A hundred years or so ago there were ways to test your mettle …. Evalutate your abilities vis-a-vis your neighbors talents, and in other words confirm your worth, at least in the useful-skills category without having to hire a shrink to guide you in self-evaluation or take a test out of a magazine.
Cowboys gathered at a local ranch where they either rode the bull or got thrown off the bull, roped the cow or missed, stayed on the bronc or ate dust, and in such ways confirmed their worth and abilities to their neighbors and more importantly to themselves. Old men gathered around the fences and gave sage advice which was heeded in most cases because they had, in their day, ridden the horse or roped the cow thus establishing their worthiness as advisors to the younger generations. Women could either try their hand at the rodeo thing (their were a few, and man were they tough!), or head to the local fair where they baked pies, showed off handiwork and paraded well-dressed, well-mannered children who reflected their prowess in the homemaking arts.
These days we have to look a little harder, but opportunities do exist for this same type of raw validation experience. The results however, are not always what one expects. My particular day of reckoning arrived with the delivery of two milk goats and was administered quite deftly at the hands (udders to be more specific) of Millie and Lulu.
God is in the Details:
I don’t know exactly why it sounded like a good idea to own and milk goats; I think I actually wanted a cow, but was talked “down” in model by family members who had experienced my zealousness before and figured it would be easier to dispose of a hundred pound milk goat than a much larger beast. There was also that nagging issue of what to do with gallons and gallons of milk now that my family consists of just my husband Bill and myself. While I had no actual experience in the goat-milking arts, this barely slowed me down in my quest to become the quintessential goat milking expert. After all, I have access to libraries and internet resources which provide instant and detailed instructions for everything from constructing the perfect milk stand to actually disinfecting, cleaning, milking, storing the milk and making everything from cheese to soap. I ordered every book I could lay hands on and I studied them diligently until I could milk a goat in my sleep. In retrospect, my life would have remained simpler and my self-esteem at a healthy level had I stopped there. But that was not to be.
Day of Infamy::
I studied goat breeds and purchased two healthy, ready-to-milk registered Sanaan does from a family in Central, checked my calendar and made specific arrangements for their delivery in four weeks at 4:00pm on a Saturday. In the meantime I designed a milk barn, supervised my long-suffering husband as he put up well researched goat-safe fences, constructed the perfect milk stand, ordered everything (and then some according to my husband) that a home-dairy could possibly need and continued to mind-practice the art of extracting milk from my herd. It was to my great surprise and not insignificant consternation that my goats rolled in five hours early on the appointed day. Five hours may not seem a lot to you, but to the person who has scheduled every event down to the quarter hour including last minute stocking of the barn with buckets, chemicals, stripping cups and gloves, it was a disaster of near-biblical-proportions. The goats that erupted from the back of the trailer were not the serene creatures who had looked benignly at me through the fence in Central, but animated and seemingly angry creatures who looked strangely…. well, swollen beyond my naïve belief in the udderly regions. I explained to the driver that it was not time for the goats to arrive yet, that I was hardly ready to receive them and needed the next few hours to prepare for that important first milking experience. He looked at me with little interest in my plight and answered “do whatever you want lady, but these goats haven’t been milked in twenty hours or so and they’re pretty uncomfortable”. Uncomfortable? Uncomfortable?? From everything I’d read, and the way they looked it was more likely that they would go off like grenades before my very eyes. As the truck and trailer rattled back down the driveway, the goats and I looked at each other in disbelief and if I can successfully interpret a goat’s frame of mind, udder despair.
Humility and the Modern Woman:
With book in hand and hastily assembled recommended-paraphernalia close by, I read step 1 of the goat milker’s handbook: Once the goat is on the milking stand, make sure her head is through the stanchion, put some feed in the feeder and tie her so she doesn’t decide to leave in the middle of the milking process. Fine. Me: “Bill, put the goat on the stand” Him: “Huh? Me: “Just do it!, the book says do it!” Bill led the goat to the milking stand, dropped the rope, pointed at the milk stand and said in a very commanding voice “Get up on the stand!”. Evidently this goat was not accustomed to taking orders as she displayed no interest in hoisting her now bulbous appendages up on any skinny bench no matter how convincing the command. Some 20 minutes later she was on the stand (it took both of us and lots of discussion about where exactly we grab this milk-laden beast), and I was busy with steps 2 – 4 which had to do with preparing the goat for the ultimate goal which is, of course, to produce the much-ballyhooed fresh goat milk. Finally I sat down (on the specially designed milk stool), donned rubber gloves (which I have since stopped using), and placed my hands in the prescribed manner on the prescribed part of the goat. Carefully closing my fingers as I had done so many times in my sleep-milking phase, I waited for the expected sweet sound of milk splashing into the (specially designed) stainless steel pail. Nothing. Still nothing. Goat is getting perturbed. I stop, read the steps again to see what I have missed and repeat the process. Nothing. Goat kicks over the pail, but fortunately (?) nothing is in it. Two hours later a battle-worn and humble modern woman limps back to the house with sore hands, a bruised ego and danged little milk. My husband maintains his clearest memory of this episode was when I stood up, cried like a baby and wailed: “the goats are going to explode and it’s going to be all my fault!”.
Rodeos of the Mind
I now sport a herd of 2 milkers, 1 doeling, 1 wether (euphemism for castrated goat that I couldn’t bring myself to sell for meat when he was born male… now that’s a switch), and one strange little pigmy angora goat that is a remnant from a disastrous short-lived venture into raising Angora goats. I milk just once daily with my million dollar electric belly-pail goat milking system and either drink, give away or make cheese with the gallon or so of milk I get every morning. I’ve forged an understanding with the goats – they hop up on the milk stand and willingly participate in the milk-mugging, and I give them good feed, fresh water, warm beds and my undying affection. Is there any doubt that the goats won?
Modern man – man in the generic sense – is compelled to find ways in which he tests his abilities. I go over to the Gunlock rodeo arena some Friday nights and watch as the local ranchers compete with their neighbors in a sport called Team Penning. Most Fridays it’s good to get there about 8:00 pm or so. I also read the paper and marvel at the courage of the people who are smiling up from the pictures that the Chamber of Commerce provides of new business owners in the community – now that takes intestinal fortitude! People who run a marathon, run for office or take on a worthy cause all step out of their comfort zones, assume the risk of putting their abilities up for public scrutiny and perhaps seek to satisfy the same longing for validation as the men and women did a hundred years ago. And to them and you – however you define your test – I tip my hat and say “Ride ‘em Cowboy”!
Sally
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