Getting Your Goat

“That really gets my goat!”  I can hear Dad saying it.  Most of us know what the expression means.  Something had just upset him, or aggravated him.  But what on earth does that have to do with the poor innocent goats?  Goats are amazing creatures, and are very useful animals in many parts of the world—in some cases, the difference between eating or not eating.  The “poor man’s cow,” they’re called.   I wouldn't  relegate them to that nearly-demeaning status.  They are wonderful creatures, affectionate pets, and useful for a variety of things.  We’ve owned a lot of them—both the dairy variety, and the Angora breed that are sheared twice a year for Mohair.   

On my walks I see some goats at the Amish farm on the S-curve.   They tether the goats on the banks by the road and along their driveway to do their weed eating.  A nice doe (or nanny goat), that appears to be producing a lot of milk, provides a valuable service in keeping down the weeds and grass, converting it to milk for the family.  The only reservation I have with this arrangement, is that goats need protection from weather and predators.  But then again, a large family lives there, and someone is always nearby to provide for the needs of the goat.   They look after the goat, and goat looks after them.   A nice, mutually beneficial relationship.

When I was a child, we lived on a small farm where we raised chickens, sheep, two Jersey cows for family milk, and a couple of beef steers.  Goats weren't even on the radar.

That all changed when I became married, and wanted to have my own mini-farm.  With only one-and-one-third acre of land, we did not have enough room to repeat everything from my childhood.

Still, I was determined to do something.  Rabbits came first.  Then chickens.  We had meat and eggs now, but no milk.  If only space would allow for a Jersey cow.   We decided we would  have a dairy goat.  We would drink the milk, use it for homemade ice cream, perhaps cheese, and if there was enough to spare, we might even try making soap.  

We acquired our first dairy goat at a livestock auction.  The one we chose was a brown mixed-breed with airplane ears.   I was so nervous I could hardly bid.  I went home that evening with a happy four-year-old son, and a goat that needed to be milked.  We named her Gertrude—Gertie for short.  

I was the first to try milking her.  It didn’t work.  Only a few dribbles of milk came when I did what I had seen my Dad and brothers do countless times with the Jersey cows.  You just squeeze the handles and the milk streams out.  Right?  So simple.  Not for me.  Juanita, an old hand at milking their childhood cow, came to my rescue.   She watched me try until she couldn't take it any more, then replaced me at the rear of the goat.  Suddenly, beautiful streams of pure white milk were gathering into a frothy puddle in the stainless pail.  We were in business!   With a little coaching, I caught on, and my dear farm wife didn’t need to milk the goat again.

Son Derek with a favorite friend.

After several years of mixed-breed goats, we joined a goat club, and graduated to registered Nubians with good pedigrees that we purchased from people who had been raising and milking goats for many years.   Nubians are the least adventurous goats—as far as escaping—and in my opinion, the prettiest.   With the long drooping ears, and the multi-colored, spotted coats, they are simply beautiful.  And the new-born kids are as pretty and cuddly as a pup.  

Son Mike with a prize winning Nubian

It wasn’t a large leap to add Angora goats to the herd.  We started this when our small family lived in Gallia County, Ohio, and worked on the Walnut Hills Dairy farm, for Phil and Ellen Nisly.   The property we lived on had an old barn with room to house a small herd of goats, and the benefit we would get from the Angoras was two-fold.  They would produce hair that we could sell for fine Mohair products, and they would clean up the large amount of multiflora roses that were taking over hillside areas of the farm.   The plan came together, and one day Phil and I, along with our boys, loaded up in the old farm truck and headed for Cambridge, Ohio where we bought a herd of about twenty Angora goats from an old gentleman who was getting out of the business.   

Some of our Angoras, peeking out the door.

We learned how to shear the goats, and found a place to market the hair.  We didn’t make a lot of money on the project, but we had fun, and the goats had fun cleaning up the multiflora and poison ivy.  Again, a mutually beneficial arrangement.  

Wait a minute!  You said the goats ate poison ivy?  Yes I did.  They love it, and it doesn't hurt them.  In fact, some would claim that drinking milk from a goat that eats poison ivy, will make a person less susceptible to reacting to it.

It wasn’t long after we bought the Angoras, that we thought the goats should have a donkey to guard them from dogs and coyotes.  So we adopted two wild burros that came from somewhere out west where the Bureau of Land Management needed to thin the herd.  They were easily tamed, and that began our relationship with donkeys for the next twenty years.

This is not photo shopped.  The donkey and goat had an agreement.  The donkey got a back rub, and the goat got to eat leaves from the maple tree.

Goats and donkeys, two species of animals that are often looked down upon, are clean, intelligent animals that are sometimes given a bad rap because of personality traits.  We shouldn't follow common thought about these animals.  Their personality characteristics are a reflection of their high intelligence.   This perhaps makes them more challenging, but also more fun.

Daughter Angie.  Tug of war.

Now for those of you who may be thinking of getting your first goat, I have some thoughts.  This is a great time of year to consider it.  Goats are excellent pets, and provide a wonderful way for children and their parents to enter the world of animal husbandry on a small parcel of land.

When we began, there was no such thing as internet.  We purchased several good books on raising and caring for dairy goats.  The books are still available, and are helpful reference tools. There is also a plethora of material on the internet, and a lot of it is excellent.  If you are already thinking about taking the plunge, and beginning to do your research, I’d like to offer this short, elementary list of items to consider.

Ten suggestions for entertaining your first goat:

1. Peruse the internet and/or purchase books on raising dairy goats.  After reading and researching, you may feel overwhelmed.  This is okay.
2. Go ahead and start looking.  Contact your local 4H club.  Someone there should have contacts for you.  With a little bit of common sense, and knowledgeable people around you, you will do fine.
3. Buy only healthy stock.  Try to avoid a livestock auction.  Reach for your wallet when you find someone who has begun to look like his goats and loves talking about them.
4. Provide shelter from sun, rain, and wind.  This is important!  Your goat will decide when to use it.
5. Feed lots of tin cans.  Just kidding!!  Contrary to popular belief, goats are finicky eaters.  Provide good pasture or browse, or good quality hay and grain.  Why do goats have the reputation for eating tin cans?  They like the glue under the paper.
6. Fresh water must be available at all times.  Your goats will not drink contaminated water.
7. Provide a social life.  Get another goat or be prepared to spend a lot of time with yours.  They love company and attention.  Go ahead and get at least two.  They’ll be happier and so will you.
8. Build a good fence.  Your neighbors will not be amused by having a goat over for lunch—especially in their carefully manicured rose garden.  Goats are experts at climbing over or crawling under poor fences.  Electric fencing is a good option.
9. Don’t worry about what your friends think.  There are a lot more goats in the world than cows.  Sixty percent of the world’s milk drinkers are drinking goat’s milk.  It is naturally homogenized, easier to digest, hypo-allergenic, and delicious when cooled quickly.
10. Enjoy your goats.  They are friendly and affectionate.  Treat them like your favorite pet, and you will be rewarded many times over.  And if your friends still wonder about you, don’t worry, you have new friends.

Certainly, this is just a beginning.  Deciding which breed you want will be the next step.  Enjoy the process, and involve your children.  Goats are great to have around.

From Kidron, Ohio, we’re going to end these thoughts and go for  a fast three-mile walk down Jericho, and up Zuercher.  I anticipate seeing cows, horses, goats, and sheep.  There will be  Amish men and boys out in their fields plowing, discing, and planting.  What a beautiful part of the world to live in!  Come see us sometime.

An Old Man and His Garden

I’m still walking, and it does my heart good, in more ways than one.  The exercise is great, but beyond that, I get to spend time thinking and observing, and leaving behind the busyness of the day.  

Lately I’ve been watching the Amish plowing their fields with horses.   Such a peaceful scene.  If you listen closely, you can hear the metallic sounds of the plow rubbing through the dirt and hitting a stone now and then, and the clinking of the metal linkages that hook the plow to the harness.   

Hershberger boy on Zuercher Road

Up the Zuercher Road hill they’re sawing logs in the old sawmill, making beams and planks.  I watched them pull the logs out of the woods with a team of horses last winter.  They have a diesel engine for power.  This morning there was an older Amish man working together with a young man, running the saw.  

An  Amish saw mill

A few weeks ago, I visited the metal-working shop of an Amish entrepreneur, and his little boy was following right on his heels everywhere he went.  He must have been about three years old, and he was singing as he followed.  He loved his Daddy, and he was learning an ethic of work right there.  

It does me good to see these things.  It reminds me of my  boyhood working with Dad, and then again, life with my own children.

That brings me to thoughts of Dad.   His friendships extended to many places, and although he’s gone, the memories live on.  The example he left behind is priceless.   He loved cultivating the fertile soil of both relationships and gardens.

Dad was a farm boy raised on the black swamp ground of Western Ohio.  His beginnings were humble—the youngest of a family of eight children.  He was a ten-year-old boy when the great depression hit, and life was tough—so tough he went through eighth grade three times.  It had nothing to do with intelligence.  His parents simply couldn't afford the cost of high school—which at that point in time was not free.

Finally, he was able to go, and graduated the oldest in his class.  Marriage followed a year later.  With intelligence and hard work, coupled with good management and a supportive wife, he was a success.   In his 91 years, he lived a life of significance, and is remembered by many as a much-loved pastor.  That’s not how I remember him.  To me he was Dad.

He was a good Dad.  He loved his family and taught us by example.  He enjoyed telling us of stories about when he was a boy, and Grandpa still used horses in the fields.  He tells how Grandpa was a good horseman, and how he would buy rough horses, bring them back to good health, train them for working, and then sell them.  Dad himself, as a boy, worked the fields with horses.  Maybe that’s why I so enjoy my walks among the Amish, watching the dads and boys plowing the fields, and imagining a day long ago when that was Dad and Grandpa.

Amish father and son plowing.  The boy looked to be about eight years old.  This photo represents a bit of a paradox, with the horses plowing under the high tension electric wires.  Two worlds.

And Dad loved his large garden.  I suppose he learned this from his parents, perhaps because of the lean years during the depression.  The family garden was the most important source for keeping food on the table during those years of poverty.

The garden was the one thing that Dad could not give up even as his health slowly declined with age.  For a while, it was reduced in size,  then reduced some more.  At that point, we helped him with it.  He did what he could, but hoeing and cultivating was left to younger hands and hearts.  Finally, his small garden patch became a yard, and the final years of gardening took place in the flower bed beside the back patio.  There, three tomato plants grew proudly under his watchful eyes, and the rhubarb grew nicely beside them.  At least it was something.  It was still a reminder of his days as a boy on the farm, and his days of raising enough garden crops to feed his own family of six boys through the summer and winter.  It was also the annual yearning to work in the soil, and cooperate with the earth to raise some food.  It’s an itch that must be scratched.  Everyone who has been gardening since childhood understands this.

Sure, Dad could have easily purchased vegetables from the local stands—and he did.  But that’s not the point.  The point is, when you grow it yourself—when you lovingly plant it and tend to it—the flavor is better and the satisfaction is at least doubled.  Nothing is as tasty as a fresh tomato warmed by the sun, picked by our own hands, cut into thick, juicy slices, and placed between pieces of homemade bread that’s been spread with Miracle Whip or Mayo.

Gardening is a wonderful project for the family, and the finest expression of cooperating with the earth to produce food that will sustain us and bring pleasure to the taste buds.  I still remember Dad, in the summer, biting into the first roasted ears of sweet corn for the season—slathered generously with real butter—the appearance of near ecstasy on his face.  The happy sigh.  ”This is food fit for kings,” he’d say.

We lived on a farm near Elida, Ohio in those days, and owned an old Ford Tractor 9N.  We used it to plow the garden, and disc it down.  I loved to feel the cool, black earth under my bare feet as I followed the plow, picking up night-crawlers.  Then running through the freshly disked soil like a calf let out in the springtime, falling face down, and breathing in the scent of the good earth—those are memories so vivid, I can smell the soil in my mind.

Once the ground was prepared, Dad would take the old high-wheel hand-cultivator, put the row attachment on, and make perfectly straight rows.

“You choose a point at the other side of the garden,” he’d say, “and you aim for it.  Don’t take your eyes off that spot.  That’s how you make a straight row.”  

Then he’d tell us how many seeds to drop, and how far to space them, while he followed us with a garden rake and carefully covered  them.

As a boy, I always used the hoe with the broken handle.  It fit my short stature.  Dad didn’t throw things away.  He believed in repairing them—except for the old hoe.  It stayed small for small people.  And I remember the old ax.  He’d hold it up and say, “Yep, it’s the same old ax.  Only changed the head twice, and the handle three times, but it’s still the same old ax.”  And he’d grin.  I like the way he thought, and I try to live his philosophy myself.

The old Ford tractor was sold long ago, but it was my good fortune to purchase another one for my use as a family man with children who needed to experience the joy of gardening.  And it is still my practice to use the old hand cultivator, not only to make rows, but later on to put the cultivating attachment on it, and periodically cultivate the garden.  Rototillers are fine.  Most people choose to use them.  I don’t.  It’s more fun to get a good hard work-out while pushing an engineless machine.   Step, then push.  Step, then push.  Listening to the cultivator digging it’s way through the soil, and watching the small weeds give way to my progress, is a very satisfying experience.  The satisfaction is all the more pleasant when the job is finished, and I can sit in the shade of the old Hickory tree, with a Golden Retriever happily stretched out beside me, and a tall glass of cold mint tea in my hand—tea that was picked from the sizable wild patch in the pasture, down by the creek.

And that’s when I think about the goodness of life, and the many gifts that I’ve been given.  And I think about Dad.  This right here—this love of gardening—is a gift he gave me, and it keeps on giving.   Someday I’ll be the old man whose garden will be reduced to one tomato plant.  That’s alright.  That’s life, and I’m grateful for it.

From the little town in the country, Kidron, Ohio, where Dads and Moms and their children work together in the garden.  Where they plant together, harvest together, and eat together—we wish you a pleasant springtime, and a bountiful garden that produces food fit for Kings.  

Memories

Memories.

April 11, 2015, a beautiful spring day, full of promise—green grass, bright daffodils, and swelling buds.  A lot of buggies are going past the house—Amish men headed into town for the huge spring machinery sale.  We call it Amish reunion day.  You almost need to see it to believe it.  Quite a few straw hats appearing now—that’s all the evidence we need that warm weather is here for a while.

The thunderstorms that rolled through this week were reminders of some childhood memories along Neff Road, near Elida, Ohio.  I can remember my brothers, Wes and Gene, and myself standing in the in the dark, in the living room of the old farmhouse.  The lightning would flash brightly and we would all yell and fall crashing to the floor as if struck down. We’d lay there as the thunder rumbled loudly, then get up and wait for the next flash.  What fun!  Then one day a vicious electrical storm sent a bolt of lightning into our house wiring and out through our stove.  The boom was deafening, and the stove burst into flames.   Wes managed to unplug it, and the fire went out, but the lightning wasn’t so much fun after that.

Exactly fifty years ago today, April 11, 1965, was a day I will never forget.  It changed me.  Made me realize how small and insignificant we are, and how powerless we are when faced with the raw, brute force of nature.  The events of this day provoked in me a terror of storms that lasted quite a few years, and a vivid memory that can still be resurrected without difficulty.  

It was Palm Sunday that April day many years ago when the group of tornadoes ripped through several states, including western Ohio—the area where we lived.  It was a Sunday night, and we were at church.  The air was too calm and sultry.  Lightning was flashing, and the small amount of sky that was still discernible, was dark and ominous.  Suddenly, the lights went out.  Complete darkness enveloped us.   Steadily, the storm raced towards us, and the darkness was interrupted frequently by brilliant flashes of lightning and the increasing volume of nearly-continuous thunder.  There was nothing to do but find our cars in the dark and head for home.  We had no idea what had already happened west of us, and what was headed our way.

When it was all said and done, hundreds of  lives were lost to this outbreak of tornadoes.  In our own community, a number of buildings were flattened, and many others badly damaged.  There were thirteen deaths in Allen County—some were not far from our home.

Ever since the day the stove lit up, storms scared me.  After Palm Sunday, my fear was ratcheted to numbers that were off the charts.  Every dark cloud, and every flash of lightning was something to be dreaded.  It took a long time for these feelings to mellow out, and I suppose the fallout still remains to a certain degree.  I am one of the first to head to the basement when the sky turns green and black, and the wind pushes great sheets of rain horizontally.  But here’s the thing; if you live long enough, and you love being outdoors, there will come a time when you are out there, and a storm is racing in, and there ain’t a thing you can do about it.

When my oldest son was a teenager, he and some friends arranged for a father/son canoe trip in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.  This is an enormous place of pristine wilderness located in the boundary area between Minnesota and Canada.  Once you embark on your canoe trip, you’re out there away from civilization for the duration.  It’s an amazing place, where one can really relax away from it all.  The trip was great,  the fishing excellent, and the bonding of fathers and sons while camping, paddling, and working together was great.  So several years later, I repeated the adventure with my second son.  Again, a wonderful trip.   Then my whole family wanted to do it together.

It was July, and our mini-van was loaded down with seven people and luggage.  This trip included son Mike’s wife, Dawn.  He was the only one of our children married at that time. Within one hundred miles of our destination, in Duluth, Minnesota, our transmission went out.

I could write a lengthy report of how we were cared for when that mishap took place, but let’s just say, we feel it was more than coincidence that the transmission failed precisely in front of a transmission shop—right beside us!  The campground that was our destination, and point of departure for canoeing, had a van, and they came and picked us up.  One week later, they brought us back to our repaired van.  The campground is called “Wilderness Wind”, and it is a Christian organization operated by a Mennonite board of directors.

So, without too much loss of time, we made it our destination.  Now for the fun of wilderness camping in an area where there are wolves and bears, good fishing and wild blueberries.   For the next week, canoeing would be our only mode of transportation, unless you consider the frequent portages between the strings of lakes and creeks.

On our second day out, we were crossing a large lake after a difficult portage.  The air was heavy and sultry, and we were hot and sweaty.  We were really looking forward to setting up camp and going into the lake for a refreshing swim.  The darkening sky behind us, however, was predicting a change of plans.  It was obvious that a storm was brewing, and we were going to get caught.  

We managed to beach the canoes and pulled them up on land where they would be safe, and hurriedly set up the tents and the rain fly.  Before we were quite finished, the storm struck with surprising fury.  The ladies dove into a tent while the men scurried around trying to secure everything.  One of the canoes threatened to fly away, so we rushed over to them and tied them down better.  Then, an unoccupied tent was yanked from its moorings, and began a tumbling march towards the lake.  We raced after it—managing to catch it just before it flew away, and stuffed it under the rain fly.  

A glance toward the lake made me glad we were on land. The water was a mass of large waves and boiling whitecaps.  The rain was coming down in such torrents that it was difficult to see the difference between lake and sky.  It would have been really dangerous if we had been caught out there.  The lightning was very close now, and the thunder was booming deafeningly.  Another glance around the camp and it seemed like things were staying in place, so I joined Juanita, Dawn, Betsy and Angie in the tent.  Huddling there drenched, cold, and scared, I made note of the metal tent frame and remembered the tall pine trees overhead.   Considering what lightning is attracted to, this seemed like a pretty dangerous situation.  Fear began to tug at me, but I needed to appear calm and confident for the ladies.  

At this very moment, I was wearing a tee-shirt that the camp had given us.  The message imprinted on the back said,  “He makes winds His messengers.” Psalms 104:4.  Although I’m not really sure what the Psalmist had in mind when he wrote it, it was clear to me that we were no match for the awesome power of the storm raging around us.  What does one do when there is no place to go but a flimsy tent?  The wind became God’s messenger that day, telling me to let my fear turn into trust.   

The storm passed eventually, and we were treated to an unbelievably gorgeous sunset.  Brilliant hues of red, orange, and yellow mingled with the glowing, billowing clouds.  Words can’t begin to describe it, and the photos we took don’t do it justice.  We stood there, almost transfixed by the artwork in the sky, and I could sense the still small voice of the Lord saying, “I was with you in the storm . . . now here’s a little something I thought you would enjoy.”

And that’s it for today, friends.  From Kidron, Ohio.  Take a walk outside and note all the colors that weren't there two weeks ago.  Have a wonderful Spring.

The Day I Cried

When I think of Father God, not only attending His son’s execution, but planning it, prophesying it, and using the hands of men to carry it out, I’m amazed, and grateful—for that one death was the price for our salvation.

As a parent, it occurred to me that it must have been excruciating for Father God to watch His son die.  So I tried to imagine the story from His perspective, and with the use of poetry and metaphors have written the following.   -- Dave

                                                                                                                      

The Day I Cried

Jesus.  He is my one and only son,

So loyal and true, so handsome and strong,

I love him more than you can ever know.

He’s the perfect apple of my eye,

And it came to me as no surprise,

When he saw your need, he volunteered to go.

So we decided on the plan

To redeem the soul of sinful man,

From all the pride, the lust, the greed and guilt.

This time no catastrophic flood,

This time salvation was by blood,

And it was his that we decided would be spilt.

For sin required a sacrifice,

Blood for salvation, death for life,

And my son’s death would ransom all of you.

This became redemption’s plan,

He would become like you—a man,

And live with you, doing the things prepared for him to do.

With joy I placed my son on earth,

And angels proclaimed his humble birth,

The birth that would bring hope to helpless man.

He grew up obedient and wise,

His life and work so pleasing to my eyes,

And never looking back, he faced the climax of our plan.

He was listening for my voice again that day,

When deep within his soul he heard me say,

“I’ll meet you in the garden, for the time has come!”

“This won’t be easy for either of us,

But we agreed, this is a must,

Our love will meet the test, my beloved son.”

As always, he obeyed my voice that day,

Went to Gethsemane, fell to his knees and prayed,

“Father, if you are willing, please take this cup from me.”

“But not my will, only yours”, he cried,

And I knew he agonized inside,

As I watched him sweat and cry and plead.

Truly, nothing is too hard for me,

But to see my son in such agony

Was nearly more than I could stand to bear.

There he was, praying and crying,

Knowing he was facing dying

For other’s sin and guilt—it wasn’t fair!

I held back my tears that night,

And waited for the morning light,

Knowing what faced my son the very next day.

He was beaten and mocked and put on trial,

And I saw Satan’s evil smile,

When he thought victory had finally come his way.

They said, “Kill him! Crucify him! Take him away!”

“And do it now!  No more delay!”

So Pilate washed his hands and sentenced him to die.

They hung him up on one of our trees,

With nails through his hands and feet,

And laughed and scorned until they heard him cry.

“Father, why have you forsaken me?”

That’s when I longed to set him free,

And vaporize the earth with all it’s greed and pride!

But with his heart full of devotion,

We’d set the plan in motion,

So I hung my head, turned away, and cried.

With breaking heart, fists tightly clenched,

I cried until the earth was drenched,

The day I turned my back on my own son.

I darkened the sky with clouds of grief,

And agonized with no relief

Until he breathed his last, his job was done!

Then, with a shout of victory,

I shook the ground so violently,

That the temple curtain was torn completely in two!

His grieving followers soon would see

The answer to the mystery,

That just because he died, he wasn’t through!

Oh no, my children, not at all!

On Sunday morning he heard my call,

And the angels shouted too, in that glad hour.

“Awake my child! Arise my son!

The moment we longed for has finally come,

To show the world that death has no more power!”

For the power of love met the test,

When I gave for you my very best.

His name is Jesus, and he’s your way to me.

Give him your sin, give him your pain,

Eternal life is yours to gain,

He’ll fill you with my Spirit and set you free.

And when Satan comes accusing you

For sins you’ve done, and still might do,

Jesus says, “I’ve washed them with my blood.”

You need no other argument,

You’re paid in full, no more debt.

There’s nothing more to do than what He’s done.

I’ll see you soon my dear child.

And welcome you home with a loving smile,

Then you’ll see what I’ve prepared for you.

Keep on  working a little longer,

My spirit will help your faith grow stronger,

It will be worth it all when your life is through.

John 3:16

16 For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

John 17:1-5

17 After Jesus said this, he looked toward heaven and prayed:

“Father, the hour has come. Glorify your Son, that your Son may glorify you.2 For you granted him authority over all people that he might give eternal life to all those you have given him. 3 Now this is eternal life: that they know you,the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom you have sent. 4 I have brought you glory on earth by finishing the work you gave me to do. 5 And now, Father, glorify me in your presence with the glory I had with you before the world began.