Smokey Mountain Breakdown

The two of us are piled into Betsy's little S-10 flying down the highway listening to Jethro Tull in the sizzling heat of this east Tennessee Sunday. Damn, it sure is hot. I've got my overalls on and a tank top with every inch of exposed whiteness slathered with Bullfrog sunscreen. My big straw farmer's hat has my cropped hair in a permanent state of bad hat head.

Betsy has her Cowthulhu t-shirt on. She's in love with all things Cthulhu. The dashboard of her truck is strewn with plush Cthulhus. I don't know about her...but I feel like a teenager when we sneak out on these jaunts.

We pull into the lot closest to the animals and farm vendors. Betsy is looking to see if a goat she saw at this past First Monday is there. She's been thinking about that goat a lot and regrets not bringing her home.

I'm mostly along to find more grist for my writing mill.

We check the guy's stall and the goat isn't there. But he does have a gorgeous and brazen display of home canned goods. You can get slapped pretty heavy by the USDA guys if they catch you selling this stuff. But everything was so lovely and I wouldn't have been afraid at all to take home boxes of the stuff for sale there to use on my table. And I'm a strict by the book canner.

They had canned green beans, beats, tomatoes, relishes, chow-chows and pickles. All very beautiful. Whoever put all those jars up put a lot of work into them.

We meandered around looking at guineas and turkeys until we came to the pig guy. Betsy had asked me about how to dig and prepare the pit for a pig pickin'. I gave my best idea of it since I'd only watched the procedure, which is an ancient male ritual involving much shirtlessness and cold beer.


The stoats were in the back of a small truck doing piggy stuff. We shot the breeze with the pig guy and wished we had brought a dog crate since there was a right handsome boar stoat, about at the age for cutting that looked like he'd fatten up real nice. I told the story about when I was seven and helped cut the pigs on my best friend's pig farm. I got to hold them by the back legs while her brother did the actual cutting. For those of you that don't know, you have to geld the young male pigs that you are raising for meat. They call that "cutting".

Betsy bought a gang of plushies from the lady next to the pig guy. She was looking for a goat one. The entire selection was sadly Cthulhu-less. She buys some nice pullets from the plushie woman's son.

We wandered around towards the one building that housed an army-navy store. Betsy bought some cammo shirts for her husband and replaced her army jacket that had gotten left out in the rain.

We only did about half the market since I was getting nervous about exactly how effective my sunscreen was going to be. I get a little paranoid and wonder if I missed a spot. Lupoids don't do so well in direct sunlight.

We found the real treasure trove over in the far corner of the market. I think it this circa 1950-something electric washer that drew us in that direction.

It's just like the one that a local woman told me she got in the 60's. She was so happy to get that thing. I remember thinking she was talking about an automatic one, but when I asked her about it...this beast was exactly what she described. Mangle and all. But this would have been a huge luxury after spending your days hauling water up from the creek to boil your laundry in vats of lye soap and bluing. She says that the modern washers don't actually get your clothes nearly as clean as these big machines or the boiling did. And everything would be hung out on the clothesline to dry. I think we forget that luxurious feeling of sun dried clothing. Sheets especially. Can you all remember that smell?

No, the real find of the day was a 50 gallon cast iron cauldron in really great condition. No thin spots or anything! Perfect for cooking up a big batch of applebutter, scrapple and a must have for any respectable hog killin'.

Or maybe I was just in a particularly pig murdering mood that day.

I've had barbecue on the brain recently. And home cured country ham. And crispy fried scrapple slathered in butter and sorghum. With some salt-risin' bread.

But it was a really good trip, despite the heat and glaring sun. We stopped off at a Chinese buffet to grab a bite on the way home.

I didn't buy anything, but I almost bought a pig, a bunch of guineas and a sheep. But I restrained myself.

Or.... The Goat Yoda and Rosie do K-town...

So. Yesterday was a really super day for me. I don't get out much, you know.

Betsy and I spent the entire day in Knoxville and had a great "girl's day out".

We started out at Betsy's church, Saint Demetrios Antiochian Catholic Church in Mechanicsville where I think we were supposed to be helping with a cookout and ice cream social for the local area homeless. But the Cloistered Heart Franciscan Sisters seemed to have all the bases covered.

And while these aren't the same sort of nuns I grew up with in convent school...these are much nicer nuns...there is no way I'm gonna wrestle a spatula away from a penguin. I tell you, that just ain't gonna happen.

So we just sat off to the side and chatted. I really wanted to help but there didn't seem much for me to do except be there and be supportive. I'm reminded how the faces of the homeless in K-town seem to show the same sort of wear and tear of those who live the hard life of the mountain. But it must be so much harder for them being cramped into the city.

After that, Betsy took me to the huge wonderful bookstore called McKays. I found 2 huge oldish cookbooks for 4 bucks. It's the sort of place I used to spend hours and hours in and most of my money before I became a card carrying library fanatic. I just got to the point where I had to put myself on a book budget. I was running out of space for the things so now only very carefully considered books get in here permanently. I'm still on the lookout for that first printing of The Joy of Cooking. They didn't have anything that old...or the 1962 printing. I need both those books. They took the possum recipes out of the 1962 printing , which is why I need both.

Then we went over to a Mexican restaurant called Don Pedro's or something like that. It was really good. And sort of exciting for me. I've been out to eat at a real restaurant maybe 20 times since 2003. It's a real treat for me. I'd forgotten things like the annoying ritual of all the waiters coming out to someones table because somebody told them it was their birthday. The huge sombrero comes out and all the waiters have to converge on that one table and sing some company sanctioned version of Happy Birthday.

It's just sort of surreal to me. Like Disneyland.

But by far, the highlight of the entire day was ordering the margaritas.

Our waiter is this adorable blond child who, I'm quite sure, has a mother several years younger than I am. He takes our order and asks about drinks.

Betsy is driving so she orders a virgin margarita. Cute little waiter turns to me and I pipe up, "Well, I'm not driving so I'll have a REAL one!"

I haven't had a margarita in probably fifteen years if not more. I now want one, frozen and as big as my head with lots of nice crunchy salt on the rim. Something like I used to enjoy when I lived in Dallas when we used to make them in Slurpee machines by the pool, before engaging in impromptu, bad synchronized swimming.

Then, adorable waiter says, "Do you have your I.D.?"

"You are carding me!" I squealed in delight to the entire restaurant really loudly.

This kid is now my best friend ever!

We went for our wallets like gunslingers. He told Betsy he didn't need to see hers, but she insisted on being carded too. I don't blame her.

It was a really wonderful time out in the wilds of civilization.

Even Mondays on the farm can be sort of crappy.

I never really had jobs where Monday reared its ugly head and I had to drag myself into a 9 to 5 gig that my heart wasn't into. That's because I was stupid. It is largely this stupidity that led me to my current wonderful if penurious existence. If you are smart, you put up with a bit of discomfort at a job that doesn't completely fulfill you.

It's why they call it "work".

It allows you to do the stuff you really want to do. You've completely misunderstood if you think work is something you want to do.

Money isn't everything. I'd just like an opportunity to empirically prove this statement. I'll need lots of cash to do this.

No, my jobs were exciting, rewarding and ultimately damaging to my health. That's the bad thing about jobs you love. You don't know when to quit.

I get up this morning and go to get the milk for the bottles and check on my charges.

Violette meets me at the door of the dog crate projectile vomiting. Goat vomit is not a pretty thing. They usually do it when they've eaten something they shouldn't have. In Violette's case it looks like too much alfalfa chaff.

So now, my poor little possum not only has a freakishly bulbous nose, but is very sick to her tummy. This is serious. Most goat deaths involve their digestive tracts. So, I shoot her up with C & D Anti-toxin and give her some orally and some mylanta. I hold her on my lap with her head slightly lowered so she can continue to upchuck all the nastiness in her belly. There is a lot of it. She looks like she's feeling slightly better so I let her have a nurse on her mom. I leave her out there for a while then bring her back in.

Rinse, shampoo, repeat.

We get to do it all over again in another few hours. This has been the sum total of my activities today. Hold baby goat's head while it throws up.

I'm covered in goat vomit. I've gone through a stack of towels that she's puked all over. I think we finally got it all out and now I'm keeping her happy ass inside and giving her Pedialyte until I'm sure her rumen has recovered.

The Goat Yoda was helpful as always. She has taught me well. When I called, she said I'd done exactly what I was supposed to do.

I wonder if I'm clear to take a shower yet?

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Thus Speaketh the Goat Yoda!

Speaking of the Goat Yoda!!! She has joined us in the Blogosphere to preach her righteous and wholesome message to the Goatitudes. Here's her "about me" blurb:

Betsy aka 'the goat yoda'

I was raised in Kingsport, TN and decided that the city was not for me. My husband and I live in Cosby, TN with my goats, our dogs and cats and a flock of chickens. Our girls are grown and gone, so we have to have something to occupy our time! Time to grow our own food, and be sustainable on the land. We support ideas like permaculture and bio-dynamics, as well as community supported agriculture and all natural gardening techniques.

If you like the idea of what I do...I'm sure you'll love what Betsy has to offer.

She's just started blogging so get over there and give her some love!

This will be the last "kidding" post for this year. All of my girls have now delivered.

Today was difficult. If Betsy, the Goat Yoda, had not come by at exactly the right time, Nod would have died and taken her kid with her. I am still relatively clueless as to the practical matters of difficult kiddings. It's one thing to read all the books and know all of the types of things that can go wrong as the kid is entering the world and what to do about them.

But it's quite another to reach your arm up into a goat's uterus and fix the problem. Hell, it's quite a thing just to reach your arm up into a goat's uterus. I mean...they are about the same size as a person, even if their "lady parts" are a little bit bigger.

I knew Nod was going to deliver this morning. She was very vocal on the back porch when I got up. Everything seemed okay and Nod sort of freaks out when people are around. She hates to be touched. So I watched her through the window. As soon as she started to have mucous come from her rear, I knew she was about ready.

I've now seen a few of these. I'm not nearly as nervous as I was with the first one.

But Nod doesn't seem to be successful in pushing the baby out. She's screaming and grunting and pushing, her legs scrambling for something to push against. I try to help but she won't let me. I leave a message on Betsy's cell phone about it. Nod's grinding her teeth in pain. This goes on for about 30 minutes before she finally seems to stop pushing. It's like she's giving up the fight.

I know I should wait an hour before reaching inside her, but I've never done it before and I'm really nervous about trying. I'm suddenly unsure of how I will do this thing without someone else to hold Nod...since Nod doesn't like to be touched.

Silly me. I've been reading all these books with the assumption that any goat in trouble is just going to lie back and say, "Oh sure... please DO go ahead and thrust you arm up to the elbow into my uterus...I'll stay quite still for you!"

Betsy drives up just at the right time. She has come to pick up Lucky to go to his new pet home. She was supposed to come last night but rescheduled for this morning. We sit on the pew in the kidding stall and watch Nod make a few half-hearted attempts to get the kid out.

I'm wondering, since I've already seen two really big buck kids come out of the more experienced does if that might be the problem. Or breach, or one foot back, or two kids stuck at the cervix...there is a whole list of presentations that could be the problem. Or a kid just too damn big to clear her pelvis.

The "miracle of life" can become "the miracle of death" in a skinny minute. Don't ever subject children to this with any animal unless you are damn sure you know what the outcome will be. And, of course, you never can predict what will happen. It's much better to go to the animal shelter and see all of the little miracles of life looking for a home.

At an hour and 15 minutes, I give the go-ahead for Betsy to "go in". We have the meager supplies I've been able to gather. Hot soapy water, towels and some ultra-glide. I hold Nod's head in a vice grip with my knees and hold grip elbows. Betsy reaches in.

Betsy has to close her eyes while she does this so she can visualize the inside of Nod. Nod is squirming and understandably not happy about this but eventually calms down. Betsy tells me when she finds the front legs, and then the head. The kid is enormous. The head is huge. It's bigger than Kidzilla.

Oh, crap, I think. Another huge buck kid.

Betsy's really up in there. I'm frankly in awe of this entire procedure. It's the sort of thing I've only seen watching "All Creatures Great and Small" and they usually tastefully shoot over the animal's shoulder. It's really different watching it in person.

Suddenly, Betsy has two legs out. I can tell how big they are for a newborn.

"I think we've lost the kid." Betsy says.

The legs are limp and floppy, like dead things.

"That's probably why she stopped pushing." She says.

This is sad, but part of raising farm animals. They really are very delicate creatures. A great deal of work goes into making them robust and healthy.

Betsy struggles to pull on those limp little legs. This is not going easily and she struggles to keep them from being sucked back inside.

"Do you need a kid puller?" I ask stupidly.

"Do you have one?"

"Uh. No."

I'm wondering if we are going to have to do something drastic to free Nod of this kid. They use tractors sometimes to pull stuck calves out of cows. I really don't want to do anything like that.

"Wait a minute....I feel a head coming."

It is suddenly all over with. With a wet squicking sound the entire kid slides out onto the towel we had placed there.

And amazingly, I see the dead kid gasp for breath.

"It's alive!" Both Betsy and I say in unison.

We rush into action now to do the kid "snatching". I keep Nod from seeing the baby. She's never kidded before so, unless she sees the kid, this will all be like the bellyache from hell for her. Betsy pulls the baby up by it's back legs and swings it to clear its nose and throat.

An incredibly loud and lusty goat wail is heard from the baby.

"It's a doe!" Betsy announces as she hands me the kid completely wrapped in a towel. I rush inside with the kid while Betsy tends to Nod.

I open up the towel and am met by a very indignant, very much alive little soul. She continues to berate me for dragging her from that comfy warm wet place she was enjoying. I feel her eye fall upon me and I experience that moment of imprinting. It's a rush. I feel myself returning the imprint. I'm the first living thing this baby sees. I am now somebody's mommy.

She immediately starts head butting my abdomen demanding something to eat. Her bleats change from indignant to a demanding, staccato of short little "blat, blat, blat's." I give her the bottle and she is a greedy little thing. The rest of my babies took a while to find their first meal. This one wants food right off the bat.

She's so big because it looks like she is late. And she does seem a bit lazy about anything that doesn't involve food. And extremely demanding and bossy. If I leave her eyeline, she cries very loudly and repeatedly. I've got her dressed up in diapers and onesies.

Betsy is yet another amazing person who has been laid in my path. I always tell the story of how our vicar showed up at my mother's hospital room mere minutes before she died. I've been hugely fortunate in having lots of people like that in my life. Some people are just more closely attuned to the needs of others and answer some sort of call that comes from I'm not sure where. They just mysteriously show up at exactly the point at which they are most needed. Betsy is one of those people for me. For Nod. And for this yet un-named little goat person.

And she does seem to see herself as a person...not even being a day old yet.

Naaaa...I'm not attached at all. Completely objective, I am.