How goats keep me busy...

 True confession. Our garage is a mess. It's where things we don't know what to do with go to die. And the things that belong there are not neatly stored. Yesterday, Chris and I worked for a few hours and cleaned half of the place. We store hay for the goats there, and we needed to remove all the old remaining bales and move the wooden pallets that we stack the hay on. We needed to rake and sweep up all the spilled hay lying on the floor and haul it away. 

This morning, I finished sweeping and got after the cobwebs in the rafters and walls. I also washed the windows on the now clean side of the garage. Then, I laid down a long sheet of thick plastic, carried in the now-clean pallets, and placed them on the plastic. I will be ready when I get the call that hay is coming. It all looks so nice, and I am now very motivated to get the other half clean and tidy. I'd show you a picture of the horrible half, but it would hurt your eyes. 

Meanwhile, while cuddling little Charm goat, who is five weeks old, I felt little horn buds on her wee head. The veterinarian had taken off her brother's horn buds during his first week, and the vet told me then that she thought Charm might be polled. That means that she was born with no horns. I was delighted. So it was a bit of a shock to feel the little horns growing all these weeks later. I messaged the vet, and she very kindly came over this afternoon. 

She gave the little goat a sedative, then injected around the horns with a nerve block. It was all over in a few moments. A shot was given to reverse her sedative, and within moments, she was back with her mama, having a soothing drink of milk. Her head boasts a silver "hat" of medication that will help her heal up. 

Before supper, I cleaned the goat cozy and gave the little herd their evening meal and some sweet, fresh hay. I locked them up because we've heard coyotes sing in the wee hours lately. I hung over the door, looking at them for a while, watching them nibble hay and shuffle around in the fresh shavings. My little goats bring me much joy. 

And much work. But they are worth it. 

Blooms, moo-ves and sweetness...

 It is lily season in Maine. My gardens have a variety of colors blooming, all gifted by friends. That makes them much more special. 

The wild birds kindly plant sunflowers for me here and there. I let them grow if they are not in a totally inconvenient place. This one is as tall as I am and growing in the hen yard. 

When we moved here twenty-one years ago, I brought a root from this purple coneflower from Memphis. It has flourished here. Last week, I cut a bunch of them and put them in a cobalt blue vase on the table. The Owlet saw them and said, "Oh, so cute!" 

Farmer Cheryl and Mike came today to collect the three cows that have been grazing in our pasture since May. They have done a bang-up job, and only weeds they don't like remain. The ladies were way up at the top of the field. Cheryl called, "Here, boss!" Moxie, the oldest cow, raised her head and mooed loudly. "Here, Boss!" Cheryl repeated. All three cows came to her at a dead run. I've seen dogs that won't come when called, but these cows have an impressive recall. 

They put halters on the cows, and Mike masterfully got them across the lawn and into the trailer. One of them was not terribly cooperative, but in the end, all was well, and they moved to a new, lush pasture nearby. Soon, our fields will be mowed, and if we have rain and the grass grows, the cows will be back to decorate our views. I miss their benevolent presence here already. 

Chris and I worked together on an unpleasant project today, but we accomplished it together, and it felt good. We make a good team. Music playing, side by side, no words needed. While we worked, Chris smoked some delicious beef ribs, and it was a delight to smell them cooking all day. We had them with local corn on the cob and warm ciabatta rolls. It was a picnic fable feast, with dancing goats for entertainment. It is summer, and life is sweet. 

Fair Season Saturday...

 The local Union Fair was in full swing this past week. Country fairs offer bright lights, music, unique scents, sights, and tastes—something to anticipate all year but enjoy for only a brief window. 

 Chris was excited to take the Owlet to her very first fair. The weather was sizzling hot, but we decided to give it a go. Rachel wanted to join us, so she and both girls came along. She strapped the baby to her chest, and I pushed the Owlet in her stroller. She pointed excitedly at all the rides, "Look at THAT!" We all anticipated seeing her ride on the carousel or maybe in the big tea cups. She wanted none of them. She was interested in the ball pit and spent a long time sitting neck-deep in the colorful ocean of plastic orbs. Other kids came and went, and she stared at them with great fascination, but mostly, she was just happy to be there. 

She also liked the cows. There was a long shed filled with braces of steers, mostly lounging in deep bedding, chewing their cuds. She had us go back multiple times. "Where cows go?" she'd ask. We'd push the stroller to see them. It made her happy. 

We offered a tasty fair-food corn dog, "I no eat that. That yucky." She slowly ate a bowl of chocolate ice cream while it melted in the blazing heat. Lots of it ended up on her clothes, skin, stroller, and all over the adults who tried to clean her up. It was sticky joy. Both girls were hot, tired, and fretful by the time we got back to our cars. I felt sorry for Rachel, who had to take them home for a cool bath and naps, but she was, as always, totally competent and got the job done. 

We often keep the Owlet for what we call "Saturday Night Spend the Night." She seems to enjoy it and has the whole schedule of the evening planned. It goes something like this, "I stay Lovie Pop Pop Flirty Bravo. Read Each Peach Pear Plum. Read Llama Llama Red Pajama. Sing ABC, Blue Skies Rainbows. Snuggle."  Rachel delivered her as planned, pajama-clad and ready for all she had described above. We asked what she wanted for supper, and she replied, "Chicken (which is what she calls any meat) and peas." Chris grilled some rib-eye steaks, and I served her a pile of peas which I thought I had way over-dished. She ate every bite. While she was here, she schooled me. Her pint-sized self looked up at the kitchen counter, which had a little weekend clutter, and said, "Lovie. Kitchen maken messen. You need clean up."

Excited by her stimulating day at the fair, she had difficulty sleeping. She finally succumbed but was bright-eyed at dawn. "Lovie, Lovie, Lovie!"  Wee hands patted my face. I opened my eyes and saw her, all curls, rosy cheeks, and happy spirit. This child brings that fair feeling to every day. I know I only get to enjoy this phase for a short window. I cherish every sweet, sticky moment. 

Arrivals...

 Last week, some much-anticipated visitors arrived. Chris's sisters, Brenda and Meg, Brenda's daughter, Lisa, and two of her best friends. Brenda and Meg bunked with us, while Lisa and gang stayed in a hotel in Camden. They came from Mississippi and Texas by way of a trip to Niagara Falls. Rachel and I couldn't adjust our tricky work schedule, so we missed out on some of the fun, but there were meals shared, babies held, lots of interesting conversations, and more than a few laughs. Of course, I trotted some goat kids out for photo ops. 

Lisa has an enviable core group of several close friends, and they often go on travel adventures together. Spending time with Lisa and two of the pals on this trip was a treat. After a few days poking around the mid-coast, they headed up to Bar Harbor for Independence Day. Brenda and Meg stayed here a little longer, and we certainly enjoyed the visit. It's always sad to say goodbye when they return home.

More arrivals came yesterday. Chris and I put a large dog crate in the back of my truck and drove an hour to the farm where all of my goats originated. The farm owner had told me she was selling a two-year-old doe this summer and would let her doeling from this spring go with her if I was interested. Though I didn't really need any more goats, I felt powerless to resist. We tucked Aurora and her kid (now named Meriweather) into the crate and headed home. They are both very pretty, and I am delighted to have them here. 

The resident goats have not exactly rolled out the red carpet for the newcomers, though I asked them nicely to avoid acting like mean girls at high school. There has not been any overt violence, but they make it clear that the new ladies are not welcome in the goat cozy. I set a calf hutch up next door for them to bunk in, and I know from experience that they will work it out, but for now, I feel very sorry for the new goats as they try to adjust to their surroundings. Aurora comes to the gate each time she sees me and bleats as if to say, "Ok, take us home now, please." 

They make a very attractive, colorful group, and it's a pleasure to see them together. I'll enjoy watching them become a cohesive herd.

All of these recent arrivals have brought us much joy. As summer continues, more guests are slated to arrive, but no more goats! Stay tuned. 

Marvelous mentor...

 When I was a young teen, I had the good fortune to become acquainted with a woman who profoundly impacted the direction of my life. She was the mother of my first boyfriend, a teacher, and an artist. I needed some extra mothering and guidance during those years, and she generously gave me both.  In her kitchen, I learned to cook everything from hearty casseroles to yeast bread, "If you can read, you can cook," she told me. She taught me to knit, sew, and make quilts and instilled a love of gardening. She was the first person to put a dog grooming clipper in my hand and teach me to care for my first dog's coat, "Brush from the skin out!"  she'd remind me. Little did we know that I would go on to make pet grooming a lifelong career. 

Although the boyfriend and I were destined to share our lives with others, our friendship, and that with his mom, have continued. 

She turns ninety next month, and her younger son kindly invited me to join friends and family in celebrating this milestone on a chartered boat ride in Essex, Massachusetts, yesterday. I had not had the opportunity to see her in several years, and though it meant a six-hour round-trip drive in heavy rain (and a tornado watch!)  I didn't want to miss the chance to thank her once again. 

I dashed off an Ode in her honor and read it after the cake was cut. She gave me a huge hug and said, "Those were happy years." They were, indeed. And the years that have followed have been happy for me, largely because of her influence. 

When I tally up my gratitude's, having a marvelous mentor is always on my list. 

 

The Bush Man...

 When I was growing up in the then-wee town of Boxford in Massachusetts, we had frequent delivery visits. One of my earliest memories was of the man who collected dirty diapers (mine!) and dropped off snowy piles of clean ones. I'd hide behind my mother's woolen skirt as they made the exchange. 

Mr. Kelloway delivered milk and eggs from his van. He wore blue and white pinstriped overalls and a train conductor-style cap. He strode on long legs from his van to our front porch, where he would tuck glass bottles of milk and a dozen or two fresh eggs in the cool box left there for him. He always had a smile and some kind words and was a welcome sight. 

The most exciting delivery man to me was one my parents called The Bush Man. He came in the spring and would open the trunk of his big sedan and lift out a variety of ornamental bushes. Bridal Wreath (Spirea), Azaleas, Mountain Laurel, Rhododendron and more. He would wax poetic, telling my mother about the colors of blossoms each shrub would boast once they were established, and she would get a dreamy look in her eye, imagining their glory. 

Every year, she'd buy a few plants, taking the money for them out of her leather wallet and carrying the burlap-wrapped things to a shady spot until my father would have time to plant them. It was my job to give each one a cool drink, and I still remember the spicy smell of the foliage and the warm, familiar smell of dirt. 

Our lot was wooded and shady. My parents would walk around in the evening, choosing where each plant would be placed to its best advantage. By the time I left home to find a spot to spread my own roots, those once-small shrubs were well-grown. In the spring, they put forth a rainbow hue of blossoms, the glowing white of the Spirea, the shades of pink from palest blush to deep, almost-red of the Azaleas and "Rhoadies," (as my parents dubbed them) made many a rainbow bouquet to be carried in and placed proudly in a vintage vase. Each year, more bushes were tucked here and there, on either side of the driveway, in beds in front of the house, and deep in the woods to be discovered on a walk; they flourished. 

I never knew The Bush Man's name; he must be long gone now. My parents, too, of course. My sister and her husband live in the house we grew up in, surrounded in spring by the flowers planted long ago, the woods dappled in splashes of color once described by a man with dirt under his nails to a pretty woman surrounded by kids and trees, envisioning the future. 

(Thanks to Shara Salmon for the lovely photo!) 

Charmed...

 Sometimes, I reflect upon the fact that I live a charmed existence. Today was one of those times. 

Happy the Goat had a romantic interlude with a buck five months ago. Today was her due date, and she obliged by delivering two healthy, robust kids precisely on schedule. I was in the house and heard her bleat loudly twice. I rushed outside and found a just-born buckling who had not taken his first breath yet. I helped his mama dry him off a little. He was standing within moments and nursing seconds later. I knew another kid was coming, so I settled on an overturned bucket to watch the magic happening. It was a beautiful day, warm with a soft wind. I settled down and watched Mama Goat cleaning her baby, chuckling the soft call that mother goats use to converse with their kids. After about twenty minutes, Happy bleated in discomfort again. I turned my video camera on and caught her giving one mighty push and delivering a perfect little doeling. 

Before she was dried off or standing, she crawled on her bent front legs to begin nursing, vocalizing all the way. She's tiny and chatty and wears four black boots. 

After the first kid was born, the other two adult goats in the herd raced, danced, and celebrated in the most delightful caprine manner. Then, they returned to watch what was happening inside the Cozy with great fascination. 

                                         

As if all of this were not wonderful enough, Chris cooked giant lobsters for supper.

 A friend joined us, and we feasted at the picnic table, surrounded by cows grazing in the pasture, birds stitching through the sky, and trees whispering as breezes made music through the leaves. A fire snapped and popped in the fire ring. After dinner, our friend rocked back in her chair and sighed, "It's a good life, isn't it?" It is. I'd even say it's charmed.