Thursday, July 1, 2010


The way to Sally’s goat farm is not without perils.  Herds of   suicidal  deer  whose supreme joy is the prospect of  close encounters with compact cars,  lurk in the woods. The ancient trees that border the road tend to shed branches large enough to impede traffic. If that is not exciting enough, we never fail to leave our maps behind. Inevitably, we try to call Sally for directions only to be reminded  that cell phones do not always work in her neighborhood. The best  thing to do in these circumstances is to  go to the Bakerton Fire House where the firepersons know every inch of the county.
You’re five minutes away almost there, mi’ja,” says a fireperson who will pass us in her  very cool red Mustang convertible a few minutes later.

Our arrival throws  the resident flock of  chickens into a panic. They cluck and run as if  voracious predators were in hot pursuit. We are not that hungry. The goats are, but they usually stick to a vegan diet. The chickens are safe. So are e as long as we keep our hands to ourselves.   Starbuck, an overenthusiastic fan of raw human blood, rushes to the fence in the fond illusion that we will forget that last time we met he thought  my hand with a tasty tidbit. I considered waving a borrowed blood donor card under his nose. He favors O pos. 

     I cast an envious eye on Sally's asparagus and strawberry beds while she fetches fresh eggs from the chicken house. The chickens are not amused. They  cluck  the Internationale. e ignore them. Sally gives us  a  gallon of milk. Later in the day, the infanta ill make make a batch of herbed chevre. The following day she ill collect the hey and soak the cheese in brine  so that it will form a substantial  rind. Friday  we will be bake whey bread for a gathering at Murdoch Mountain.  We hope that Doug will be there with his cello and that  Berto will be there to tell jokes in Nabokovian English. We know  that the hummingbirds will make  an appearance and that we will be able to pick ripe wineberries when we hike to the lake. We will come home at dusk to watch the fireflies bathe  the heart shaped leaves of   the catalpa tree   in flickering greenish light.  We will have a bit more chevre, bread and a glass of wine and we will forget the difficukties of getting to Sally’s place.

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