Goats

Three baby goats were born on Friday night. The bellering (that’s what they called it and I assume they must know, being around goats and all) woke me at 3 am that night. But I didn’t go out to watch Doug (Stoker’s father) and Christy (his mother) help with the birth. In the morning Kelsie came into the room to tell her sister, Anarie, what happened. I listened, pretending to be asleep on the chance that I might want to go back to sleep after they left (I didn’t). Kelsie told Anarie what colors they were and their names. This year it’s a cheese motif: Mozzarella is white with black patches, Cheddar is black with white patches and a spiral of white going down her foreleg, and Gouda, the runt, is brown with white and black patches*. Runt sounds harsh to an uninformed person (me), but she’s very small and Staccato (there must have been a music theme a few years ago) is rejecting her. Actively, as in pushing Gouda away with her nose and knocking Gouda down when Gouda comes near to nurse. I’m very disappointed with Staccato, but I’m trying to understand that it’s just her goat-ly instinct.

But don't worry, I think Gouda will make it because Stoker’s family is bottle-feeding her and when I left on Sunday she was a little better at walking without falling down.

We’re going back this coming Saturday. Why? I have my reasons.

Reasons to go back to Cache Valley on Saturday: rejuvenating “country” air, Brie (the baby goat born 14 days ago), Gouda, “country” mornings, Stoker’s sisters, sitting in Paul and Ann’s backyard on Sunday afternoons (Stoker’s brother and sister-in-law and we only did that once, but I’m planning on going back for a repeat visit). And last but not least: spring in Cache Valley. It's the best — everything is green and if I really knew, I could say it looks like Ireland or New Zealand at this time of year. Since I don’t know, I can’t stand by that comparison. But it looks like pictures of Ireland or New Zealand that I've seen, and yes, I’m in love with Cache Valley**.

On Saturday evening we went to the Black and White Days parade, like I mentioned I would. The parade passes right in front of the White house (no really, Stoker’s last name is White). And we sat there in lawn chairs with the evening sun on us, a row of senior citizens on my left and Stoker on my right. Every float tossed candy and you’ll be happy to hear that there WAS salt-water taffy, Sixlets and Tootsie Rolls amongst the cornucopia of candy (I’ve been waiting my entire life to use cornucopia in a sentence). Word to the wise, if you want the old-fashioned parade feeling, with candy and everything, you’ve got to go to small-town parades. City parades don’t throw candy anymore for safety reasons, eliminating any REASON to go to a parade.

Later that evening Anarie and her friend, Aram (both are studying performance piano at the university), played a few songs together on the pianos. And then, instead of feeling like I was in the country, I felt like I was in Carnegie Hall. Exaggeration? No. I’m not an aficionado by any means, but it was awesome. Aram played something called the Sabre Dance. Five stars.

That about sums it up. Yesterday Stoker and I got our marriage license and then I went to the dentist because I’m getting a crown in a few weeks. That sucked, my mouth is swollen. I think I’m allergic to the gloves the dentist wears. Stupid gloves, I look like Krusty the Clown (or is it Klown?). Great. That will be great for the wedding pictures.




*Sorry to disappoint, no Feta.
**N.B. Cache Valley has its share of crap. Like crap as in horrible downtown Logan traffic, which you don’t expect because it’s considered a small town. But the growth of the valley is random and unchecked and the city-planners aren’t city planners at all. Apparently. Because the sprawl is insane. The only main thoroughfare is through the center of Logan on Main Street. The only time it’s not congested is in the middle of the night. Otherwise getting from, say 1400 North to 700 South is an infuriating journey. That’s my biggest complaint about C.V.