The Good Old Days

A friend recently wrote to tell me that his life, since he retired, was now pretty peaceful down on the farm, far from turmoil. It reminded me of when Sam and I had our own little place (I mentioned in my last blog post that I had goats once, so here you go.) many years ago before moving to the Seattle area. We owned a little 10-acre farm in Northeastern Oregon, not far from La Grande on the outskirts of a settlement called Summerville. We hope to move back to La Grande (once we retire) and settle down with our horses, but at that time we lived about five miles out of Summerville in our little 10 x 40 ft. mobile home.

Back then I had long hair down to the middle of my back, which I usually wore in braids, and we had no horses at all. No, we had chickens (Barred Plymouth Rocks and Rhode Island Reds), ducks (Rouens, which look like very fat Mallards, only with black instead of orange feet), Muscovies (a “duck-like South American waterfowl”—I looked it up), Pilgrim geese, and dairy goats. Sam and I were in our post-college phase and had “gone back to the land,” which was very fashionable with all our peers. Some of them even had their own sheep and wove fabric by hand from their fleeces on their own looms. We were founding members of the Mt. Emily Co-op (the local bulk organic food store), too. That should tell you where we were at in those days!

One half of our place was in timber and the other half was a large cleared field that the previous owner had once planted in grain, probably oats or wheat, and there was a gravel driveway that wound from the county road up to where our mobile home stood. We had our own well for water and a little barn of sorts that Sam had cobbled together, but the animals pretty much roamed wherever they wanted. This was not a problem, because we didn’t have a garden to worry about, nor were we afraid the birds would get away. All our neighbors lived a fair distance from us, so we didn’t have to worry about the goats, either, and if you know anything about goats, you know they are not easily confined. I am not kidding (excuse the pun) when I say it is not unusual for one to jump a six foot fence flat-footed. The big heavy-bodied milkers can’t quite make it that far, but all the rest of them can, no sweat! No, our only worries were that coyotes or the neighbors’ dogs would bother our stock, and there wasn’t much we could do about that, short of using the .22 rifle on them.

Why, you may ask, did we have goats? Because we had a farm, we wanted our own milk, and because there are goat people and there are cow people. Having grown up with cows, and not being overly fond of them, I wasn’t at all excited about having any myself. Also, have you ever tried to manhandle a cow? They are kind of large for that. No, when Sam and I decided we wanted to be able to produce our own milk, goats won the day hands down.

By the time we moved to our farm in Summerville, we had owned dairy goats for a couple of years and already owned several individuals from two different breeds. We started out with the only goat we could find locally: a cute little white Saanen-type doe named Sally, but before long we discovered that there was a great deal of variety in goats (by the way, goats are not properly referred to as nannies and billies—they are does and bucks, like deer, to which they are distantly related). By the time we moved to Summerville, we had branched out to Nubians, a breed noted for its distinctively long, bell-shaped ears, roman noses, and rich milk high in butterfat. They also have distinct personalities and a great deal of color variation. Where Saanens are known for being quiet and laid-back, Nubians are the clowns and extroverts of the caprine world. And yes, I milked goats—about 10-15 does twice a day, every day, come rain, sleet, snow, or shine, and I have the grip to prove it.

Having the goats was quite an experience, and I definitely learned what hard work was all about. You do not own goats; they own you. Whereas with cows or other kinds of livestock, you can probably get a friend or someone you know to cover chores for you if you ever want a vacation, it is impossible to find anybody to come and milk goats for you. Some people use machines to milk them too, but I milked them all by hand, kept what we used for ourselves or sold as “pet food,” and bottle-fed the babies (that’s the only way YOU get any milk). On a farm you do not get sick days, because chores need to be done morning and evening every day whether you feel like it or not. You also make very little money, because you sell wholesale and buy everything you need at retail prices. Of course, it wasn’t an entirely bad experience. I loved living in the country, and I loved my goats—but I would think more than twice should I ever consider having them again.

I once saw a cartoon in one of the local papers which made me laugh very long and sardonically: An old farmer has just won a million dollars in the lottery, and a reporter is interviewing him wanting to know what he plans to do with all his money. The old farmer just looks at the reporter and replies, “Oh, I guess I’ll just keep on farming until it’s all gone!” Unfortunately, there is more truth in that statement than you might like to think. In fact, that’s why we got out of the goat business and moved to Seattle: We were working our butts off and going broke. Both Sam and I worked full-time at the hospital in La Grande, then we turned around and spent what we had earned working full-time on the farm, getting deeper and deeper in debt. I must say that one of the smartest things we ever did was to bail on the farm. I have tremendous respect for anyone who tries to make a living farming or ranching, because it is extremely hard work, all hours of the day and night, for very little income. That is why agri-business is taking over production of our food today.

Do I miss “the good old days?” Yes and no. I love country living and producing my own food; I thoroughly enjoy working with animals and hand-crafting things for myself. Nothing can take its place. And believe me, I would not miss TV at all, though giving up the Internet would be hard. Thankfully I won’t need to do that. At the same time I do NOT miss working so hard in uncomfortable conditions. I well remember one wintry morning sitting on my milking stool, milking one of my favorite does, who was busily chowing down her Purina Dairy Goat Feed, and reflecting on why I was there. It was so cold that the water buckets were all frozen, the milking parlor was not heated, and it was snowing outside. There was a little mouse in the corner watching me the entire time too. I never had the heart to kill them myself, though I didn’t care if the cats did. Where were those cats when you needed them? Well, I knew I had no one to blame for my predicament but myself. No, I did not hate it; I DID enjoy my life mostly, but if I were ever to have goats again, I would only have a couple, and they might well be Angoras next time!