Many of our family's experiences are related to the various kinds of animals that have passed through our farm.  At one time or another nearly every species of domesticated animal or bird has called our place home.  Some of the less common creatures have been the cause of some of the most memorable experiences.

Like the goats.

Goats are gentle.  Baby goats are cute.  Goats like being with people.  Goats can do interesting things.  Goats can jump and climb.  Goats supply milk.

All of these things make goats very appealing.  These same traits make goats maddening and explain why they didn't last long at our place.

Goats came to the Kerns farm not by plan, but by accident.  Margie's brother and his family were town people who harbored romantic notions about idyllic life on the farm.  Lots of people harbor dreams of being in the country where life is clean and peaceful, and where they can live off the land.  Lots of people have moved to their country dream place and have returned to the city a year or two later.

Town people quickly learn that while country life is peaceful, it's also hard work.  Life is clean only if you first shovel the manure.  Living off the land means being there to milk the cow every night and every morning 365 days a year.  The rest of the living still comes from the grocery store which is now a major trip away.

Everything else is a major trip away, too, including the job which still supports the family.  The several minutes it used to take to get to work now requires an hour each day round trip.  Ditto for school, sports and kids' activities.  There's no more water bill to pay, but the fuel budget goes out of sight.

If one has grown up in the country, one doesn't give these things a second thought.  But if one hasn't already actually experienced these things, one thinks about these things every day and questions one's sanity for making the change.  The first time one is snowed in at the end of one's beautiful, winding, country lane with no expensive snow removal equipment on hand, one puts one's place up for sale.

Which is why we got the goats.  They were a gift.  We didn't buy them.  Let the world understand that.  Their owners simply couldn't take them to the city with them.  We were assured that we'd love the goats and that they'd love us.

And they did.  They loved us so much that they wanted to be with us constantly.  They took up residence on the front porch.  We didn't have such a thing as a fence that was capable of holding goats.  At their former home it had been cute that the little goat could jump up and walk along the beams above our heads in the barn.  That talent also made it possible for the goats to walk up slanted brace posts and leap over the fences on their way to the porch and flower beds.

Margie was invited to a Tupperware party several years later.  The friend who was throwing the party was also temporarily in the goat business.  Four-year-old Adam had to tag along.  He was happy to do so because parties are fun.

This party was not fun, except for the part the goats played. They made things interesting by getting into the yard, placing their hooves on the window sill, and looking in at the ladies examining glasses and bowls.  Every few minutes, Carolyn, the hostess, would turn red and dash out the door in a vain effort to convince the goats that there were more interesting things to do on the other side of the barn.

The goats knew otherwise.  Adam was the only one grateful for their attendance.  The "party" was BORING.

Their parting shot was the best, and provided Adam and his mother with lifelong memories.  As the party ended, the ladies all exited the door to find goats standing on top of all the cars.

Adam loved it, and talked about the goats all the way home.  They saved the party as far as he was concerned.  He appreciated their presence, although he definitely had not appreciated the presence of one of the women.  "Next time Carolyn has a party," he told his mother, "tell her not to invite the lady with all the dishes."

Our own goats were brown and white jobs except for the little one.  She was black and white, cute, and tame as a kitten.  Three-year-old Matt took one look at her and promptly named her "Marble."  She ran and skipped and looked happy and carefree.  She seemed to have a buoyant attitude that made you smile just to look at her.  If she'd had smile muscles, she'd have been smiling constantly herself.

Had Marble been the only goat on the place, she might be here yet.  But goats, like people, are often judged by the company they keep.  Marble's companions included three generations of relatives including Grandma, Mama, and Older Sister.  They were the ringleaders who engineered goat pen escapes.  They were the ones who called the front porch home.  They were the ones who arrived on the place pregnant and thereby sealed the flock's fate.

The problem was that Margie was also expecting.  She and Grandma Goat and several hundred cows were all expecting to deliver their babies the first part of March.  On top of that the cattle needed fed, potato trucks needed loading, seven-year-old Nathan was in school, and three pre-schoolers needed care.

Margie went off to the hospital to have Heidi.  I was left with what seemed to be impossible burdens.  The weather was bad, and I was struggling to keep my cool.  I was under pressure, and was snappy and irritable.  I thought I was in control, but realized I was losing it when I overheard Amy and Matt, ages 2 and 3 1/2, say to one another, "Let's go over to the barn and get away from grouchy old Daddy."

In the midst of my pressure and afflictions Grandma Goat presented me with a newborn set of cold twins.  Everything else had to be put on hold while I warmed the unwanted newcomers.  They were the straw that broke the camel's back.  The goats had started out as a novelty, had turned burdensome, and were now positively a liability getting in the way of other things that absolutely had to be done.

I went to the phone, called my friend, Art, and asked if he'd be interested in some goats.  They were nice goats.  They'd been gifted to us, and I would gift them to my friend.  Art agreed.  Goats might be fun.

The goats very shortly found themselves in a new home in Wingville, eight miles away.  No one ever asked about the goats' behavior in Wingville, but several months later Art gifted the flock to his friend in North Powder.  They didn't stay there, either.  The hand-me-down goats educated at least four families to the joys of goat keeping before they moved out of our circle of acquaintances.