Should goats not choose to lounge about with their bony heads in the fence, they walked through fences like ghosts through walls. Our house was enclosed by a wire fence which was inside the long drive leading up to the house. The pasture presented a third line of fence between the goats and the house. Even the blind goat ran up the diagonal corner brace posts and hopped the fences without even thinking, attaining total access to the whole place. Goats are perpetually in love. None of this fencing got between goats and their aim in life, copulating before as many onlookers as possible: ministers, prissy ladies, and small children, in that order. The tiniest of window ledges presented no problem should the company be saintly enough. Goats crashed my six-year-sister’s birthday party, indulging in a lurid love fest on the lawn, giving the kiddies an eye full till we got it broken up. One morning as the school bus driver impatiently honked for us, a huge Billy Goat chased his lady friend onto the hood of the school bus, consummating their relationship then and there, to the joy of the kids on the bus. Thank goodness, that indiscretion was enough to finally put an end to the goat herd.
memoir
Goats Doing What Goats Do Best
I don’t know why Daddy kept goats. In theory, they’d eat brush and he’d have one to barbecue on Memorial Day, Fourth of July, or Labor Day. The fact is, our goats didn’t ascribe to the brush eating theory and were born knowing their life’s purpose was to get their heads stuck in fences, climb on everything and make passionate love. It was clear to the dumbest of them that flowers, grass, garden vegetables, laundry on the line, and almost anything else was better than brush. Only a starving goat would eat poison ivy or bitter weed if anything else is available. I had plenty of experience with goats. Our fences were intended to keep cows and horses in. Goats easily slipped their heads through the wire since they were the philosophical type who believed “the grass is greener on the other side. The problem arose when they tried to remove their horned heads and were stuck fast. In our occupation of unpaid farm hands, my brother and I had to walk the fences to extricate stuck goats. A couple of hazards were manifest. The goats were never appreciative. While we worked to get them loose, they tried to flee, most often smashing our hands against the wire. The second major problem involved randy Billy Goats who thoroughly understood the nannies were in that particular situation for romantic purposes. Resentful Billy Goats can be quite vindictive. If goat testosterone could be marketed, I’d invest.
More to come
Goats Pop the Top
The visiting preacher came home with us for Sunday dinner. He had a just gotten a new car and spent most of Sunday dinner talking about it. His wife had a bad heart and lay down for a nap after lunch. He whispered “She could go anytime.” This did nothing to lighten the mood. It was clear the new car was the only bright spot in his life. It would look nice at her funeral. They were from out of town so we were stuck with them until time for the evening service. The afternoon looked long and hopeless. The kids escaped outdoors as soon as possible. Our house was on the edge of the farm, sitting inside a larger fenced area where Daddy raised hay and grazed cattle, horses, goats. The driveway was several hundred yards long and fenced separately, enclosing several pecan and fruit trees, and space for parking. As goats will do, the goats had slipped through the fence and gotten in the drive. Brother Smith had parked his nice new car under the mulberry tree in full bloom. Goats love new vegetation and as it turns out, new cars. We saw several hop agilely to the roof of his new car. Before we could get to it, several more joined their friends standing on their back legs to reach the tree branches. There was a big metallic “Pop!!” and the hood caved in, leaving the goats in a bowl. They leapt off. Mother heard the racket and ran out just in time to catch the whole disaster. Her eyes were huge as her hands flew to her mouth. We hadn’t had a new car for years and now we’d be buying this preacher one. Not only that, his wife would probably drop dead on the spot and he’d have to drive a goat-battered car to the funeral.
God smiled on us. As soon as the goats jumped off, the hood popped back in the shape. This time we enjoyed the sound and flew to inspect the roof. Surprisingly, there was apparent damage. Mother got the preacher’s keys and pulled the car to the safety of the yard. Mrs. Smith lived through the day, and as far as I know, Brother Smith had a fine new car to drive to her funeral a couple of weeks later. All’s well that ends well.
Run You Little Devil, Run! I’ll Git You Next Time!
My grandfather, Pacaw, was a walking rack of bones,stooped-shoulders diminishing the six foot frame of his youth. A chain-smoker, he was never without a hand-rolled cigarette. Taking a small cotton drawstring bag from a red flip-top can of Prince Albert Tobacco, he centered loose tobacco onto a cigarette paper,licked the length of one side of the paper, then rolled it. Once complete, he put the cigarette in his mouth, cupped his hand around it, and lit it with a match while he inhaled. Though I was fascinated with the process, I always feared he’d suck the fire down his throat. I yearned for those little cloth tobacco bags and tobacco cans but wisely, Mother denied me that prize. Mother had told me so many stories of him, I watched him intently, always hoping he’d do something fantastic or say something interesting. Unfortunately, he’d smoked his whole life leaving only the shell of a body and a few embers of personality that sputtered and died before bursting into full flame.
Pacaw ate a few bites of bacon and eggs, then lit up a smoke and visited while the rest of us finished breakfast. He joined us at the table for other meals, but hardly touched food, smoking as we ate. A few times, he launched into a tale of his youth, the stories I was rabid for. Unlikely to say much the rest of the day, he spent summer afternoons on the front porch, reading paperback Westerns. Despite the suffocating Texas, heat he was never without his coat and gray felt hat. I was mystified to see him sitting in his straight chair, legs twisted corkscrew style, both feet resting on the floor.
I thought him quite grumpy, since he wasn’t partial to slamming screen doors, or kids racing by him while he tried to read in peace. Mother must have wanted us to know the man she knew, because one hot afternoon, she pulled up a chair and called us to sit with them.
“Daddy, do you feel like telling the kids the story about you and Everitt and the ducks?” He seemed pleased and set his book face down on the porch.
“I reckon I can. I was over at my friend Everitt’s house one day. For some reason, his mama didn’t like me much, so I pretty much tried to steer clear a’her. Well, we’d been to the barn to get Everitt’s cane pole and was headed for the creek, when we noticed that Miz Maxey, Everitt’s ma, had let her flock of ducks out. She was real proud a’them ducks. They was a mama duck with ’bout a dozen ducklings just ahead of us. They was just tiny little things, probably was gonna be their first time in the water. Mama Duck went right on in with her brood a’follerin’ her. They swam just like they’d been doing it for years. Just as they was about to get to the other side, one of us (I think it must’ve been Everitt) chunked a piece of wood in the crick. Them and their mama ducked under and come up on the other side. I was on that other side and chunked it back across. They ducked under and come up on the other side again. It was so funny, I guess we’d done it more than we realized ‘fore we noticed not too many ducks was a’coming up. We never thought about we was wearing them little ducks out. We was standing there worryin’ over what we’d done and didn’t notice Miz Maxey headed our way, mad as hops. She’d seen what we was up to and I took off. Last I knew, she was a’whalin’ Everitt, and yellin’ after me, “Run, you little devil, run! I’ll git you next time!” I felt just awful about them little ducks, but I sure kept my distance from Everitt’s ma for a good long time!”
He was a person with thoughts and feelings just like me after that day.
Rubbernecking Duckie
Original art by Kathleen Holdaway Swain
We endured periodic visits from Mother’s bizarre relatives, Cookie and Uncle Riley. Whether or not they were actually deranged was debatable, they definitely teetered somewhere between eccentric and maddening. Most people who had to interact with them on a regular basis held out for just plain crazy. Both held Master’s Degrees, Cookie’s in Education and Uncle Riley’s in Mathematics. Cookie was head of a large public school system in Texas. Uncle Riley worked for the government as a mathematician in the 1950’s. I won’t press that any further, except to say that somehow, they miraculously collided and produced Cousin Barbie, The Wonder Baby. On their way to an Easter visit in 1957, Cookie and Uncle Riley made a few stops.
I digress, but needed to set the scene for their visit. Because my mother had married a blue-collar worker, a man they considered “beneath her” and had three children, Cookie and Uncle Riley held the impression that my parents ran an orphanage and would be grateful for any gift of apparel, no matter how useless they might drag in. This particular trip, they came bearing refuse from a fire sale: ten pairs of boys black high top basketball shoes in a wide range of sizes, six identical but slightly singed, size eight, red and green sateen dresses trimmed with black velvet collars and waist bands, six dozen pairs of size two cotton satin-striped Toddler Training Pants, and three six-packs of men’s silk dress socks in a nude tone, a color I’d never seen anyone wear. In addition to these useless prizes, they’d stopped by a fruit stand and gotten a great deal on a box of fifty pounds of bruised bananas and an Easter duck for Barbie. By the time they’d reached our house many hours later, four-year-old Barbie, Easter Duck, and Bosco Dog had romped in the back seat and pretty much-made soup of the bananas. Fruit flies circled the old black 1943 Ford merrily as it rocked to a stop. Uncle Riley, the mathematician, anticipating breakdowns didn’t believe in wasting money on new car parts. He always carried a collection of parts extracted from a junker in his back yard to keep his old clunker running. He also split the back of his old jeans and laced them up with shoe strings when they got too tight, but that’s s story for another day.
I know Mother must have dreaded their visit, with its never-ending pandemonium, especially since for some reason, the only thing they shared with Daddy was a healthy contempt and barely concealed animosity for each other. The five of us kids were always delighted to see them, in spite of their bizarre offerings. One pair of the smoky-smelling shoes did fit my brother, but shredded in a few steps, due to its proximity to the fire. The dresses were put back for “Sunday Best,” Thank God, never to be seen again, since neither of us girls was a size eight, nor was partial to singed, scratchy dresses. Fortunately, for my parents, at the moment, they had no size two toddlers for the training pants, though they did manage to come up with a couple just a few years later. Easter Duck, however, deeply interested four-year-old Billy.
Sensing misfortune in his future, Mother tried to run interference for Easter Duck, fearing for his health. For some reason she was distracted by the madness of intervening between Daddy and her whacked-out relatives, getting dinner ready for the whole crowd, dealing with out-of-control kids, and finding places to bed everyone down for the night. Not surprisingly, her concerns for Easter Duck were pushed to the bottom of the list. Never having been deprived of anything she wanted, ever, Barbie had no intention of being parted with Easter Duck. Billy needed a better look, and having had plenty of experience dealing with mean kids, patiently waited for his chance. Forgetting Easter Duck, Mother and Cookie went back to their visit, leaving the two four-year-olds to play. As you might expect, before long, they heard the screaming. Barbie held poor Easter Duck by his head; Billy had him by the feet. Between them, they had stretched the poor duck’s neck way past anything God ever intended, even for a swan. Neither exhibited the Wisdom of Solomon and was determined to maintain possession, at all costs. Poor Easter Duck paid the price! Though he was rescued, sadly his neck was not elastic and did not “snap back.” He didn’t get to spend the Easter holidays with his new friends, Barbie and Billy.
The Sticky Tricks of Dirty Chicks
No little kid should ever be allowed a small, defenseless duck, chick, or bunny for a pet. One of those four hundred pound tortoises would be a far better choice. It could protect itself and the kid couldn’t pick it up. Porcupines or crocodiles should be fine, too. They could probably hold their own against a four year old. Case in point, when I was four, Mother went to the farm supply store to get baby chicks to raise for the freezer. They came in a brown cardboard box with air holes. Naturally, I fell in love with the chicks and begged for one of my own. Thinking I would quickly lose interest, Mother had one put in a paper bag just for me.
As I sat on the backseat of the car with my chick, I took it out and admired it, putting its tiny, fluffy body next to my cheek. It was so sweet and smelled so chicky. Mother made me put it back in the bag, saying it needed to rest. Reluctantly, I set it to the side. We stopped by another store and Mother let me get some gum. I can’t imagine why she couldn’t predict the future. I was well-pleased with the situation since I usually never got two goodies in one day. I chomped the gum till my jaws were tired. As we headed home, Mother noticed I was getting sleepy. She told me, “Don’t swallow that gum. Just wrap it in the gum wrapper and drop it in one of the grocery bags in the back next to you.” I couldn’t find my gum wrapper, so I just dropped the wad of gum in the nearest bag, the one with the chick, and nodded off.
When we got home, I woke up and remembered my precious chickie. I opened the bag and found the chick, gum in his fluff. His tiny feet stuck to the bottom of the bag. When I pulled him out, gum ribbons stretched from the bag to his little feet. I wailed in dismay. Mother was disgusted and took the chick, cleaned the gum off the best she could, confiscated him and returned him to the troop of chicks as she’d intended from the beginning. I wanted to trade for one of the fresh, clean chicks, but Mother said, “NO!!!!!!” He suffered no real harm; just shared his gum with the other chicks till quite a few of them had combination chicken poop, dirt, and gummy fluff accessorized with tiny bits of biddy food. The gummy little chicks stuck together when they touched and sometimes had to struggle a bit to get apart. I was ashamed of my former friend as he scurried around the nastiest of all his little biddy friends. However, in a few days, once all the chicks feathered out, I couldn’t tell him from the rest. I was a little hurt he didn’t seem to have any special feelings for me, after all we’d been through together.
The Tragic Tale of the Hen-Flogged Indian Princess
This is a story my mother told us dozens of times of her experience with a Mother Hen. It didn’t save me from having the same problem. This is her original art.
For my birthday, Mama made me an Indian outfit. By now, I’d been around the chickens long enough to know a mother hen would jump all over anyone getting near their chicks. I’d already been flogged trying it. This was different. In my Indian dress, I was brave and invincible. I played pretend in the yard shooting several buffaloes with my bow, saving the tribe from starvation, single-handedly. As I rode my horse, Midnight, bareback across the prairie, my long black braids flowed behind me. I had actually imagined myself up two horses. Midnight, a black stallion with a white mane and tail and Silver a white stallion with black mane and tail. If only I’d thought to imagine Silver was a mare, they could have created their own imaginary colt, but that never crossed my mind. They were both wild and would allow no one else to ride them. When I rode one, the other ran along with us. Deep in my fantasy, I slaughtered a bear and saved the chief, who by the way, was desperate to marry me. I was having none of it. I rode into the chicken yard, bravely scooping up a baby chick. Mother Hen ignored my two stallions, Indian dress, and the long black braids flowing behind me. In a split second, she was on my head, squawking, pecking, flogging, and scratching till I gladly dropped her baby. I’d never been so disillusioned in my life. That hen had no imagination whatsoever!!!
How to Get Along With Obnoxious Poultry
Daddy was a nut about poultry. He made regular patrols locally, and if he detected poultry, not in his collection, he couldn’t rest until he had one-upped whoever had put him in a “fowl mood. His enthusiasm didn’t last long enough to build a proper poultry yard, so the coyotes inevitably got whichever of the unfortunate creatures not roosting in the hen-house or trees. He enthusiastically scouted out additions to his flock who served no function but grain-eating, making a lot of racket, and a free-range pooping. Periodically, he would bring in a flock of guineas, boasting that they were excellent at letting him know if intruders were on the place. Guinea fowl are typically smaller than chickens, eat just as much and lay small, thick-shelled speckled strong-tasting eggs. Their meat has a strong, somewhat unpleasant taste. In addition to all this, at the first notice of a slight disturbance, they panic and go shrieking “pot-rack, pot-rack”, flying madly in all directions. A slight disturbance is likely nothing more than a feather falling off a guinea hen standing nearby. Having bragged about what excellent “watch dogs” they were, he’d tolerate the incessant racket and disturbance of the guineas better than the rest of us did. I never felt bad when the coyotes snatched the last of the guineas.
Geese made an occasional appearance, remarkable for their noisy honking, arrogance, biting, and lifelong diarrhea. Since we never ate nor plucked a goose, ours served absolutely no other purpose, other than giving up plenty of practice in guarding our backsides against their bites and teaching us the value of wiping our shoes. Cool kids don’t show up at school with goose sh__ on their shoes. The coyotes liked geese, too.
Chickens were a given. They roosted in the chicken house at night to keep them safe from varmints, but they had the run of the place during the day. They were pleasant to look at as they bobbed around the place, but weren’t interested in toilet training. Most importantly, hens lay an egg a day a few months of the year. They had a nice nesting box built high off the ground. The prim and proper among them hopped up the little ladder, strolled along till they found their favorite nest, and deposited an egg. Afterward, they cackled out news of their accomplishment and hopped back down the ladder one hop at a time. The renegades and slow learners stole away to hide a nest in the bushes. Gathering eggs was a job for women and small children. Mother listened for these naughty girls and sent us scurrying to find their eggs. It was very important not to take the “nest egg” or the hen would abandon the nest and steal away to hide her nest. Hens weren’t too fussy about the nest egg being genuine and were perfectly satisfied with glass nest eggs, or an old white door knob, just so the handle pointed down.
We gathered eggs just before dark. Should eggs be left in the nest after dark, chicken snakes were likely to steal them. More than once I have reached in gather eggs and grabbed a scaly black snake instead of a warm fresh egg. Once I was gratified to find a snake skeleton complete with a crushed glass egg resting inside.
In the spring, Mother would “set” her hens when she noticed hens acting “broody” or fussing around and feathering a nest. Instead of gathering the broody hen’s eggs, she’d add a few eggs to the pile. The hens never seemed bothered to see the increase. They’d sit on the nest for about three weeks till the biddies hatched out. She’d parade around proudly with her babies, fiercely protective. Many a child, dog, or cat has lived to regret interfering with a mother hen’s babies. They’d fly on an aggressor in a fury, flogging, spurring, and beating. I learned early and well to respect Mother Hen.
My grandma loved her chickens and had personal relationships with them, naming each. Her hens jumped on her shoulders when she went in the chicken yard. She was not above pointing out to Mabel that Helen had laid a double-yoked egg, nor mentioning to them that if egg production didn’t pick up, a lazy chicken might get invited to Sunday dinner. Grandma’s feelings for her hens got more personal as she got older, and she started retiring her hens instead of inviting them to Sunday dinner. Grandpa raised peas to feed the chickens. When he went into the chicken yard to toss them their peas, they fogged up to sit on his shoulders and on the top of his head.
Dogs loved eggs, too. Should a dog be foolish enough to take up “egg-sucking” or “chicken-killing” his days on the farm were numbered. When my grandpa’s dog got in and killed one of her precious layers, she tied the dead hen around his neck and made him wear it for several days, ridding him of his interest in chickens forever.
Once we had a Tom turkey, one of the most detestable creatures living. He’d been given to Daddy by a deranged backwoodser who found him too evil for his tastes. Naturally, Daddy grabbed him up and brought him straight home to us, leaving him to the care of his darling bride and tender children along with the rest of the rest of the barnyard creatures. Daddy enjoyed procuring creatures, not caring for them. That’s what his family was for. In theory, we only had to tolerate the turkey until Thanksgiving day, when Tom would be the centerpiece of our holiday table. All we had to do was somehow survive until then. At his previous home, he’d had a harem of turkey hens, till he got so mean he had to go. For a few days after his arrival, that devil had the run of our barnyard, terrorizing the other fowl. Deprived of their gentling company, his testosterone exploded. They escaped into the tree branches, under the barn, into stalls, as soon as they’d hear him strutting and making his aggressive, scratchy mating sound, “Aruh! Aruh! Aruh!” Turkeys don’t always say “Gobble, gobble, Gobble! Denied the company of poultry, he was not picky about partners, jumping on anything that didn’t get out of his way. He was no respecter of species and attempted to molest pigs. goats, and even horses. I was so glad when Daddy put a stop to his antics. That was one year we gave heartfelt thanks a few weeks early.
Farm Life Ain’t for Kiddies and Cowards
Original art by Kathleen Holdaway Swain
Being a farm kid is not for sissies and cowards. The dark side of the chicken-raising experience is slaughtering, plucking, cleaning, and preparing of chickens for the pot. I watched as Mother transformed into a slobbering beast towering over the caged chickens while we shooed them into the corner of the chicken-yard. She seemed particularly calculating as she stooped, giving the poor chickens the impression the threat was over. Running her hooked wire clothes hanger at ground level into the midst of the terrorized multitude, she snatched a startled chicken who’d never expected to be attacked at the foot. Exiting the enclosure with her victim, she held it firmly by the head, giving its neck a quick snap before releasing it to turn its last crazy race. Chickens take a while to get the connection between a broken neck and the end of life. We crowded by, horribly thrilled by what we knew was coming. It was scarier than “The Night of the Living Dead” as the chicken flapped its wings, ran with its head hanging crazily to one side, and chased us in ever larger circles until it finally reached the Pearly Gates. It looked horribly cruel, but done properly, a quick snap of the wrist breaks the chicken’s neck instantly, giving a quick death. Sometimes, Mother killed several chickens for the freezer, treating the waiting chickens to a taste of what they were in for. It didn’t calm them down a bit as the watched the dearly departed flop around the yard.
Roosters are necrophiliacs, turned on by the sight of floppy-necked hens racing by. If one is enticing, just imagine the effect of a yardful! Lustful roosters have no problem resorting to violence toward moralistic humans trying to get between them their fascinating harem. For some reason, Mother was equally determined her chickens not be interfere with her chickens.
Once the chicken was disabled or dead, Mother grabbed it, plunged it into a pot of boiling water, plucked the feathers, slit its pimply white belly and removed its entrails, cut off its feet and head, and prepared it for dinner or the freezer. I was repulsed when Mother found unlaid eggs in the egg cavity and saved them for cooking. That just didn’t seem right. I was happy to eat the chicken, but future eggs…disgusting.
Mother looked out one day and saw one of her laying hens eating corn, oblivious to the fact that her gizzard was hanging out. It bobbed up and down gaily as the chicken pecked corn off the ground. Apparently she had suffered injury from a varmint. Clearly, she wouldn’t survive with this injury, so Mother and I tried to catch her. At least, she could be salvaged for the table. Well, Her running skills were still intact. We chased her all over the yard with no luck. Finally, Mother decided to put her out of her misery by shooting her. She missed. She fired again and shot the hen’s foot off. I knew I could do better. I shot her beak off, then hit her in the tail. By this time, we both felt horrible and had to get her out of her misery. Finally, the combined fatigue and her injuries had slowed the poor beakless, tailless, gizzard-bobbing, one-legged chicken down enough so we could catch her and wring her neck.
All chickens didn’t end life as happily. The LaFay girls, Cheryl, Terry, and Cammie raised chickens for 4-H completion with the of the flock destined to fill their freezer. Late one Thursday evening while their mother was at work, they realized tomorrow was the day for the 4-H barbecue chicken competition. Mama LaFay wouldn’t be in until way too late to help with slaughtering and dressing the chickens. After all the time and effort they had put in on their project, they had no choice but to press forward without Mama’s help. They’d helped Mama with the dirty business of putting up chickens lots of times. They’d just have to manage the grisly business on their own.
Cheryl, the oldest sister, drew the short straw and won the privilege of wringing the chicken’s neck. She’d seen Mama do it lots of times but didn’t understand the theory of breaking the neck with a quick snap. She held the chicken by the neck at arm’s length and swung it around a few times in a wide arc giving it a fine ride, but no real injury. When she released it, it just ran off drunkenly. The girls chased and recaptured the chicken a couple of times, giving it another ride or two before the drunken chicken flew up into a tree, saving its life. Acknowledging her sister’s failure, Terry stepped up to do her duty. She pulled her chicken from the chicken yard, taking it straight to the chopping block, just like she’d seen Mama do so many times. Maybe she should have watched a little closer. Instead of holding the chicken by the head and chopping just below with the hatchet, Terry held it by the feet. The panicked chicken raised its head, flopped around on the block, and lost a few feathers. On the next attempt, Cammie tried to help by holding the chicken’s head, but fearing dismemberment jumped when Terry swung the hatchet. The poor chicken only got a slice on its neck. By now, all three girls were squalling. Cheryl tied a string on the maimed chicken’s neck. As Cammie held its feet they stretched the chicken across the block. By now, Terry was crying so hard so really she couldn’t see. Taking steady aim, she chopped Henny Penny in half, ending her suffering. Guilt-stricken, they buried the chicken.
Defeated, they finally called their Aunt Millie, who came over and helped them kill and dress their chickens for the competition. They triumphed and won second place in a field of two. God only knows what the other team’s chickens may have endured. All’s well that ends well.
Nutsrok 