they could figure out a way to float those eggs and hatch their young right into the drink, they’d be happy.”
Enough of the Sam Spade/Walter Winchell imitation.
Richard and I have been wondering whether the animosity between our geese and the Canadians would be eased once the eggs hatched. Today was the testing ground.
But first, a precursor.
Yesterday morning, Richard decided to bring our baby gosling out into the front yard to play in the grass and being the imp that I can be I decided to “stir up a little trouble” and see what would happen if I brought the babies around back where our brood was resting in the shade of the back porch. Faster than Richard could say “Are you happy now?” I got my answer because at the first sighting of the babes, Shmuel and the girls rose as one and began coming toward me at a good waddling clip, eyes glazed, babbling some goose incantation. Richard, smiling and a little glaze-eyed himself, wanted me to put the babies down on the grass. “Not on your life,” I spat out, clutching them to my breast and running away from the hellhounds like Eliza on the ice. “It must be instinct,” Richard yelled out in between laughs, running after me to the front yard. We put the babes back in their box and stole them inside, while Shmuel and the girls kept circling the house in search of them, calling out. Who knows whether they were saying “Come here, babies!” or “Kill them! KILL THEM!!” Either scenario would’ve been plausible. It took them about 15 minutes to calm down.
Okay, background information over, smash cut to today. Seeing the Canadians out on the pond with their babies piqued our brood’s interest. Shmuel was transfixed, standing, staring over across the road, as if on point. So again I thought I’d stir things up and headed over to the pond with my cup of afternoon coffee, hoping our group would follow. And they did, curious, wanting to inspect. On their way over they were harassed by a male red winged blackbird who hangs around on the power line, literally watching over a nest of his and his mate’s in the tall ferns near the edge of the pond. “Will our geese never get a break?” I thought as this little flying pipsqueak (And I like Redwing Blackbirds! Ask anyone at the Audobon Society!) darted and jabbed and tried his best to hiss, which sounded like a flea exhaling loudly. He gave it a good shot.
So we’re at the shore, all 5 of us, me and my geese, but they’re a gun shy, having been chased off the pond repeatedly and violently by the Canada Geese and they’ve spotted them across the way on the far side of the pond on the shoreline with their young. I walk to the end of the pier to nudge our gang into the water. It does the trick, with Shmuel leading they all walk into the water. No swimming, though, they just stick to shore, digging around underwater with their bills. Nothing wrong with that, but I know they’re cowed, they can’t hide it. So I decide to take the kayak out. A few days prior Richard and I had done the same thing to encourage them and they’d stuck close, braving the waves, as if the kayak were a big brother to help with the bullies. (Of course, when we pulled the kayak out and left, the Canadians attacked them again. But I digress.)
I paddle toward the other side of the pond and turn back to see that Shmuel and the girls are following behind in sure steady strokes of their feet. The Canadians head their young to tall grass; I can’t see the babies anymore, just the curve of the adult heads, like periscopes. So I stop, giving them their space. But Shmuel keeps going! As do the girls. They walk up on land. They start challenging the Canooks. “Come on, Shmuel! Let’s go!” I say, but though a part of me is chickening out for our geese’s sake, I love the build up of drama, I wonder what’s going to happen next. The Canada male has been shivering his back feathers in warming and Shmuel and the girls all answer back with shivers of their own and continue to move steadily in on them. The Canada pair’s heads look like serpents now. They begin bobbing up and down, hissing like cobras. And then the male attacks! He goes after Daphne who flies into the middle of the pond, then veers back towards me, begging for help. It does the trick. Daphne flies to shore behind me and the male Canook veers off to the left and rejoins his family. Shmuel and the other girls are still crying out and join Daphne on shore.
Now wait – I’ve left out a bit chronologically. Before the showdown – the FIRST showdown, that is – I paddled over to goose island to have a look see, see if I could spot any shell pieces etc., relics of the birth. I rounded the island and could see down feathers in profusion, whitening the straw, as if someone had just had a pillow fight. There was a piece of an egg, I thought, and as I came around the back of the island, I saw movement in the nest. There was another gosling in there! Covered with flies, a little loopy, heavy headed, but there was another gosling! Was he injured? Was he too weak to take the pond? And there was another egg beside it. That makes 7 potential offspring. But why had they left this one back on the island?
Back to the present. I paddle away, urging Shmuel to do the same. Well, swim away. I can see the Canada geese are leading their young across a far log into the brush in the swamp area, choosing, I suppose, to hide their young from the threat of both our Pilgrims and this big orange floating creature with paddles. Shmuel starts to swim away, but wait, he’s not headed for the pier and home, no. They’re headed for Goose Island and the nest and the baby. “C’mon Shmuel! C’mon!” No good. Drama, drama. What’s going to happen? No sign of the Canadians. Shmuel is at the island. Shmuel is walking onto the island! Now the girls!! What’re they gonna do to the baby? Kill it? What about the egg? Will they try to eat it? I can hear shivers of tail feathers and quiet hissing and goose conversation. “C’mon guys!” Are they just going to stay there and wait for the Canadians to return? Oh, this is good! And I’m wondering if the father protector is kicking in in Shmuel? There’s an abandoned young one, has he taken it on as his issue? Is this instinct now? I wait alongside the island for maybe 10 minutes. I paddle over to where I last saw the Canadians. There’s a little stirring of brush, but no sound. They’re laying low. And wait … wait … Shmuel’s in the water, ladies and gentlemen!! He’s leaving the island!! The girls are following. They seem calm, resolute, like they’ve done a good deed. They’ve fought the good fight. I pull up alongside the pier, hop out, quickly drag the kayak out to make room for them and one by one they climb up out of the pond like returning champions. One by one they flap their wings to the silent acclaim. Heroes. Is the pond theirs again? Who knows? I run over to write this as they primp and prune their feathers in preparation for the laying on of the laurel wreath ceremony.
BUT WAIT AGAIN!! As I began the above paragraph, the Canadians came out of the brush with their young, swam to their island, and disappeared. Our guys stood up and took to the water themselves and swam directly to the island. What was going to happen now?! Were they going to go ashore?! A fight for custody? A fight to the finish? They murmured something in goose to the Canadians. Then Shmuel gave a defiant cry “What’s going on in there?!” I saw movement. The Canadian male took to the water. And he came after everyone – Daphne first, of course – then Felicity. Shmuel and he faced off. Lots of squawky cacophony. Daphne submerged and surfaced crying out, paddling madly for shore. Shmuel cried out “Regroup! Regroup!” And it was over. The Canada guy splashed off as if he were washing off after a successful fight, a gladiator duel. And the Pilgrims came out, still proud, wings fluttering. To add insult to injury, though, the little blackbird came down to add his 2 cents of harassment. They batted at him with their wings, open billed, as if he were some infuriating insect.
Now our 4 are gathered in the shade at the side of the pond. The Canadians stay behind the protection of the dogwood bush in bloom on their island. It’s nearing 7. Every once in a while Shmuel lets loose with a trumpet call. “We’re still here!” it announces to the surrounding forest and pond. It never lets up here near Goose Island. Thrills and spills a plenty. I for one am proud of our geese. They conducted themselves handsomely. What will happen tomorrow? Stay tuned.
BUT WAIT AGAIN, AGAIN. PS!! When I pulled the binocs out to watch the young take to the island, I could’ve sworn I saw SIX offspring. SIX in the water, ONE and an EGG in the nest. THAT’S EIGHT GEESE, TEN COUNTING THE ADULTS, FOURTEEN COUNTING OURS, AND SIXTEEN INCLUDING THE GOSLING IN THE ATTACK!! YOWZA!
FLASH! Newborns on Goose Island. The claim that the Canadians have hatched quintuplets has been corroborated by a sighting of the 2 adults and 5 shrimpy little fur balls on the banks of the pond at approximately 11:57 am Eastern Daylight Savings Time. “These Canadians like to get their young out on the water pronto,” I’m quoting myself here. “If they could figure out a way to float those eggs and hatch their young right into the drink, they’d be happy.”
Enough of the Sam Spade/Walter Winchell imitation.
Richard and I have been wondering whether the animosity between our geese and the Canadians would be eased once the eggs hatched. Today was the testing ground.
But first, a precursor.
Yesterday morning, Richard decided to bring our baby gosling out into the front yard to play in the grass and being the imp that I can be I decided to “stir up a little trouble” and see what would happen if I brought the babies around back where our brood was resting in the shade of the back porch. Faster than Richard could say “Are you happy now?” I got my answer because at the first sighting of the babes, Shmuel and the girls rose as one and began coming toward me at a good waddling clip, eyes glazed, babbling some goose incantation. Richard, smiling and a little glaze-eyed himself, wanted me to put the babies down on the grass. “Not on your life,” I spat out, clutching them to my breast and running away from the hellhounds like Eliza on the ice. “It must be instinct,” Richard yelled out in between laughs, running after me to the front yard. We put the babes back in their box and stole them inside, while Shmuel and the girls kept circling the house in search of them, calling out. Who knows whether they were saying “Come here, babies!” or “Kill them! KILL THEM!!” Either scenario would’ve been plausible. It took them about 15 minutes to calm down.
Okay, background information over, smash cut to today. Seeing the Canadians out on the pond with their babies piqued our brood’s interest. Shmuel was transfixed, standing, staring over across the road, as if on point. So again I thought I’d stir things up and headed over to the pond with my cup of afternoon coffee, hoping our group would follow. And they did, curious, wanting to inspect. On their way over they were harassed by a male red winged blackbird who hangs around on the power line, literally watching over a nest of his and his mate’s in the tall ferns near the edge of the pond. “Will our geese never get a break?” I thought as this little flying pipsqueak (And I like Redwing Blackbirds! Ask anyone at the Audobon Society!) darted and jabbed and tried his best to hiss, which sounded like a flea exhaling loudly. He gave it a good shot.
So we’re at the shore, all 5 of us, me and my geese, but they’re a gun shy, having been chased off the pond repeatedly and violently by the Canada Geese and they’ve spotted them across the way on the far side of the pond on the shoreline with their young. I walk to the end of the pier to nudge our gang into the water. It does the trick, with Shmuel leading they all walk into the water. No swimming, though, they just stick to shore, digging around underwater with their bills. Nothing wrong with that, but I know they’re cowed, they can’t hide it. So I decide to take the kayak out. A few days prior Richard and I had done the same thing to encourage them and they’d stuck close, braving the waves, as if the kayak were a big brother to help with the bullies. (Of course, when we pulled the kayak out and left, the Canadians attacked them again. But I digress.)
I paddle toward the other side of the pond and turn back to see that Shmuel and the girls are following behind in sure steady strokes of their feet. The Canadians head their young to tall grass; I can’t see the babies anymore, just the curve of the adult heads, like periscopes. So I stop, giving them their space. But Shmuel keeps going! As do the girls. They walk up on land. They start challenging the Canooks. “Come on, Shmuel! Let’s go!” I say, but though a part of me is chickening out for our geese’s sake, I love the build up of drama, I wonder what’s going to happen next. The Canada male has been shivering his back feathers in warming and Shmuel and the girls all answer back with shivers of their own and continue to move steadily in on them. The Canada pair’s heads look like serpents now. They begin bobbing up and down, hissing like cobras. And then the male attacks! He goes after Daphne who flies into the middle of the pond, then veers back towards me, begging for help. It does the trick. Daphne flies to shore behind me and the male Canook veers off to the left and rejoins his family. Shmuel and the other girls are still crying out and join Daphne on shore.
Now wait – I’ve left out a bit chronologically. Before the showdown – the FIRST showdown, that is – I paddled over to goose island to have a look see, see if I could spot any shell pieces etc., relics of the birth. I rounded the island and could see down feathers in profusion, whitening the straw, as if someone had just had a pillow fight. There was a piece of an egg, I thought, and as I came around the back of the island, I saw movement in the nest. There was another gosling in there! Covered with flies, a little loopy, heavy headed, but there was another gosling! Was he injured? Was he too weak to take the pond? And there was another egg beside it. That makes 7 potential offspring. But why had they left this one back on the island?
Back to the present. I paddle away, urging Shmuel to do the same. Well, swim away. I can see the Canada geese are leading their young across a far log into the brush in the swamp area, choosing, I suppose, to hide their young from the threat of both our Pilgrims and this big orange floating creature with paddles. Shmuel starts to swim away, but wait, he’s not headed for the pier and home, no. They’re headed for Goose Island and the nest and the baby. “C’mon Shmuel! C’mon!” No good. Drama, drama. What’s going to happen? No sign of the Canadians. Shmuel is at the island. Shmuel is walking onto the island! Now the girls!! What’re they gonna do to the baby? Kill it? What about the egg? Will they try to eat it? I can hear shivers of tail feathers and quiet hissing and goose conversation. “C’mon guys!” Are they just going to stay there and wait for the Canadians to return? Oh, this is good! And I’m wondering if the father protector is kicking in in Shmuel? There’s an abandoned young one, has he taken it on as his issue? Is this instinct now? I wait alongside the island for maybe 10 minutes. I paddle over to where I last saw the Canadians. There’s a little stirring of brush, but no sound. They’re laying low. And wait … wait … Shmuel’s in the water, ladies and gentlemen!! He’s leaving the island!! The girls are following. They seem calm, resolute, like they’ve done a good deed. They’ve fought the good fight. I pull up alongside the pier, hop out, quickly drag the kayak out to make room for them and one by one they climb up out of the pond like returning champions. One by one they flap their wings to the silent acclaim. Heroes. Is the pond theirs again? Who knows? I run over to write this as they primp and prune their feathers in preparation for the laying on of the laurel wreath ceremony.
BUT WAIT AGAIN!! As I began the above paragraph, the Canadians came out of the brush with their young, swam to their island, and disappeared. Our guys stood up and took to the water themselves and swam directly to the island. What was going to happen now?! Were they going to go ashore?! A fight for custody? A fight to the finish? They murmured something in goose to the Canadians. Then Shmuel gave a defiant cry “What’s going on in there?!” I saw movement. The Canadian male took to the water. And he came after everyone – Daphne first, of course – then Felicity. Shmuel and he faced off. Lots of squawky cacophony. Daphne submerged and surfaced crying out, paddling madly for shore. Shmuel cried out “Regroup! Regroup!” And it was over. The Canada guy splashed off as if he were washing off after a successful fight, a gladiator duel. And the Pilgrims came out, still proud, wings fluttering. To add insult to injury, though, the little blackbird came down to add his 2 cents of harassment. They batted at him with their wings, open billed, as if he were some infuriating insect.
Now our 4 are gathered in the shade at the side of the pond. The Canadians stay behind the protection of the dogwood bush in bloom on their island. It’s nearing 7. Every once in a while Shmuel lets loose with a trumpet call. “We’re still here!” it announces to the surrounding forest and pond. It never lets up here near Goose Island. Thrills and spills a plenty. I for one am proud of our geese. They conducted themselves handsomely. What will happen tomorrow? Stay tuned.
BUT WAIT AGAIN, AGAIN. PS!! When I pulled the binocs out to watch the young take to the island, I could’ve sworn I saw SIX offspring. SIX in the water, ONE and an EGG in the nest. THAT’S EIGHT GEESE, TEN COUNTING THE ADULTS, FOURTEEN COUNTING OURS, AND SIXTEEN INCLUDING THE GOSLING IN THE ATTACK!! YOWZA!
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Mutiny!
It was touch and go there, let me tell you.
I went down to Ron and Tabitha’s pond last evening around 6 to gather the geese and bring them home, a not uncommon chore. Ever since the Canada geese took possession of our pond across the road and given chase whenever our group gets near, Shmuel and the girls have daily taken an afternoon trek down the road a quarter mile, waddled through Ron’s pasture, and then down the meadowed hill to a clearing and the pond. Last night I’d finished all my chores and needed to get a move on to be able to catch a 7:00 film down in White River Junction, 37 miles away. If I was lucky, I’d look out my window and the geese would already have arrived, as they had the day before at this time. I looked, no such luck today. I will not rush, I told myself. It was a marvelous day, bold blue sky, clear, in the 70’s, dropping a bit. I crunched down our gravel road in shorts, braving the flies without Skin So Soft slathered on. And they left me alone, whataya know. It was the perfect time of day.
So down the road, past Ron’s house – I could make out his silhouette in his kitchen, sitting, listening to jazz, his doors open in front and back to cool the house. His lawn was freshly mowed and he’d cut a path all the way down the hill. For the geese, I thought. And at the bottom of the hill, at the far end of the pond, in shade, there they sat, the great white goose and his harem. They must’ve seen me coming, but they didn’t move, I came on slow. I began to favor the pond’s edge, getting in between them and the water, just in case they Dunkirked out away from me. And may I just say, I was gathering them not just because of a movie date, but a fox had been sighted in the area last night by our neighbors, Royce and Andy. They stopped by to tell us. And I didn’t trust that our geese would be safe coming home and putting themselves up on their own leaving their gate open and inviting.
I was nearly on them now and they began to stir, a slight complaint, sounding like kids being asked to come in from summer play after the sun’s gone down. They stood with a ruffle and Shmuel gave his familiar “I’m the man, so back off” shiver. That ritual over, we began the trek back home, slow and steady, me following and shepherding them forward, no fuss, no muss.
And then they stopped.
They just stopped.
They wouldn’t move.
I urged them on, waving my arms forward, this usually did the trick. No go. They stood their ground. And with every “Please” or “C’mon guys” they jabbered back, like their own mini-version of a town villager rabble or an old fashioned strike at the plant. Shmuel seemed to want to move, but the girls stood their ground, they were not going anywhere. Mary Ann seemed to be the main instigator, her tough, bass monotone gave a murmuring foundation to the mutiny. “Don’t give in, girls. He’s got nuthin’. Look, he’s sweatin’. He’s got no power. We’ve got him.”
So I surrendered. I gave in. I threw in the towel. And, satisfied, they all did a fluff and fold on their feathers. Now I do love watching that, this nibbling spruce up they do all over their bodies with clackering bills, necks craning like contortionists at a Cirque de Soleil summer retreat. A thorough going over, the works. And it was beautiful by the stream’s edge, the perfect time of day, green, calm, quiet. “Turn it into a meditation” I told myself. Okay, okay. And I thought – “So what next? What do I do now?” Very meditative, very turning it over.
And then they started moving. For no reason at all. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.” But at the bottom of the hill, they stopped again. This was different then the revolt. They seemed wary to be near the woods and the mown path I was guiding them towards edged right alongside it. I looked into the overgrowth wondering if there might be something in there. The fox? So I gave in again. I let go my insistence on the path and they immediately veered, no, scampered into the taller grass in the open field. And they took the at a good steady, athletic clip. I expected a chorus of “Val-de-ree, Val-de-rah!!” They are like hearty Canadians or Europeans. Not in great shape in a cosmetic American fashion; they’re of a heartier, peasant stock. There’s still an elegance in them, especially in Mary Ann, a touch of regal standing in Shmuel, but Daphne and Felicity, definitely, earthy, working class, their big behinds swaying back and forth as if to say “Yeah, I got a big ass, it’s a great ass. I’m beautiful as is.”
We were at the road. A quarter mile to go and then up to their house. Still I fought back the rush to move things along. I wanted to go their pace. So I focused on the strum of their padding, like an army of dwarves at boot camp, like bean bag pebbles being rolled along. Their feet are miraculous, pliable, tough, this orange stretch of membrane over a backward triangle, like lizard skin kites. And the horny nails, 3 in front and 1 hooked down on the back of the leg, are reminders of dinosaur ancestry swimming around in their DNA. That might be where the whole mutiny idea stemmed. “We’ll be led today, but who knows what’ll happen tomorrow. This is just the beginning, buster.”
I have such deep affection for our geese. Why is that? It gave me such sweet satisfaction guiding them home, letting them take up the whole road, stopping off for a moment to have a munch on a tall dandelion stalk that caught their eye, watching Shmuel lean over and rub necks with Mary Ann “How you doin’, baby? This pace okay with you, baby?” and her no nonsense, stoic replies. They are so dear to me. Funny. Such grace in such clumsy packages. Walking, waddling meditations.
I coaxed them gently into our drive at the mailbox, thanking them again for letting me lead them home and we continued up through the old orchard to their house and pen. No showdown with Shmuel at the gate, that’s gone by the wayside ever since the end of egg laying time. He did turn for a face-off, to make sure I latched them in correctly, and then as I meandered down the hill, I could hear them murmur to one another, Shmuel’s breathy comments a little higher than the others. (When he converses like that it always reminds me of Jiminy Cricket.) There were no complaints from any of them, they seemed glad to be home. Content. I could hear them drinking, that long dip down into the bucket, followed by a tilting back to let the liquid down their long necks, as if they’re teaching us how to fully appreciate a drink of water. And then they were sprucing up again, a once over on the feathers after travel, getting the dust out, preparing for a nice lay down in the grass. Have to keep up appearances wherever you are.
I don’t know if I shared with you that we have 2 baby goslings. They had been nabbed from the goose’s nest and were hatched in Richard’s incubator last weekend. They are adorable and are residing upstairs in a heat lamp warmed box in our attic. 1 gander, 1 goose. Richard and I are firmly imprinted on them, but we’re determined not to get too attached to them because they are already promised to the man who delivers our top soil. He wants them as guard geese, he’s already got a pen built, and he’s looking forward to sharing them with his grandkids. He definitely does NOT want them for meat birds which makes Richard feel better about parting with them. But it’s hard, it’s hard. There’s a little rebellion inside both of us and if we don’t watch it, we can feel the first signs of caving. It starts with little whisperings like “Oh, they’re so cute!” and then “Oh, what would 2 more geese hurt?” and soon it will be open rebellion against common sense. An uprising of the heart. Mustn’t cave. Mustn’t mutiny against the plan.
So now, to wean ourselves, instead of long cuddles on the couch with the goslings craning in for warmth under our chins, us braving little squirts on our sweatshirts, we try, TRY mind you, to come into the attic, greet them at their box, take in their adorable squeezebox tweets and their push for affection, and then, instead of a prolonged cuddle, we simply touch. And go.
I went down to Ron and Tabitha’s pond last evening around 6 to gather the geese and bring them home, a not uncommon chore. Ever since the Canada geese took possession of our pond across the road and given chase whenever our group gets near, Shmuel and the girls have daily taken an afternoon trek down the road a quarter mile, waddled through Ron’s pasture, and then down the meadowed hill to a clearing and the pond. Last night I’d finished all my chores and needed to get a move on to be able to catch a 7:00 film down in White River Junction, 37 miles away. If I was lucky, I’d look out my window and the geese would already have arrived, as they had the day before at this time. I looked, no such luck today. I will not rush, I told myself. It was a marvelous day, bold blue sky, clear, in the 70’s, dropping a bit. I crunched down our gravel road in shorts, braving the flies without Skin So Soft slathered on. And they left me alone, whataya know. It was the perfect time of day.
So down the road, past Ron’s house – I could make out his silhouette in his kitchen, sitting, listening to jazz, his doors open in front and back to cool the house. His lawn was freshly mowed and he’d cut a path all the way down the hill. For the geese, I thought. And at the bottom of the hill, at the far end of the pond, in shade, there they sat, the great white goose and his harem. They must’ve seen me coming, but they didn’t move, I came on slow. I began to favor the pond’s edge, getting in between them and the water, just in case they Dunkirked out away from me. And may I just say, I was gathering them not just because of a movie date, but a fox had been sighted in the area last night by our neighbors, Royce and Andy. They stopped by to tell us. And I didn’t trust that our geese would be safe coming home and putting themselves up on their own leaving their gate open and inviting.
I was nearly on them now and they began to stir, a slight complaint, sounding like kids being asked to come in from summer play after the sun’s gone down. They stood with a ruffle and Shmuel gave his familiar “I’m the man, so back off” shiver. That ritual over, we began the trek back home, slow and steady, me following and shepherding them forward, no fuss, no muss.
And then they stopped.
They just stopped.
They wouldn’t move.
I urged them on, waving my arms forward, this usually did the trick. No go. They stood their ground. And with every “Please” or “C’mon guys” they jabbered back, like their own mini-version of a town villager rabble or an old fashioned strike at the plant. Shmuel seemed to want to move, but the girls stood their ground, they were not going anywhere. Mary Ann seemed to be the main instigator, her tough, bass monotone gave a murmuring foundation to the mutiny. “Don’t give in, girls. He’s got nuthin’. Look, he’s sweatin’. He’s got no power. We’ve got him.”
So I surrendered. I gave in. I threw in the towel. And, satisfied, they all did a fluff and fold on their feathers. Now I do love watching that, this nibbling spruce up they do all over their bodies with clackering bills, necks craning like contortionists at a Cirque de Soleil summer retreat. A thorough going over, the works. And it was beautiful by the stream’s edge, the perfect time of day, green, calm, quiet. “Turn it into a meditation” I told myself. Okay, okay. And I thought – “So what next? What do I do now?” Very meditative, very turning it over.
And then they started moving. For no reason at all. “Thanks, guys. I appreciate it.” But at the bottom of the hill, they stopped again. This was different then the revolt. They seemed wary to be near the woods and the mown path I was guiding them towards edged right alongside it. I looked into the overgrowth wondering if there might be something in there. The fox? So I gave in again. I let go my insistence on the path and they immediately veered, no, scampered into the taller grass in the open field. And they took the at a good steady, athletic clip. I expected a chorus of “Val-de-ree, Val-de-rah!!” They are like hearty Canadians or Europeans. Not in great shape in a cosmetic American fashion; they’re of a heartier, peasant stock. There’s still an elegance in them, especially in Mary Ann, a touch of regal standing in Shmuel, but Daphne and Felicity, definitely, earthy, working class, their big behinds swaying back and forth as if to say “Yeah, I got a big ass, it’s a great ass. I’m beautiful as is.”
We were at the road. A quarter mile to go and then up to their house. Still I fought back the rush to move things along. I wanted to go their pace. So I focused on the strum of their padding, like an army of dwarves at boot camp, like bean bag pebbles being rolled along. Their feet are miraculous, pliable, tough, this orange stretch of membrane over a backward triangle, like lizard skin kites. And the horny nails, 3 in front and 1 hooked down on the back of the leg, are reminders of dinosaur ancestry swimming around in their DNA. That might be where the whole mutiny idea stemmed. “We’ll be led today, but who knows what’ll happen tomorrow. This is just the beginning, buster.”
I have such deep affection for our geese. Why is that? It gave me such sweet satisfaction guiding them home, letting them take up the whole road, stopping off for a moment to have a munch on a tall dandelion stalk that caught their eye, watching Shmuel lean over and rub necks with Mary Ann “How you doin’, baby? This pace okay with you, baby?” and her no nonsense, stoic replies. They are so dear to me. Funny. Such grace in such clumsy packages. Walking, waddling meditations.
I coaxed them gently into our drive at the mailbox, thanking them again for letting me lead them home and we continued up through the old orchard to their house and pen. No showdown with Shmuel at the gate, that’s gone by the wayside ever since the end of egg laying time. He did turn for a face-off, to make sure I latched them in correctly, and then as I meandered down the hill, I could hear them murmur to one another, Shmuel’s breathy comments a little higher than the others. (When he converses like that it always reminds me of Jiminy Cricket.) There were no complaints from any of them, they seemed glad to be home. Content. I could hear them drinking, that long dip down into the bucket, followed by a tilting back to let the liquid down their long necks, as if they’re teaching us how to fully appreciate a drink of water. And then they were sprucing up again, a once over on the feathers after travel, getting the dust out, preparing for a nice lay down in the grass. Have to keep up appearances wherever you are.
I don’t know if I shared with you that we have 2 baby goslings. They had been nabbed from the goose’s nest and were hatched in Richard’s incubator last weekend. They are adorable and are residing upstairs in a heat lamp warmed box in our attic. 1 gander, 1 goose. Richard and I are firmly imprinted on them, but we’re determined not to get too attached to them because they are already promised to the man who delivers our top soil. He wants them as guard geese, he’s already got a pen built, and he’s looking forward to sharing them with his grandkids. He definitely does NOT want them for meat birds which makes Richard feel better about parting with them. But it’s hard, it’s hard. There’s a little rebellion inside both of us and if we don’t watch it, we can feel the first signs of caving. It starts with little whisperings like “Oh, they’re so cute!” and then “Oh, what would 2 more geese hurt?” and soon it will be open rebellion against common sense. An uprising of the heart. Mustn’t cave. Mustn’t mutiny against the plan.
So now, to wean ourselves, instead of long cuddles on the couch with the goslings craning in for warmth under our chins, us braving little squirts on our sweatshirts, we try, TRY mind you, to come into the attic, greet them at their box, take in their adorable squeezebox tweets and their push for affection, and then, instead of a prolonged cuddle, we simply touch. And go.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
The Sounds of .... something other than silence.
It sounds as if our pond - or some water creature just below the surface of the pond – is having major dental work done. “And … spit.” There’s a continuous sucking emanating from across the road. I know from whence it comes, it comes from the standing pipe Richard and I opened up yesterday afternoon in order to lower the level of the pond 10 inches because the constant flow of water down the overflow has made a Mekong Delta amid our grove of very beautiful and tall pines next to the pond and jeopardizes their future health. So this sucking shall past BUT it wreaks havoc with a sense of pastoral bliss.
But hark … the sucking just stopped.
It does that every once and awhile which gives me hope that it won’t be a constant once the level of the pond is down to its top.
And now Royce decided to chain saw.
That’s okay. Might as well make a list of sounds greeting us this morning.
Unfortunately there’s a wheezing sound from one of our Copper Blue Marrans which breaks both our hearts. And she’s one of our best layers, a sweet, beautiful bird. There’ve been a lot of deaths lately in our ranks and since Richard is usually the dispatcher, my heart goes out to him. He loves his birds so much. As do I. Most of the time. Richard was beating himself up yesterday feeling he was the cause of this malady. There’d been an infestation of mites in the coop accompanying the damp, damp weather we’ve been having lately, and Richard felt so proud that he’d gone out and gotten organic mite powder to sprinkle throughout the coop after he’d scooped out the old straw and pine shavings and replaced it with dryer stock and then he’d powdered each bird individually. He learned afterwards that holding a hen upside down when administering the powdering – as he had done successfully with other powders he’d put on them – could lead to respiratory ailments should they inhale it. Ugh, ugh, ugh. So we’ve been giving her some antibiotics – a last resort for us – both as a hypo and orally. She did insist on laying an egg today, what a trooper, but is she getting better? Our fingers are crossed.
More hopeful, happy sounds? The squeezebox tweet of the 2 goslings which cracked into this world over the weekend. One boy, one girl. They’re adorable and have firmly and joyfully imprinted on both of us. They have 4 newly hatched chicks in the box with them and they’re all having a ball together. It’s going to be hard getting rid of them. So fun to pick them up and feel that lighter than air, fluff ball nothing of them in your arms as they nibble your chin and give their squeezebox tweets of delight.
Writer’s Almanac. Garrison Keillor’s basso monotone telling me that it’s Walt Whitman’s birthday today. Way to go, Walt; many happy returns. I’ll have to pull out his Brooklyn Ferry poems today. What a sucker I am for his time travelly pieces. You rock, Walt. Song of Yourself, baby.
Birdsong. What a variety. The calm, comforting clucks from our hens and roosters. Red Barber’s proud crow. Bomanitious’s neck stretched gobble (he’s our Tom), sounding like some sort of goofy wind instrument constantly tuning up, never quite getting it right, wanting to give it another try. Shmuel’s demanding trumpet blast of a bray “Let us out NOW!” as I near the fence and the rest of the girls – Mary Ann, Daphne, and Felicity – crescendo into a panicked chaos of jabber. The lazy buzz and brass, then sweet call of the red wing blackbird, reminding of hotter days to come. Thrushes deep in the cool, cool woods with their sad echoey siren song as if saying “Come find me, you won’t get lost, come find me deep, deep in the woods. I’m waiting for you.”
Oh, the chain saw just went off. And no sucking sound from the pond. Bird calls code the air. And the soft liquid massage of a stream nearby, our pond emptying down the path that will soon be its only stream, landscaped, green, of the woods. Our doing.
There’s a far off murmur of a truck grumbling somewhere.
The wind doing its invisible act through the rustle of leaves on the magnolia.
Here come our geese walking single file past the screened porch, Shmuel, 3rd in line, giving high wheezy murmurs that sound as if he’s talking to himself. Or whispering sweet nothings to Mary Ann. They always look like the Snow family from “Carousel” when they walk in formation like that.
A jet high, high above, sounding extra terrestrial, incongruous, not of this world. A ghost’s inhalation.
The cats are all sleeping somewhere, conked out, but earlier I had Oliver’s almost understandable “Turn the faucet on, I need a drink” complete with body language; Sofia’s shameless, seductive Salome “Oh, baby, I’ll do anything for you if you just feed me. Feed me, baby. NOW!” ; Astrid’s brief little keens “My heart is always breaking, but I keep it together for you, for you, for you.” And Miss Crab, Delilah. She’s really not crabby, she just sounds like that, this harsh, raspy Selma Diamond complaining sound when she begs for food or attention. If she were human, I see her in curlers and a robe, a drink in one hand, a cigarette dangling from her lips, the town gossip. Richard calls the Mrs. Kravitz of cats.
And now there is a silent sound urging me to take a walk, one of those walks where I may write along the way or read or just take in all the sights and sounds along the way.
But hark … the sucking just stopped.
It does that every once and awhile which gives me hope that it won’t be a constant once the level of the pond is down to its top.
And now Royce decided to chain saw.
That’s okay. Might as well make a list of sounds greeting us this morning.
Unfortunately there’s a wheezing sound from one of our Copper Blue Marrans which breaks both our hearts. And she’s one of our best layers, a sweet, beautiful bird. There’ve been a lot of deaths lately in our ranks and since Richard is usually the dispatcher, my heart goes out to him. He loves his birds so much. As do I. Most of the time. Richard was beating himself up yesterday feeling he was the cause of this malady. There’d been an infestation of mites in the coop accompanying the damp, damp weather we’ve been having lately, and Richard felt so proud that he’d gone out and gotten organic mite powder to sprinkle throughout the coop after he’d scooped out the old straw and pine shavings and replaced it with dryer stock and then he’d powdered each bird individually. He learned afterwards that holding a hen upside down when administering the powdering – as he had done successfully with other powders he’d put on them – could lead to respiratory ailments should they inhale it. Ugh, ugh, ugh. So we’ve been giving her some antibiotics – a last resort for us – both as a hypo and orally. She did insist on laying an egg today, what a trooper, but is she getting better? Our fingers are crossed.
More hopeful, happy sounds? The squeezebox tweet of the 2 goslings which cracked into this world over the weekend. One boy, one girl. They’re adorable and have firmly and joyfully imprinted on both of us. They have 4 newly hatched chicks in the box with them and they’re all having a ball together. It’s going to be hard getting rid of them. So fun to pick them up and feel that lighter than air, fluff ball nothing of them in your arms as they nibble your chin and give their squeezebox tweets of delight.
Writer’s Almanac. Garrison Keillor’s basso monotone telling me that it’s Walt Whitman’s birthday today. Way to go, Walt; many happy returns. I’ll have to pull out his Brooklyn Ferry poems today. What a sucker I am for his time travelly pieces. You rock, Walt. Song of Yourself, baby.
Birdsong. What a variety. The calm, comforting clucks from our hens and roosters. Red Barber’s proud crow. Bomanitious’s neck stretched gobble (he’s our Tom), sounding like some sort of goofy wind instrument constantly tuning up, never quite getting it right, wanting to give it another try. Shmuel’s demanding trumpet blast of a bray “Let us out NOW!” as I near the fence and the rest of the girls – Mary Ann, Daphne, and Felicity – crescendo into a panicked chaos of jabber. The lazy buzz and brass, then sweet call of the red wing blackbird, reminding of hotter days to come. Thrushes deep in the cool, cool woods with their sad echoey siren song as if saying “Come find me, you won’t get lost, come find me deep, deep in the woods. I’m waiting for you.”
Oh, the chain saw just went off. And no sucking sound from the pond. Bird calls code the air. And the soft liquid massage of a stream nearby, our pond emptying down the path that will soon be its only stream, landscaped, green, of the woods. Our doing.
There’s a far off murmur of a truck grumbling somewhere.
The wind doing its invisible act through the rustle of leaves on the magnolia.
Here come our geese walking single file past the screened porch, Shmuel, 3rd in line, giving high wheezy murmurs that sound as if he’s talking to himself. Or whispering sweet nothings to Mary Ann. They always look like the Snow family from “Carousel” when they walk in formation like that.
A jet high, high above, sounding extra terrestrial, incongruous, not of this world. A ghost’s inhalation.
The cats are all sleeping somewhere, conked out, but earlier I had Oliver’s almost understandable “Turn the faucet on, I need a drink” complete with body language; Sofia’s shameless, seductive Salome “Oh, baby, I’ll do anything for you if you just feed me. Feed me, baby. NOW!” ; Astrid’s brief little keens “My heart is always breaking, but I keep it together for you, for you, for you.” And Miss Crab, Delilah. She’s really not crabby, she just sounds like that, this harsh, raspy Selma Diamond complaining sound when she begs for food or attention. If she were human, I see her in curlers and a robe, a drink in one hand, a cigarette dangling from her lips, the town gossip. Richard calls the Mrs. Kravitz of cats.
And now there is a silent sound urging me to take a walk, one of those walks where I may write along the way or read or just take in all the sights and sounds along the way.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
A Nature Give and Take
I walked to the top of our rise this morning, a grey, drippy morning, slight chill to the air, enough to warrant a warm wood fire inside. My head was down, I was musing about what to write, coffee in hand. Quiet. I like to get to the top of the rise without having looked back, so that when I turn the expanse of the Green Mountains in the background and the ever changing landscape is always a surprise. As I neared the crest, I brought my head up to look over to the left where Richard and I had felled 2 large ailing birch trees the other day. It had opened up the forest and the view of the far hill nicely. I turned my head straight ahead and I saw them. 3 young deer, grazing. I stopped still in my tracks, silent, and gazed. “Oh, Richard would love this,” I thought. The 2 farther up the hill turned to look at me, curious, as if they were focusing in on an eye chart, while the 1 closest to me continued to munch on grass with relaxed purposefulness. He raised his head and looked my way, and with a start and breathy snort, turned and hopped for cover in the trees, the other 2 following suit, their white behinds and upturned tails so gorgeous, like 19th century frocks. How wonderful!
And a little gift from nature was just what I needed for I, we, have been on the horns of a dilemma lately, namely what to do about the pair of Canada Geese on our pond. This is not a new phenomenon. For the 5 years we’ve resided here, this time of year has meant a pair of Canada Geese – we’re told that usually it’s the same pair every year, or at least one of the offspring – has come to our pond to lay eggs, raise their young (usually 4 gosling), teach them to fend for themselves and fly, and after flying lessons are completed to their satisfaction they leave for another year. This annual visit hasn’t been without issue. The prodigious amounts of goose poop around the edges of our pond, especially when added to our geese’s contribution, has been a gnarly topic. The past 3 years we’ve had our own domestic flock of geese and each year they’ve cobbled together an understanding of co-habitation with the Canadians. Last year it helped that both groups had offspring. This year, however, it’s gotten very contentious. When our geese get anywhere near the pond, they are dive bombed. They really battered and bruised Felicity the other day, she had to submerge and swim underwater most of the pond to get away from them, while I heaved stones from the shore to keep them off.
Compounding all of this is that we think the Canadians whole cycle is off due to the late ice covering on our pond which lasted until 2 weeks ago. If they did lay eggs, they’re no where to be found. When these attacks escalated in ferocity, we decided to discourage them from being here, and went after their eggs, but there are none anywhere near where they nest. Maybe they layed them and the weasel that’s around the pond nabbed them. It wouldn’t’ve been difficult to do. Or they haven’t laid yet and now it’s too late. There’s some frustration in the cycle. But what to do about our geese, that’s my main concern. They love the pond and now they’ve been spooked off it, they’re terrified and pent up, sometimes driven off the pond into the woods and I have to shepherd them back, concerned about them being easy prey for predators in the forest.
As I said, we’ve been trying to discourage the Canadians and run them off. We’ve chased them. Richard’s done some chain sawing of trees over near the pond, a chore he needed and wanted to do, and he discovered that they didn’t like that at all. We’ve taken to getting our .22 out and shooting above and below them. This works to a certain extent, but most of the time now they just sort of hop to another location. We don’t want to shoot them. I feel weird having a gun in my hand to just scare them. And if we got VINS to come relocate them, nothing is preventing another pair from coming in. So … hmmmmmmmmmm? In the grand scheme of things, this is a small concern, but there you have it. Nature.
Have a great day. And any suggestions about what to do are welcome.
And a little gift from nature was just what I needed for I, we, have been on the horns of a dilemma lately, namely what to do about the pair of Canada Geese on our pond. This is not a new phenomenon. For the 5 years we’ve resided here, this time of year has meant a pair of Canada Geese – we’re told that usually it’s the same pair every year, or at least one of the offspring – has come to our pond to lay eggs, raise their young (usually 4 gosling), teach them to fend for themselves and fly, and after flying lessons are completed to their satisfaction they leave for another year. This annual visit hasn’t been without issue. The prodigious amounts of goose poop around the edges of our pond, especially when added to our geese’s contribution, has been a gnarly topic. The past 3 years we’ve had our own domestic flock of geese and each year they’ve cobbled together an understanding of co-habitation with the Canadians. Last year it helped that both groups had offspring. This year, however, it’s gotten very contentious. When our geese get anywhere near the pond, they are dive bombed. They really battered and bruised Felicity the other day, she had to submerge and swim underwater most of the pond to get away from them, while I heaved stones from the shore to keep them off.
Compounding all of this is that we think the Canadians whole cycle is off due to the late ice covering on our pond which lasted until 2 weeks ago. If they did lay eggs, they’re no where to be found. When these attacks escalated in ferocity, we decided to discourage them from being here, and went after their eggs, but there are none anywhere near where they nest. Maybe they layed them and the weasel that’s around the pond nabbed them. It wouldn’t’ve been difficult to do. Or they haven’t laid yet and now it’s too late. There’s some frustration in the cycle. But what to do about our geese, that’s my main concern. They love the pond and now they’ve been spooked off it, they’re terrified and pent up, sometimes driven off the pond into the woods and I have to shepherd them back, concerned about them being easy prey for predators in the forest.
As I said, we’ve been trying to discourage the Canadians and run them off. We’ve chased them. Richard’s done some chain sawing of trees over near the pond, a chore he needed and wanted to do, and he discovered that they didn’t like that at all. We’ve taken to getting our .22 out and shooting above and below them. This works to a certain extent, but most of the time now they just sort of hop to another location. We don’t want to shoot them. I feel weird having a gun in my hand to just scare them. And if we got VINS to come relocate them, nothing is preventing another pair from coming in. So … hmmmmmmmmmm? In the grand scheme of things, this is a small concern, but there you have it. Nature.
Have a great day. And any suggestions about what to do are welcome.
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