Autumn comes

It’s officially autumn and back and forth weather and wildlife have been the theme leading us into the equinox. Over the past week we’ve had temperatures ranging from 30 to 79 and we’ve seen moose, bear, a blue heron with a wing span a terydactyl would’ve been proud, and signs of a rather large coyote. Just an hour ago I was trotting back down our road a mile or so away (because I hadn’t timed my dusk walk quite right and was hurrying home in order to batten down all the chicks and chickens and geese before real dark) when a truck coming the opposite way stopped at a crest on the road and the family inside cheerily asked “Do you see what’s behind you?” I turned to greet 2 moose calves silhouetted and still, watching us, less than a quarter mile away. They HAD been following me and I wonder now for how long. They were gorgeous and soon they skittered off into the woods. Similar to the way the bear did yesterday that I met driving into town yesterday, right where the dirt road turns paved at the old meeting house. Again, he or she was about a quarter mile away and galumphed across the road from the woods into a tree line along a field that was in the process of being hayed, the big round bales. It’s a combination wonderful and taking it in stride these wildlife sightings. We expect it and it surprises us at the same time. Wonderful, wonderful.

And along with the wonder comes the realization that with the change of season (Yay Autumn!) we’re also moving into predator season who would find it wonderful to be full of one of our feathered flock. This is when fox and coyote and fisher cats and other sharp toothed creatures like weasels and mink tend to feast on birds as the food sources of summer dwindle and disappear. We haven’t gone through a winter yet with this many birds under our care. Richard seems confident and I’m trying my best to defer all dominion over to him. But you see – and maybe this is why I didn’t want birds in the first place – now I care for them. It would destroy me if anything were to happen to Ginger or Mary Ann. The chickens too, I suppose, though Richard has a closer intimacy with them, a bigger stake. And Richard’s chicks keep coming. Taffy, a Buff Orpington gifted to us by our friends Valerie and Keith that has blossomed from a scrub muffin into a beauty, is now broody and sitting on 6 eggs. Grace, a sex-link Barred Rock, hatched 5 chicks a couple weeks back and spends the days parading her brood about and teaching them how to scratch and fend for themselves. She’s a tough mother, a task master. It cracks me up watching her scratch the earth firmly with one of her legs inevitably losing track of one of the grey chicks in proximity and suddenly there’s a tiny shriek squawk as one of them goes flying caught up in the force of one of Grace’s backkicks. This is a daily occurrence. As Frieda, Richard’s mom, would say: “Toughen up, big baby!”

Speaking of toughening up, there’s a whole list of chores to do for the coming cold that we’re clipping off in good measure. It reminds me of the Aesop fable (I think it’s Aesop) “The Grasshopper and the Ants.” I think we’re hovering somewhere in between those 2 insects, but things are getting done and we’re enjoying it. An added occurrence is our pond draining. We haven’t had a substantial rain for a while, so there for a couple weeks as the level went down, we thought it was due to the dryness. But then we recalled that we had had dry spells before and the level of the pond had not varied. After all, it is spring fed. So one day Royce, our neighbor who grew up in our house, came by to inform us that 40 years ago when his dad built the pond, he had gone to the bottom of it to cover the pvc pipe with a piece of wood and cover the wood with a big rock. “I wondered when that board was going to rot through,” Royce intoned in his inimitable fashion. I was in NYC when this disclosure came and Richard told me that he and Royce spent a day trying unsuccessfully to find the end of the pipe that was in the pond. They found the pipe end that was draining on the other side of the pond’s dam, but though they dove (in COLD water!) in search of the other end, fed a hose through, and made tapping noises in an attempt to locate it by ear - silt, rocks, and gunk impeded any progress. At first, it was depressing watching our pond slowly sink from view, but now we’re heartened, seeing it as an opportunity to clean it up. We’ve already been moving branches and submerged trunks and an old beaver dam, once below the surface, awaits our disassembly above. The pond has never been cleaned in 40 years and it’s big. We asked a local excavator to come over and price the job of cleaning out the muck and he estimated $10,000!!! And this is without having to transport any of it by truck; we’d be able to use it all on parts of our land. I think we’ll pass. Now we’re conjuring up creative alternatives to demuck the pond. We understand it’s much like topsoil so we plan to beef up sunken places near the pond’s and in our yard and on our hill, tilling it into the present soil. We’ll either let it dry out and stay empty for the winter’s duration and once the bottom’s dry, scoop out the lion’s share of dried much OR simply put another board on top of the pipe opening once we locate it and try and get the pond back to a fine level before the winter’s freeze. After all, the counter argument goes, it’s been fine for 40 years without cleaning.

Tomorrow we rent a muck pump which should help drain this puppy in pretty short order and we hope get rid of some of the muck in the process. The draining means our trout need to be transported to a neighbor’s pond AND our geese are going to be disappointed. (And how do I know they have an emotion like disappointment? Search me.) It’s really a completely selfish regret on my part. I love watching them swim on our pond. That image should be beside the word “serenity” in the dictionary. They are gorgeous, effortlessly paddling about the water, the simple grey and white of their feathers set perfectly against the hues of the pond and the surrounding woods. But they have enjoyed the exposure of new shoreline. They’ve squished around in the black gunk, nibbling away at twigs and submerged what nots. And whenever Richard and I have gone over to spruce up the swamp and pond’s edge, Ginger and Mary Ann are right there to lend a curious eye, a sideways discernment.

And so it goes, so it goes, so it goes.

The night it dropped to 30, Richard and I were out in our gardens by flashlight, snipping chard, lopping off pumpkins and butternut squash from their soon to be mottled vines, harvesting cabbage, and covering up spices with sacks and discarded cabbage leaves. Oh what a clear, starlit night looked down on our scramblings. It was fantastic really. A rush, a charge, a bracing embrace of how much we love this place. Then upstairs to swaddle ourselves underneath blankets and wake to make one of our first fires in our wood stove.

Happy Autumn, everyone. (Sorry I’ve been away from the blog for awhile.)

This morning about 7:15

This is what greeted us this morning. From the vantage point of our upstairs bathroom window, we watched them come down our hill in back. We stood frozen in place by the quiet majesty of it all, the mother first, then the calf, and then over the crest of the hill came the bull moose. They were tentative, listening for anything amiss, but moved on steadily with a lumpy, beguiling grace. Mumblestump, our crowy rooster, had been stirring up a racket until the moose family showed up and then he got noticeably mum. (Out of fear or respect, I wonder?) Finally Richard said he had to get his camera and as I watched from our barn loft window as they passed down our drive and onto our front lawn on their way to our pond and the forest beyond , Richard was on our screened porch IN THE BUFF taking these pictures. What an astounding and wonderful beginning to the day. (The moose, I mean, not necessarily Richard in the buff. Though that can be wonderful too.)

It all beats the hell out of tv.

Have a great day, everyone!

Just climbing into bed and ...

Richard was reading me his latest installment on his blog ("Poultry Chronicles" for all you birdy set) and in my mind I saw one of those old timey movie calendars with days being ripped off, time passing by, and I thought to myself "It's been AGES since I've written something for my blog so sit down and concoct something." The sandman has already sprinkled a goodly amount of magic dust on my eyelids, but before I go to Sleepytime Village, I'll just whip through some of the things that have been filling my days:

- Put together a HUGE vat of Green Tomato Chutney, a recipe from my dear friend Lisa's New Zealand mother, thus putting to good use the many tomatoes I snatched from the jaws of blighty doom last week. Victory! So 10 pounds of green tomatoes into the chutney vat and jars and about 4 pounds I let ripen in the sun on our front porch and then tossed into a spaghetti sauce.

- Attended an inspiring town hall meeting for Health Care facilitated by our independent Senator Bernie Sanders which resparked my desire to champion the cause of Single Pay Insurance. Because our representatives and senators (and, sadly, President) seem reluctant (and afraid) to allow Single Pay to be looked at as an option on the national level, it seems that the state level, especially in Vermont, would be a viable alternative. I'm looking into educating myself much more on this topic and seeing how I can best be instrumental of service in this process. I'm also fascinated about the boogie man fears that are festooned onto the word "socialism." It seems to me that America's brand of democratic socialism has spoken more for the common man and his rights and privileges then any other party. Why would that be demonized? Very interesting.

- Realized from the drop in the temperature to the high 30's at night during this last week that autumn is at hand, so we've redoubled our efforts and energy toward finishing up some building projects before cold weather really sets in. I'm a little bit bummed that fall has fallen when I feel we haven't even had summer yet, but it's hard to not love these gloriously beautiful, nippy mornings. And more warmth is still in store. I can feel it in my bones.

- Writing, working on several projects, letting them have their own time, sometimes down time, and then joying in them anew when they get back on an active track again. I love that I write.

- Delight and gratitude for friends and family visiting, for creativity, for running with our geese, for daily walks up our road, up our rise, for the change of weather, change of season, still feels like "back-to-school" weather to me.

And aprospos of nothing, we've found several piles of bear poop on our land. Good sized piles at that. Wow! Cool!

And 30 Years Ago on my bicycle trip - I was in San Francisco, visiting friends, having a little romance, and looking back over the entire adventure. Wow. On my way back to Providence, RI where I was living at the time, I would stop down in Alabama to see my mom get remarried to my soon-to-be stepdad Joseph O'Hara. It would be a fine time.

San Francisco was swell. It was good to return to the city in which I'd spent 2 years while attending conservatory. And the city was dazzling that August, extraordinary weather. And on one of these days I met a beautiful blond man from Minneapolis, Ron Beese, and we spent a wonderful 3 days together. One of those days we had a picnic in Golden Gate Park. It was a gorgeous, laid back day, we were in shorts, our shirts off, getting some sun, enjoying each other's company, the buzz of a romance we probably both knew would only last for a few days. We started to make-out. And in the middle of making out, I realized "Oh my God, we're in public, there are other people around, kids playing nearby." But for the first time I think, that thought didn't freeze me up. 'This is right,' I thought, "this is natural, I'm having a great time with someone I really like and I'm enjoying being affectionate with him. I'm not doing it to prove anything. I'm not doing it to rub someone's nose in it. I'm doing it because I love it, I enjoy it, it gives me pleasure, and I'm not hurting anyone." That was such a freeing thought. What a gift. What a beautiful gift that was. And after those 3 days were over, I never saw Ron Beese again. I've often wondered what happened to him over the years. I often wished him happiness, a good life. Who knows if he's even still alive. But he brought new life to my life and I'm grateful for that. Thank you, Ron, for a wonderful time. Be well wherever you are.

Then and Now

Then - August 22, 1979 11:00 am Half Moon Bay

Wind blown in 1/2 Moon about 35 miles and 2 climbs from San Francisco. Splurging on breakfast - well earned. I feel lots of memories and good thoughts along the way plus lots of hills. I was just thinking of all the people who have wished me well, safety, and Godspeed along the way ... you can't miss with that many people rooting for you. It's not the end or nearing the end of the trip by any means. Friendships founded, events to come. And now I've got a chronicle and coffee. What could be more serene?

Now - August 22, 2009 7:25 am Vermont Sitting down to write with the hummy churn of the dishwasher to accompany me. The geese are swimming studies in serenity across the road, the cats have had their morning romp and are settling down for their post-prandial snooze, and a grey fog is cloaking everything in a cloudy embrace. Not bad.

Wishing you all a bit of serenity today.

Hamlet - 30 years ago

30 Years Ago on my cross country bicycle trip I was in Santa Maria, California, visiting a host of friends who were at PCPA (Pacific Conservatory for the Performing Arts) for the summer performing in plays that included "The Front Page", "Fiddler on the Roof", "The Moon is Blue", "As You Like It", and "Hamlet." I had been cycling up the coast from San Diego after helping my friends drive across the desert at Yuma. I felt in shape again, bearded and tan, but I hadn't known that riding south to north up California's coast meant that the wind would be against me most of the day. This had moved me to get up as early as possible for the winds didn't really pick up until around 10 am. And they could be strong.

For the past few days, though, I had taken a break and enjoyed a feast of theatre. Most of it had been very fine. I'd also gotten a slight crush on a dancer in the company, but dancers always had been my weakness. Nothing came of it which was just as well. The theatrical piece de resistance was their production of "Hamlet." The actor playing the title role, Danny Davis, had been one of the main actors in the American Conservatory Theatre where I had been a member of the conservatory from 1976 through 1978. (Most of my friends at PCPA had been my classmates.) Danny had always been kind to me, especially after having seen our First Year production of "The Rainmaker" in which I played the father, HC. The production had tapped into Danny's Texan roots and moved him considerably; he'd seen all our performances. Danny was the last person you'd picture having come from Texas with his deep, resonant baritone voice and nary a trace of dialect. I'd respected his acting at ACT, but had never been moved by it. He'd also been a bit of a prima donna. But as "Hamlet" the night before, he had blown me away. And I loved him for it. Because of its force, I'd decided to spend one more night at PCPA in order to see it again, this time in another venue. At PCPA most productions were shown indoors at the theatre in Santa Maria and outdoors at their other theatre in Solvang. Seeing Danny as "Hamlet" embodied one of my favorite experiences in acting, namely, when I've underestimated someone and been proven wrong. The production, directed by Alan Fletcher, was so exciting and clear and accessible with Danny always at the helm. You could feel the audience on the edge of their seats. And the audience there was quite a cross-section. You had stalwart theatre goers, patrons of the arts, but there were also just regular joes from the community, farmers, local business people, and I could see the power of theatre in their reactions. Here was a production that could be taken on so many different levels. You could focus on the poetry of it, the existentialist struggle going on in "Hamlet", or you could just enjoy it as a murder mystery, a great yarn. Any or all were equally valid and that made the experience so alive. That's what makes theatre great. It still ranks as one of my favorite productions.

There was a melancholy that was starting to seep in to the trip and maybe that's another reason I could relate to the Melancholy Dane. I knew my trip was coming to an end. I could count the days to San Francisco when my great adventure would be history. And then what? There was a sense of moving on simply being around the actors in the company that a little over a year ago I had been taking class with in conservatory. That too had ended. They were different, I was different. We had both moved on. One of my favorite songs at the time was Judy Collins rendition of "Who Knows Where the Time Goes?" and it accompanied my mood perfectly. I felt a little bit alone even when I was in there company. Ah well. Such is life. Adventures and surprises still lay ahead. And the magic of that time and that "Hamlet" still resonate. I wonder what further magic 30 years from now will hold?

Blight

I joined my Irish ancestors in spirit yesterday as I uprooted all our potato plants riddled with blotches and yellowing with blight. No potato famine for us, though, for I was surprised to find a wealth of well-formed and healthy potatoes buried in the ground like hidden treasure, enough to fill 2 plastic milk crates. This morning though I saw that the blight had indeed traveled to the upper end of our garden and gotten our tomato plants too, so today, into a heavy black construction bag the plants will go and all of the green tomatoes, heavy on the vine, will have to sun ripen on window sills. We’d been hearing about the blight for months in conversations ranging from Epsom, Indiana to Thetford, Vermont. We’d also known that the wet and humid conditions we’ve been having this summer weren’t helping matters any. That said, I thought we were going to escape it, stay out of harm’s way. But there you go; it’s here, we’ll deal with it. And now I understand that we can’t plant nightshade plants in that soil for, well, the stories vary, anywhere from 3 to 5 years to EVER. Now there’s a range for you. It’s nature’s version of a toxic landfill. But taken all in all, not planting tomatoes or potatoes or peppers or eggplant or petunias is not such a blight for us. I don’t really eat many potatoes (a nutritionist once told me to never again let a potato pass my lips for I was getting plenty of starch and carbohydrates from other sources) and Richard eats tomatoes and eggplants sparingly otherwise his arthritis flares up. So there you are. And now we will have 2 huge chunks of garden to plant other vegetables, even spring vegetables again that will be ready to harvest before the autumn frosts begin.

Summer has finally found us. For the past week the weather has reminded me of the dog days of summer in Indiana – hot, sunny, the air thick with humidity. Frequent dips in our pond have been the order of the day. I wish our geese would stay in and swim with us when we dive in, but they quickly hasten to the safety of the bank and observe the weird, splashing creatures from afar. Because of the heat, my daily 4-mile walk down our country lane comes late in the day, sometimes not ‘til around 7. I slather Skin So Soft on to keep whatever bug happens to be around at that time of day away and shoulder my ramshackle pack diagonally across my chest, making me feel like Johnny Appleseed. (Trivia: Johnny Appleseed nee John Chapman also has an Indiana/New England connection – he was born in Leominster, Massachusetts, and is buried in the town I grew up in, Fort Wayne, Indiana.) My shoulder bag is not filled with apple seeds, however. Most often nowadays it has a copy of Ted Kooser poetry in it, as well as whatever paperback I might have a hankering to read along the way. Also, always, there’s something to write on – a legal pad or small steno notebook or several large index cards. The walk is a combination meditation in motion and walking work place. I’m amazed what comes through that might have been blocked or not even thought of working at home, sitting at a desk. And the walk sets me right with myself. It keeps the blights of inertia and over-seriousness at bay.

It feels as if there is an over abundance of blight these days, both real and imagined. I’m so glad we don’t have television, especially with the ongoing health care harangue. Just the tastes of the “debate” I get over the internet are enough. I would think it would be next to impossible to distinguish between what is a blight and what is a boon with all the talking heads and “experts” and newscasters and plain screamers frothing up the waters. Being an actor I know how easy it is to chameleon into someone else’s passion or agenda or life drive. Some times in “real life” I unwittingly do the same thing and am won over by the sheer surety of someone else’s take on anything without taking the time to question whether I really feel and think the same way. It’s seductive. And so often issues are presented as if they should have a simple explanation, black and white, “this is it”, succinct enough to fit into a sound bite, and then NEXT. It encourages one to be a bully; no matter what side of the debate you are on, the other side has to be full of unevolved, pig-headed idiots. “If only they would see (definition: “agree with me”) then the world would be a better place, God damnit!” Being a recovering bully and black and white person of MAJOR PROPORTIONS I speak from experience. Today, much like the geese, when the splashing of controversy occurs, I often opt to head for shore to watch at a safe distance. The geese head for shore out of instinct, to keep their distance from any potential predator. My predators are old ways of acting, a kind of knee jerk “oh yeah?!!” attitude left over from long ago teenage battles with my dad where even if I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about I was going to stay in the battle to WIN AT ALL COSTS. There’s an aspect of that that, sadly, sounds very American. Just win, that’s all that matters. And when the “other’s” viewpoint blotches my skin with rage, it’s very seductive to go on the attack. Again, speaking from experience, living by that kind of blight leads to many airborne infections that take years to heal. With the health care debate and with many issues, I recognize that I need to educate myself. I don’t know the issues thoroughly. I’d love to just take others word for it, many of whom are heroes of mine, but I need to check the facts for myself, no matter how much they may move and inspire me. And I need to take the time it takes to know how I feel and think. This is easier said then done. Sometimes I feel out of it in Vermont and wonder if we’ve decided to move here to keep our distance from any controversy. I don’t think that’s true. It’s just where life has seen fit to plant us for now. And it has afforded me time to reflect on things that I wouldn’t have given myself time to do so otherwise.

It’s nearing noon and heating up. I’m on the front porch with a couple of napping cats, listening to a hen back in Stony Coop push out an egg. Labor pains. The geese are conversing atop our pile of top soil just to the side of the house. The wind’s picking up. And I’m trying to figure out how to bring either the Irish or Johnny Appleseed back into the wrap up of this blight blog. This is going to take a little thought.

Let me tell you about my morning

We stir around 5:30. That’s when Sofia comes up for her ritual batting around of things on my desk and general noise making. I get up, take her in my arms – she’s particularly seductive and purry at this time of day – and after a few caresses, I dispatch her PLOP into the attic. Back to bed, her muffled cries falling on deaf, sleepy ears. At 6:20 I’m up again, this time for good, even though I tell Richard I’ll be right back. I’m up to let all the birds out and let Richard sleep a little bit more. (He needs his rest; he’s off to judge Bar-b-que pork at the North Haverhill Whole Hog Festival today. We’re both very proud.) I put on my flannels because it’s been a bit cool mornings, in the high 40’s during the night. There’s a faint protest from the “No, No, not yet” voice inside of me pleading that “We’ve barely had any summer, we can’t have cool weather already!!” But this morning the cool feels comforting and right. I let Sofia out of the attic on my way down the stairs to the kitchen where all our cats congregate and begin a slow swim back and forth in front of the sink and refridgerator, waiting for their food to be dished out. I get it out of the fridge and set it on the counter to warm a bit while I head outside for the freeing.

At the front door, I shimmy into my Wellingtons and slam out the front screen door expecting to hear the goose girls honk out to me, but they’re quiet this morning. It’s a fine day – quiet, clear, fresh. As I pass Stony Coop that Richard’s just painted a fine red to match our barn I hear Mumble Stump and all the hens stirring, ready to be let loose to the world. And I can hear Ginger and Mary Ann nibbling on their wire mesh front door; when I round the corner of the coop they kick into excited chatter. They’re soon out, flapping their wings, stretching, having a good long drink while I open up the back of the the chicken coop, Stony Coop, as well as the back fence door, and the front. They scatter out. All but one and that’s our new broody hen, a Barred Rock like Nanna, but this one’s mean. This one will peck you when you reach your hand to pet her or check the eggs beneath and she pecks hard. She’s a big grump. We’ve decided to call her “Grace” in honor of both of our grandmothers, not that they’d peck at us or that they were particularly grumpy, but the name “Grace” just seems to fit.

Off uphill to the next coop, with chickens and the geese girls parading all around me. The girls veer off to the kiddie pool for a swim and wash. I can hear jays screaming up in the trees. They’ve been like bands of bandits lately, swarming down to feast on chicken feed when no one’s about. The garden looks fine. Our tomato plants have so far avoided the blight that’s been plaguing everyone around here. That’s – knock on wood – good because if it does hit, it takes the plants quickly, ruining all the fruit and turning the stalk and leaves black. You’re then instructed to burn the plants and not plant nightshade plants there for 3 years! Other plants are fine and can be planted in that ground without fear of disease, but not tomatoes or eggplant. Our tomatoes still have a ways to go before they’re ripe. One woman at a dinner we attended last night wryly opined that because of the soggy weather setback, her tomatoes should be ripe “by mid-November.”

I set the second coop free and discover there had been a sleep-over last night, some of the hens that usually roost in Stony Coop came over here, maybe because of Grumpy Grace and her pecking. The sleep over crowd flocks out and the morning predictables begin, namely Mumble Stump humping every hen in sight. He races, darts, flies, grabs, muscles his way to the “woman” of the moment. There’s no cajoling, no sweet talk, not even a little foreplay, no, not in Mumble Stump’s barnyard. There’s no time. There are other hens to hump. Don’t worry girls. Once he gets this all out of his system, peace will be restored. (The name Mumble Stump has been inspired by a combination of “Harry Potter” and a friend’s son’s pithy naming of their own chicken.)

I’m on the front porch now, writing. Peace has been restored. Every once and awhile I can hear a flutter from the back yard and a loud crow - Mumble Stump is an acoustical genius, he knows exactly where to place himself for prime resounding echo effect. And now one of the hens is squawking an egg out in Stony Coop and one of the goose girls is honking in commiseration. Oh, I’m spoiled. I love it. I love the absence of artificial noise - no radio, no television, sometimes music on the i-pod player, but not this morning. Right this moment the sounds surrounding me are an assortment of bird song from the forest, clucks and squawks from the coop, and a little mysterious nibbling from the girls. That’s how they experience most of the world, through nibbling. Morning’s are potent to me, they set the day off on a meditative tone. I find myself more in the moment than I’ve ever been in my life. More present, instead of thinking about what the day holds, what’s next, what am I not doing that I should. And I find myself smiling a lot, inside. There’s a stillness there that I’m enjoying more and more. It’s good. It sparks appreciation. Wow. Dusk and sunset used to be my favorite times of day, the time where I would get back on track, back into myself if I had wandered off, like Peter Pan stepping back into his shadow, a coming home. I still love that time of day, but mornings are edging evenings out. Starting the day out well. Taking time to see and be. Being home. I like that.

It’s just passed 10 and Richard calls from the fairgrounds to say that he’s judging 3 whole hogs at 11:15 and should be free by 12:30 for lunch. So Mike – Richard’s brother who’s visiting us for a week, in from Las Vegas – and I will meet at the ATM truck and venture off for a good pork gnaw. Until then, I’ll enjoy the time remaining here.

This is my life right now. This is my morning. I hope yours is fine.