Goat Song
“The northwest wind is an honest adversary. Sharp, relentless, it tells you up front what to expect: You know the ferry to the mainland may not run when it blows; wintertime, you park the car behind the house, out of its path, and expect the woodstove to take twice as long to heat the room. Unlike the north wind, the south wind is devious; it’s not what it seems. Its thick edge suggests mildness, hints at spring even, and then it sweeps in with a wet, heavy breath that’s somehow unclean. Goat kids sicken and die when the south wind blows.”
Thus started the essay that became the book Goat Song: My Island Angora Goat Farm. I had been living for two years on an island in Lake Michigan, reached only by boat or private plane. There I had undertaken the raising of Angora goats for my brother who owned a farm on the island as a vacation home for his family. It was his idea that I live at the farm and write. And wouldn’t it be fun, he suggested, to raise Angora goats. I jumped at the prospect; an adventure involving animals! I couldn’t resist. Later, when we brought twenty does and a billy goat to the island, there was not much more in place than a made-over tool shed as barn, a temporary electric fence, and a book titled Raising Angora Goats the Northern Way.
The longer I was on the island, the more I savored life removed from what most people expect in our modern age. In the 1990s on the island, there were no cell phones and no Internet; electric power was intermittent and subject to the vagaries of the wind; the ferry that brought mail, groceries, and other supplies was similarly subject to the weather and could not dock when the wind blew hard. These conditions fostered an inward turning of the island’s residents who took their self-sufficiency for granted. It also fostered a sense of kinship and an obligation to help one’s neighbor. Whatever differences islanders might have with each other, these were sloughed off if there was a need for help. Perhaps this is true of people everywhere but on the island, where modern conveniences are not a given, there was more need to offer a willing hand.
As the goat adventure wore on, I wanted to capture this rare and marvelous time that challenged me emotionally as well as physically and intellectually.
As I struggled to master the basics of caring for livestock, the many faces of the experience prompted reflection and introspection and I became increasingly able to perceive the nuances and subtleties of the goats themselves. Reading that one should write about what fires one’s passion at the moment, I knew where to start. A goat kid had been born too early in the winter, fell ill, and was struggling to survive. I was determined she pull through but knew that my determination was not enough. I began writing about the little goat kid, whom I called Navidad--Spanish for Christmas because she was born during that season. I wrote the piece while observing Navidad and feeling a succession of emotions: distress and fear, determination, then resignation, and finally relief and joy, for she did survive. I sent it off to The Journal of the Wisconsin Academy of Arts, Sciences, and Letters, a long shot at best, and it was accepted for publication.
Later I wrote whenever I found time, usually at four o’clock in the morning before starting work with the goats at seven. I wrote about whatever challenged me at the time until I had a collection of pieces that documented the growing herd of goats against a backdrop of the island’s changing seasons. I later organized these pieces in the book Goat Song, which was published in 2000 by J.N. Townsend Publishing.
I have copies available on request. I charge the list price, $15.95, which covers shipping and postage.
