Event Date: 1979–1985

Event Date: 1979–1985 Drafted: 2025-11-23

We had many goats over the years, each one with its own personality — stubborn, sweet, curious, chaotic. Goats have a certain presence, a mix of holy mischief and old-soul calm that made them endlessly entertaining.

There were the gentle ones who nuzzled your pockets for grain. There were the bullies who headbutted the fence just to hear the clang. There were the newborn kids, wobbly-legged and soft, who smelled like milk and hay and warm wool.

Milking time was always an event. Mom would sit on the little wooden stool with a pail between her knees, and the rhythmic squirting sound of milk hitting the metal echoed through the barn like a quiet drumbeat. Sometimes she’d let visiting kids try. Watching children discover where milk really came from was endlessly amusing.

The goats were escape artists. They’d test the fence daily, searching for weak spots. If one got out, the others followed, trotting around the yard with proud little hops, nibbling on anything green or interesting. I remember Dad sighing, hat in hand, as he tried to coax them back in, muttering about “those damn goats” while secretly grinning.

But the best was feeding them: • the way they leaned into your hand • the scratchy softness of their noses • the tug of lips nibbling gently • the bright spark in their eyes

Goats were chaos, warmth, and humor rolled into one. They made the farm feel alive — not just with work, but with personality.