Chickens in the Road Read online

  But he enjoyed building things, and he was usually in a good humor when he was involved in a project. Sometimes I still thought we might actually make it. Things were going to miraculously turn around!

  Most of the time, though, I knew we wouldn’t make it, and my fear of losing the farm grew more intense. I had trouble sleeping at night.

  I found myself stretched out on the couch some days, staring at the ceiling, wondering what I was doing with my life, just as I had at the Slanted Little House a few years before. I had convinced myself I could take 52’s abuse for the sake of the farm that I loved, but I felt as if I were dying inside. I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I didn’t deserve his attacks—and I didn’t know how to stop them. I rarely responded to them for fear of escalating any given situation. I didn’t want the kids to hear any conflict, but my silences only gave him more room to go on. In front of the kids, or anyone else, 52 was the picture of polite perfection.

  Occasionally, I couldn’t resist the deep-seated urge to tell him where to stick it, and I was afraid that eventually my self-control was going to crack and I was going to tell him to leave.

  My life, my business, everything, depended on the farm—and 52’s help to survive there. I recognized my own responsibility. For the farm and for my business, I made a pact with the devil every day.

  I liked challenge, but living with 52’s abuse was becoming more than I could take. Taking on more and more challenges on the farm kept me focused away from my depression and looking forward in positive ways.

  I’d created challenge for myself in various ways during my life, including relentlessly attempting to sell books to New York publishers back in my romance days. Now that’s difficult. I didn’t have to do that, but I would have been bored if I hadn’t and would have taken up mountain climbing or something. People left farming in droves decades ago, in part because it’s difficult. Difficult was, in part, what attracted me to farm life.

  Which didn’t mean that sometimes it wasn’t difficult to embrace the difficulty. But then, if it weren’t, I wouldn’t have wanted to do it. Similar to people who really do go mountain climbing. Part of the attraction is the risk, and if it wasn’t risky, they wouldn’t enjoy it as much, even if sometimes they were scared.

  If everything about living on a farm were easy, there wouldn’t be nearly as much satisfaction in it. And even on the worst day, when that farm was harder than it had to be and I’d had just about all the satisfaction I could stand, I wouldn’t have traded one minute of it for anything easier.

  I loved that cold, muddy, hard life. And while there are probably as many reasons why people move to the country as there are people, I believe one reason is because there’s not enough innate challenge in the world today. It’s too civilized and convenient, and in a world filled with convenience, there’s an oddly tempting appeal in inconvenience and the challenge of a more difficult life.

  There are other paths to pursue to add challenge to one’s life, of course. The farming life is just one—a very special one—of those paths, and it is, like all paths of challenge, not about the destination but the journey.

  52, for some reason, was part of that journey for me. I thought about my marriage a lot in comparison to my relationship with 52. I’d left my marriage, looking for happiness and the real me I felt I’d lost along the way.

  I was losing myself again with 52 even as I found myself in the farm and West Virginia.

  How could I be so happy and so miserable all at the same time?

  When I divorced, I still thought I needed a man to take care of me. 52 did less and less to take care of me, often leaving me with bags of feed not where they were supposed to be, buckets of water or heavy hay bales to heft, or any other number of things that were left some distance from where they needed to be. Just as he’d gradually decreased his financial contribution to the farm, he began decreasing his physical contribution. He had his moments when he’d still take on a project like my herb garden or the duck ’n’ buck yard—as long as I paid for the materials—and he’d happily started collecting pallets for our imaginary pallet barn.

  But he was progressively “checking out,” and I didn’t believe there was ever really going to be a barn.

  Chapter 18

  The duck ’n’ buck yard was an immediate dismal failure with the bucks escaping repeatedly. Two of the Nigerian bucks had become a problem. Unlike Mr. Cotswold, they were small enough for me to handle, but they could still be quite aggressive. Eclipse, my oldest Nigerian buck, was particularly hard to manage, as was one of his babies by Clover, Pirate (who was full grown then). I had several other bucks and had sold them all except for Eclipse and Pirate.

  Eclipse was jet black, with blue eyes from a recessive gene that was somewhat unusual. He was a gorgeous stud. I’d bought him as a baby from Missy, the same place I’d gotten Clover and Nutmeg, my first goats. Pirate looked just like Eclipse, but with a swordlike marking on his side that had led to his moniker. One of the other bucks I’d had at the time was his twin from the same birthing, Sailor, who had a white top knot like a sailor’s cap. Sailor had inherited the blue eyes from Eclipse, but he was gentle and sweet.

  Eclipse and Pirate were a constant nuisance, escaping from the buck yard, breaking into the yard with the does and chasing them around until they were hiding under the goat house or risking life and limb jumping up on things to get away from their aggressive suitors. I risked life and limb tackling Eclipse and Pirate (they had horns) to capture them and get them out of the yard. I had decided to keep only Mr. Pibb, my Fainter buck, and if Eclipse and Pirate got to the does, I wouldn’t know who was the papa if they were bred and wouldn’t be able to properly register the babies or even tell potential buyers what their lineage was, if they were half Fainter (from Mr. Pibb) or pure Nigerian.

  The goats didn’t go with a very high price, and those two were so aggressive, I didn’t think it would be fair to sell them without a warning label. As difficult as it had been to find homes for sweet Sailor and the other bucks, finding homes for a couple of “bad” bucks would be nigh upon impossible. They were worth more as meat to feed my family. I was trying to operate a self-sustaining farm, wasn’t I?

  Butchering the pigs had seemed easy. I’d had little to do with the pigs. I didn’t feel as if I knew them personally. The goats were different. They were full of personality and spunk, and I spent a lot of time with them.

  I decided to take Eclipse and Pirate to the butcher.

  I asked 52 if he would eat the meat if I had Eclipse and Pirate butchered. He said, “Yes.”

  But he didn’t want to take them to the butcher for me. I knew that I was going to have to take responsibility for what I planned to do. He helped me load the bucks in a crate in the back of my Explorer.

  I took off for the butcher, which was over an hour’s drive from our farm. Eclipse and Pirate were noisy all the way, making bleats from the back. When I arrived at the butcher shop, the butcher shop man had me back the Explorer up to a sliding door that led to holding pens. The man helped me unload the goats. Eclipse and Pirate locked eyes on me, bleating in fear.

  Turning away from them was painful. I walked through the office door of the shop. I sat down at the desk and the attendant said, “How do you want them cut up?”

  I thought about running outside and putting Eclipse and Pirate back in the crate in the Explorer.

  Then I thought about how aggressive they were, how Eclipse had nearly gored me a few times with his horns when he’d broken into the goat yard and I’d caught him chasing the does, and how difficult it would be to sell them.

  “Mostly ground,” I said.

  A few days later, the meat was ready. Eclipse and Pirate came home in vacuum-sealed plastic packages. There were a few small roasts, but as I’d requested, most of the meat was ground.

  I put the meat in the freezer, keeping out a pound of the ground. I cut open the package. It looked pretty much like ground beef, red. I dumped it in a skillet, getting rea
dy to make spaghetti. I turned on the burner, and the meat began to sizzle.

  The buck scent hit me. Like with a pig, other types of livestock that are intended for butchering are often neutered (in the case of goats, it’s called wethered) so that the meat doesn’t take on a smell. I wondered if the meat would be edible.

  I also wondered if Eclipse was going to jump right out of the pan. Smelling his scent made me feel as if he were right there on top of the stove.

  Using a spatula, I broke up the meat, trying to shake off the feeling that Eclipse was about to leap out of the skillet at me. Gradually, the buck smell faded until it dissipated completely.

  By the time the meat was cooked through, I couldn’t smell it at all.

  Over the weeks and months that followed, I cooked with goat meat often. Goat burgers became one of my favorite things. Goat meat, like lamb, is flavorful. I found it to be delicious. Beef, particularly store-bought beef, is bland in comparison. Whenever anyone asks me what goat meat tastes like, I tell them like a cross between pasture-raised beef and lamb, which is the closest I can come to describing it. Goat meat tastes like goat meat.

  I decided to wether and raise all future male goat babies for meat. I loved my female goats, and they had a useful purpose as milkers and breeders, and girl babies were relatively easy to sell, but I knew I’d never see anything again but goat burgers when they popped out a boy, and as difficult as it had been to take Eclipse and Pirate to the butcher, I felt good about it. I wasn’t a vegetarian. I ate meat. A farm meant I had the opportunity to raise my own. Pirate and Eclipse had a good life—and one bad day, which was more than one could say for animals in most factory or mass agri operations where meat from the grocery store originates. Eclipse and Pirate lived natural lives on green grass in the fresh air with petting and cookies. This wasn’t anonymous meat wrapped in plastic on a foam tray. I found myself feeling differently about how I cooked and how I ate. Eliminating waste by portioning carefully became more important. To scrape meat off a plate to the dog bowl or in the trash suddenly seemed almost criminal. I had a new respect for my food. Eclipse and Pirate were sustaining my family with their bodies, and I felt a great obligation to honor that in the meals I prepared and how I treated those meals. We’re often so nonchalant as a society about tossing leftovers. When we grow our own food, and raise our own meat, it changes how our minds work. I wanted to embrace that change in myself.

  I’d looked in the eyes of the meat I was putting on my plate. It was a connection with my food, and a responsibility to it, that felt right and honest.

  There was something both hard and beautiful in it, and as with every other step I’d taken toward a more real life, I didn’t want to go back.

  In moving out the Nigerian bucks, I’d also tightened my goat herd. I’d just kept one buck as my herd sire. Mr. Pibb, my Fainter buck. As whip smart as Nigerians were (which, in the bucks, could translate to aggression), the Fainters were gentle souls, even the buck. I had two Fainter does, which would produce purebred Fainter babies with Mr. Pibb, along with my Nigerian does, who would be giving birth to crossbreeds. I’d discovered that I could register the Fainter-Nigerian crossbreeds as 50 percent myotonic (the gene that makes them “faint” or actually stiffen and sometimes fall over when startled) with the Myotonic Goat Registry (the Fainter association). My streamlined herd would be easier to care for on my own in my imaginary 52-less future. I could keep them together in one field, running the buck with the does full-time.

  I needed to cut the sheep flock, too. I’d never gone into a field alone with Mr. Cotswold again, and never without a stick or something for protection even when 52 was with me. I wanted to keep a couple of the ewes, including my “pet” Annabelle, the “puppy” I’d bottle-fed on the porch our first year on the farm. I also planned to keep one of the Cotswold-Jacob cross ewes. They were young, and they’d both recently lambed. I’d keep their babies, too.

  52 liked the sheep more than I did. I had to convince him that the ram and older ewes needed to go, but finally one evening he agreed to let me give them away. They were all too old to butcher, so that wasn’t even a question.

  I put up an ad on Craigslist and by the time 52 woke up the next morning, I had a new home for Mr. Cotswold and the older ewes. I was afraid to give 52 time to change his mind, or time to ponder why I was so bent on getting rid of the more unmanageable or purposeless sheep.

  It was like I was constantly dressing up for a party that wasn’t happening because I couldn’t figure out how to actually manage the farm on my own. But I never missed Mr. Cotswold for a second.

  I drove to Spencer one day to meet a friend for lunch, a rare outing for me by that point. I stopped in at the Farm Service Agency afterward, then picked up a few staple groceries at Walmart. I didn’t have to do much shopping anymore. We grew or made most of what we needed. On the way home, I swung by Georgia’s house. I’d made some apple butter and had a jar for her.

  After knocking on her door, as usual, I just walked in. She was sitting in her chair. I brought her a spoon from the kitchen and gave her the jar.

  She’d come across some things while sorting papers that she’d set aside for me to look at, and she had them waiting on the table by her chair. She enjoyed my visits and often saved things to show me. One of those things that day was an old newspaper.

  It was the December 1, 1960, edition of the county paper. She’d wanted me to see it because it had an article about the hard-won election to the sheriff’s office of my great-uncle C.W. “Doc” Dye.

  Back then, the paper cost five cents.

  The article about my great-uncle was actually kind of boring, but the newspaper was fascinating. The movie showing at the Robey that week was Elmer Gantry. There was a big advertisement.

  “BLESS HIM! DAMN HIM! Tens of thousands of believers shouted his praises! Three women damned his soul!” Starring: Burt Lancaster and Jean Simmons. Costarring Shirley Jones.

  The Robey disclaimer:

  The Management of the Robey Theatre DOES NOT Recommend This Movie for Anyone under 16.

  This must have been before standardized ratings.

  The classifieds were pretty interesting, too. There was a listing for a 1947 Dodge sedan. The phone number to inquire was only three numbers. 291.

  The headlines were about the recent presidential election. Nixon beat Kennedy in Roane County. The local news was more interesting. A bizarre accident was reported (not to mention the bizarre reporting).

  Miss Penny Stephens, a Dental Hygiene student at West Liberty State College and the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. J. Stewart Stephens of Parkersburg Road, Spencer, suffered painful, but not serious injuries when she fell from an automobile near West Liberty Wednesday of last week. She was on her way here for the Thanksgiving holiday. The car door flew open on a curve and Miss Stephens careened to the roadway. The vehicle was traveling very slowly when the mishap occurred, but Miss Stephens was bruised nearly all over from her shoulders to her knees.

  “I think somebody pushed her, Georgia. Don’t you?”

  Georgia laughed. This was really why she saved things for me, I think. She’d set things aside, then wait for me to come over and start making up stories.

  The county extension agent’s column was about apple pie. “What can be a better choice for this season of the year than the tangy goodness of a fresh apple pie?” The column went on to suggest that the secret of perfect pastry is a package of your favorite piecrust mix.

  “What is wrong with these people?” I asked Georgia. I was almost ready to throw the paper down. “A piecrust mix? That’s shameful!”

  “It is?” Georgia said.

  “You’ve never used a piecrust mix in your life.”

  “Well.” She looked a little secretive, making me wonder if she’d been sneaking around with piecrust mixes.

  And then I found the personals, and that was no time to throw the paper down. This wasn’t “single white female” stuff. This was 1960s personals. Gossip.
r />   Mr. Ralph Carper of Walton was attending to business affairs in town last Wednesday.

  In case Mrs. Carper was wondering where he was.

  Mr. and Mrs. John Dye and son Carson were visiting in Akron, Ohio, this past week with Mr. and Mrs. H. E. Young.

  John Dye was one of my dad’s cousins.

  Mr. and Mrs. Clay Miller will leave Thursday for a two-week Caribbean cruise.

  Bragging! And, oh, for the innocence of December 1960 when this didn’t represent an invitation to burglary.

  Mr. and Mrs. Cecil Moss and grandchildren of Newton were shopping in town last Friday.

  And on and on, an entire half page of trivial gossip.

  “How does this sound?” I said to Georgia.

  Ms. Suzanne McMinn of Walton lunched in Spencer on Friday then attended to some business affairs followed by shopping. Then she ate some pie and went to bed.

  “You have pie?” Georgia asked.

  “I’m making one when I get home. Then I’m so sending that to the paper.”

  Georgia said, “Well.” Which meant she wished I’d made the pie before I came over.

  Glory Bee was eight months old that summer and still not weaned. Sometimes she even managed to break out of the goat yard to get to mommy, who was in the field beyond the house. Beulah Petunia was always glad to see her. They’d take off for the hinterlands of the partially wooded cow pasture, clutching plane tickets in one hoof and hastily packed suitcases in the others.