You Can’t Miss It

We needed dairy goats. We scanned the ads for goats all over Georgia and I contacted tons of wonderful goat-herding folks but I just couldn’t connect with them. Many of them spoke of their goats as they would a drunk uncle at a family reunion: useless, annoying, and blissfully unaware of boundaries. I kept searching.

At last, I found a lady just north of us who spoke of her goats with respect and did not say (even once) how eager she was to unload the goats onto someone else. A fellow soaper (soapmaking hobbiest), her goats not only provide her with milk to serve to her family but also to add to her soaps. She wasn’t “getting rid” of anything — just downsizing. She wanted good homes for her babies and they would not just be going to the highest bidder. Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise: we would buy our goat family from her.
During one of our phone conversations (peppered with my comments to the children, “Please keep the lizards and frogs outside.” and “Please don’t eat your boogers. Get a tissue.”), I told her how heartbroken I was that the children would not get to enjoy playing with the goats. The girls leave Tuesday afternoon and the goats won’t come home with us until the goat barn is finished which probably won’t happen until the end of June.

I’d always pictured my children playing happily in a field full of goats, bottle-feeding kids (baby goats), and helping me milk the does. Even knowing that Kaitlin and Bri (my girls) were not going to be mine forever, I still wanted them to meet the goats before they moved on to a new chapter in their lives. I wanted them to share in the excitement as we prepared to welcome the goats to our home. Amazingly, the goat/soap lady understood completely. She agreed that the children needed to meet the goats before leaving and invited us out Thursday afternoon.

My friend Laura, her son, the girls, and I piled into our little car. Under clear sunny skies, we drove the back country roads to meet our future goats. This was my first visit to the sleepy town of Greenville, Georgia. With its historic Southern homes, rolling hills dotted with livestock, verdant farmland, and gently winding roads… I felt an overwhelming sense of calm. Even when I reached the town square with its Neoclassical Revival courthouse and realized that I had absolutely no idea where I was going. We ended up stopping at a gas station just off from the town square to ask for directions. The convenience store portion of the station didn’t appear to have changed since the early seventies (possibly earlier but I am not up on gas station architecture). I stepped inside where I was greeted warmly by two uniformed heating/cooling system repair guys. The conversation went as such:

“Get on one hundred and you caiiinn’t miss it,” said the taller repair guy.
“I know thassss right,” replied the shorter repair guy with a reassuring nod.
“Which side of the road will it be on? Are there any landmarks?” I asked, hoping for flashing lights or pointed arrows.
“Just turn at the big brick milk jug. You caiiiinnn’t miss it.” The repair guys said at once.

Oh, believe me boys: I can miss it and I did miss it. I turned onto “100″ just fine. Loved the drive! With thoroughbreds breezing along high wooden fences, stately farmhouses, and charming barns at every bend — I fully embraced “100.” But I saw no brick milk jug. I honestly wasn’t sure I’d know a brick milk jug were it to attack me from the backseat of my car like the deer in Tommy Boy. Not surprisingly, we reached the end of “100″ without luck. I called the goat/soap lady for help.

Turned out we’d passed the brick milk jug a few miles back — must have been distracted by all the horses. Admittedly, I go a little crazy in equine-country. Can you blame me??

Sure enough, there was her road. But where was the brick milk jug?? Laura and I looked carefully and spotted an odd little building tucked behind a wooden privacy fence. There stood a tiny old store nearly overtaken by vines, tall grass, and Georgia jungle. You can just make out the jug spout and handle.

Photo by Laura Bailey, taken from the passenger’s seat

We were told that the fence is in place to discourage horrible people (like us) from taking pictures or using the brick milk jug as a landmark. The owner is a wee mite eccentric. (Ya think? The crazy thing built a brick milk jug for Pete’s sake.) I should send that guy my gas bill. Had he not put up the stockade fence, I wouldn’t have missed my turn. The boogerhead.

Anyway, we arrived at a storybook white farmhouse with large vegetable garden and cheerful cornflower blue barn complete with a herd of goats. Glory be! We made it! The gentle-voiced animal-lover and soapmaker sat on her front porch waiting for us. She was exactly as I’d pictured her. That rarely happens. I’m not a good voice-to-face matcher but in this case — I was right on. She was lovely.

We all walked to the paddock and in the shade of several trees were the goats. Velvety soft muzzles found their way to our hands and curious amber eyes gave us the once-over in hopes that we carried grain or treats. When it became apparent that we carried nothing more than a camera, they wandered off to graze.

While the lady and I talked shop (agreed on when to pick up the goats, how much, which does were mine, etc.), we noticed that not one but two of the four females were pregnant. Let this be a lesson to us all: be specific in your prayers. I prayed for kids and laws-a-mercy! I’m getting them!

Four dairy goats will produce more than enough milk for us to drink, cook with, freeze, making into soap, and turn into cheese.

Just in case you are tossing around the idea of becoming a goat-owning wild thing, I thought I’d share a few sites that provide you with everything you ever wanted to know about goat husbandry:

Goat care, health, and husbandry:

http://fiascofarm.com/goats/index.htm
Goat Milking Stand/Build your own
http://fiascofarm.com/goats/milkstand.html