Written by Lindsay Henry
I wasn't raised on a farm. I lived in a zoo and sometimes I felt like my
life was a circus. But I didn't grow up on a farm. I think my mother,
the single mom of 6, dirt poor, and driven as all get out, had a dream
of raising us up just like The Waltons! It's quite hard to do,
however, in the middle of Scottsdale, Arizona, on the side of Camelback
Mountain, in the very midst of some of the most famous and richest
people in the world.
Our house didn't look like theirs. The roof was questionable, our family
room had pink walls, and on a really good day you might find us "kids"
folding laundry in that room with a baby goat on the coach or in the
laundry basket itself.
As we came and went in our yellow square FIAT Granny the goat would call
goodbye and hello as those little black tires crackled over the
gravel. She lived right next to our swimming pool. Soon it was too
much for her to bear that we were separated from her so of course she
rode with us. She rode In the front seat. She sat straight up
surveying the road as if she was the copilot of our lives. Off she
would go to the high school, to swimming practice, soccer practice and
football practice. In order to make ends meet my mom had a paper route -
Granny rode along. When we had the station wagon we would hold our
goats in the very back, ducking when we saw officers of the law as there
was no such thing as strapping in. We just had to make it to the
fairgrounds.
We smelled like a goat. We had goat hair on the clothes we had saved our
money for to try to fit in. And people gathered at the high school drop
off just to catch a glimpse, not of us in our clothes but of the goat
in the car.
We hated goat milk. We wanted sparkling white milk from the store. We
didn't want milk in a big plastic jug, but in a fancy carton. Well we
got it.....once. The rest of the time we were tricked into taking large
swigs that regularly contained hair, dirt, and a little dust even though
the warm elixir had just been strained through a fresh knee high and
disguised as carton milk. We picked all of that gingerly from our teeth.
The goats came inside. They played with our dogs and or cats. They
strutted around our Scottsdale home like they owned the place.
There were chickens, too. They all had names and personalities.
Frequently we were called the the neighbor's house to fish the chickens
out of their crystal clear swimming pool. Humiliated and hoping they
would not report us to the ASPCA or recognize us at school, we coaxed
our treasures out and carried them home.
We eventually had other guests. Spotty, the Schlitz Malt Liquor pig as
it charged us and ran down the door every time we fed him. But Amber,
the Golden Retriever thoroughly enjoyed taking Spotty round the
neighborhood via leash and collar.
There was the turkey that sat uneaten at Thanksgiving and the geese that attacked anyone or anything unfamiliar.
It was wild. It was weird. It was what it was. I complained. I feigned
humiliation. I pretended to be
the victim of parental abuse. But what
people don't know is that I woke up everyday with a view of our goats
and chickens and dogs and cats and rabbits and whatever else wandered
into the yard after being rescued. I would lay there in my bed looking
out my turn of the century window with peeling paint. I knew that this
day wouldn't bring me sudden popularity or a date to anywhere. I wasn't
going to gain a passel of friends or find that one of my teachers had
nominated me for an award...in anything. I knew that these moments and
those too few moments I spent with my little brothers and sister and my
mom were the best moments. No one knew that I couldn't wait to see that
square little roller skate on wheels turn the corner to the high school
to pick me up. I rode in the back seat amongst the unfolded newspapers
feeling safe and needed.
So of course there are good things about goats and kids. There are
traditional things like empathy for another being. There is
responsibility, consistency and teaching little ones about the circle of
life when you have goats or any other animal. However, these things are
all things that show the reverse, that kids are good for goats.
Goats are good for kids. They can love them, depend on them and can make
them feel like they belong to something and belong somewhere. Goats can
bring a family together and set kids apart - making them resilient and
giving them purpose to get up another day.
I wasn't raised on a farm. But we were famous in our own way and as it
turns out we were the richest family on the block. Granny the Goat
helped make that happen.
Other shorts you may enjoy:
Milking
Milking Stand
Goat Care
Life Span
Making Your Own Goat Treats
Does You Goat Have Bad Breath?
Lindsay, I loved your story. You are and were truly blessed!
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