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Part 1 That's right, Folks, this is just part 1. Since there was no response to my plea for a member to do a Breeder's Bio, you're stuck with me telling you my life's story. Let's see, how many pages can I use???? Or volumes? The story of my life would fill several novels and still be declared fiction I'm sure! So, this is definitely going to cover more than one issue. I was born in Portland Oregon at St. Francis Hospital on July 4, 1946. ( Yes, I know.....I just turned 55...thanks for reminding me.....sigh..) My heritage goes back to Daniel Boone, of whom there are some serious misconceptions in history, and to the Sioux Indians on my mother's side, with a little Irish, and French, and Spanish thrown in there. Makes for a pretty volatile personality that is hard to manage, let me tell you! We won't go into marriages. Let it suffice to say, that I could easily replace the judge on divorce court. Not that it was something that I wanted, but it happened. But, out of those fiascoes, came my son, Rodney Keener of Pensacola Florida, Marsten Brockett of San Antonio Texas, and Julie Felsing of Naples, Italy. They are 35, 33, 32 respectively. And , believe me, for any sleepless night I ever caused my mother ( who by the way, is another ISBA member, Delores Gerst) I have been more than amply paid back for. Hence my alais....Miss Clairol of 1986,87, 88, 89, well...you get the picture. I got into goats into 1990, though my mom had already been into them for many years. Frankly, I despised the creatures for many years. It was my mother's fault. I lived hundreds of miles away from home, and it seemed like every time I came home to see her, I would find a note, "Gone To Goat Show...back Monday" or " Down doing chores...come help." And for someone who had just drove hundreds of miles to see her mother for the weekend, that was such loving reassurance that I held an important place in my mother's life. Yeah, right....after Goat shows, goat meetings, chores, kidding, clipping, trips to buy goats, etc. No wonder I have a complex. It's my mother's fault. Anyway, in 1990, my health was not the best, and was brought to a head one evening at my daughter's house over a pork chop dinner. I had a mild stroke. No, the pork chops didn't cause it, it was the fighting over who was going to fry the darn things....my daughter or her husband. ( (Needless to say, I never did get a pork chop that night! ) The doctor advised that I take a trip to get away of the pressure of business and family. So, I left for Graham Oregon to visit my sister, Mellie Weseman. The trip started out as a good idea gone haywire. I no more get to my sister's for a little R & R, and what do I find? She is the Chair of a Goat Show and needs my help. EEEEEK! More goats! I got roped into being a "Show Secretary" and a " Ring Steward" and assistant "Check In ", not that I had any idea what any of those were. I am sure, though, that the people in that Goat Club pray every night, that Mellie's half-crazed sister never comes back to their area again. It is not my fault, how is a non goat person supposed to know anything about show rules, pen assignments, or milking a goat, for that matter. ( Though I was also assigned that chore, and gave up after 15 minutes. I am sure that goat hated me the rest of her days.) To make me feel better about all the "additional stress" I had gone under due to her busy schedule and the goat show, Mellie actually dedicated a whole day to me and took me to meet some of her other "Goat Friends". Naturally, I was thrilled, as I was sure that we would have tons in common to talk about. We ended up at a delightful ladies house named Carol Elvin, who raised some absolutely beautiful Nubians and Oberhasli. I was steered toward the kid pens, and really, who can resist the soft brown eyes of a baby goat? I absolutely fell in love with this one little doll, a Nubian, that came to be known as "Baby Doll". Carol, seeing how smitten I was with the little goat, offered to give her to me. I tried to decline, as after all, how was I going to get her home? In a suitcase. Of course, my dear sister came to the rescue and offered to take care of her until I could arrange shipping home. I was told over an over, the peaceful pleasures and healthy benefits of having a goat. How I would be able to relax and let the pressures of the world go when I was with "my" goat. I had to admit, she was a charmer, though small for her age, I was told. And, to top it all off, Carol volunteered to just give me the little gal as she was not thriving as well as the others, and needed more individual attention. After holding her, how could I refuse? Hence, off we went to Millie's house, toting this darling little goat along with us. I started feeding her with a bottle, after some careful instructions on how not to choke the poor thing to death by holding it too tight around the neck while trying to feed her. I instantly fell totally in love with the little thing. I tried expressing my feelings to my husband, via the phone, about this wonderful gift I had received, but he just didn't seem to share my enthusiasm. All he could say was, where are we going to put a goat in the middle of town. A slight problem I assured him. We will move to the country! I though it best to hang up quickly after that statement, and call back in a week...he would be fairly calm by then I was sure. Over the next few days, the Baby Doll developed what we thought was a cold, and it just seemed to get worse, no matter what my sister tried. I finally got so distressed over her breathing problems that Mellie said would take her to the vet, though she was sure that it was just a cold and I was getting excited over nothing. Well, nothing turned out to be a hole in Baby Doll's heart and she needed a risky surgery to correct it. There were no guarantees, but without it she was sure to get steadily worse and suffer daily from the problem. I was beside myself. My poor little goat was desperately ill and needed surgery. The world had to stop while this got immediate attention! I told the vet to by all means hop to it.
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Baby Doll spent the night at the vet's that night in preparation for an early morning surgery. The vet, a Dr. Best, said he would call as soon as the surgery was over. I couldn't sleep that night, I tossed, I turned, I fretted myself sick over this little Nubian. Mellie tried to assure me that Dr. Best was as good as his name, but considering how the rest of my life had been going, I expected the worst, and got it. The poor little thing didn't even get through surgery. By now, you can imagine how happy I was that I had agreed to get away from home for awhile and the business to the carefree lifestyle of my sister's little goat farm. I immediately realized she was actually trying to bump me off by getting me involved with goats! I was having chest pains, headaches, and ready to crawl out of my skin. Mellie called Carol and told her what happened, and she was so sorry that she offered to sell me a doe named "Raindrop" who was out of her GCH, and already had 2 legs . I was incensed at the thought that this woman must think me stupid enough to pay for any goat with only 2 legs. These goat people are bunch of sadistic creatures! Mel quickly explained about the leg business, which was a relief to me, to say the least. So back to Carol's we went. Raindrop, it turned out, was a gorgeous animal but had a slight personality problem. She hated everyone and everything but her sister, Abigail. ( This should have started the bell's ringing, the light switch going on and off, and the elevator to moving, but no....the little gray cells had gone on vacation....) However, the minute I started to scratch her head and ears, she seemed to be smitten with me and began to rub her head all over me. I was delighted, thinking, look! she likes me. ( Only later did I realize she had instantly recognized a sucker who would soon become her indentured servant. ) Everyone was thrilled that Raindrop took to me so well, and so into the back of Mellie's pinto she went and off we headed to Mellie's house. It wasn't until after we left for home, that I realized that I might have a slight problem. Instead of trying to figure out how I was going to stuff a little goat into my luggage, and hide her in the middle of a busy town, I had to figure out how I was going to stuff a 250 pound goat into my luggage and convince all the neighbors that she was really a Tibetan Wolf Hound. But, I figured, it was time to do what the Doctor ordered, and stop worrying...cross that bridge when you get to it. And why worry about John being mad, I knew he loved me and he would love the goat as much as I did. ( Ah, isn't it amazing how we lie to ourselves? ) Well, we got all Rain all settle in, and Mellie started to milk her. The operative word is "try". She raised all sorts of Cain and havoc. Finally, Mellie told me to milk my own goat, something I had never even thought about...the goat would need milked. Memories of the humiliation that I had suffered trying to milk that goat at the fair flashed through my mind. All those folks laughing at me. Hateful people! May God render all their does offspring bucks. After a lot of couching on Mellie's part, I managed to finally milk Raindrop. She was actually nice about it, standing there for the next 2 hours while I fumbled, squeezed and pinched. What a patient animal. She was a dream...or so I thought. I was exhausted from the emotion stress of the last several days, and looked forward to a good night's sleep with the smell of the mountain grasses drifting on the cool mountain breeze through the window by the bed. I was asleep the minute my head hit the pillow. Suddenly, I heard an earsplitting scream that had me standing on my feet by the bed before I knew it! What in the world was that? I dashed out of the bedroom to find Mel watching TV, apparently oblivious to whatever horrible suffering was going on just outside her door. " What in the world was that awful sound?" I demanded. " What sound? " she asked innocently. "That terrible scream!" "Oh, that...that was just Raindrop. She probably misses Abigail, but she'll get over it. That's just how Nubians sound." Get over it? She sounded like she was dying .... just how Nubians sound? My golly, what do they sound like when they actually are in pain? The hair was still standing up on the back of my neck. "Just go back to bed, she'll quiet down in a little bit." Well, I have no idea what a north westerner's idea of a little bit is, but I don't think steady bellowing for the next 2 days is a little bit. Finally, a couple days later, when Mellie's eye started to stray a little too much toward her rifle and she would get this dreamy look on her face, I realized I had to act fast. "Look, maybe I need to talk to Carol about taking her back. After all, she misses her sister and she's miserable." ( I should have known by the gleam in Mellie's eye that the plot had just thickened ... and the conspirators were ready to spring their trap) " Well, we'll ride down there tomorrow and talk to her about it, OK?" "Why don't we just call her?" "It's better to do these things in person," Mel said. Another sleepless night full of a hoarse croaking from the barn, and I was more than ready to take the 2 hour drive back to Carol's. We arrived, and Carol was in the barn milking. I told her the problem, and she turned to Mellie and said, " I should have known.....you'll just have to take Abigail too. " Do what?! I was already stretching my imagination on how to tote and hide Raindrop, I just couldn't imagine dragging' two huge bellowing duffle bags off a plane, let alone trying to convince John and the neighbors that they were really Tibetan Wolf Hounds in drag. However, it happened, not only did I leave Carol's with Abigail, but I had phone this place called ADGA, talked to a very sweet lady there who told me that there would be no problem in reinstating my mother's herd name, and already looking for the "right buck." Ain't life grand! That is how I got into goats. More on my life story in a later newsletter. |
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