Just Kid-ing

I’m going through all the books today. Paying to move books on a container ship seems like a waste. Jeff or I have read them all and unless they’ll prove to be useful in some immediate way, they’re going to be donated. But then I came across one particular book and it made me stop and perhaps rethink our location strategy. Was the city life really for us?

Goat book

When we lived near Seattle, we lived on 8 acres of forest land on the side of a ravine, in the Cascade mountains. The town of Snoqualmie was down in the valley from us. A picturesque location, for sure. I think its voted one of the top places to raise kids in the US. I know Halloween’s are epic there. We miss it sometimes, but our kids are grown.

When we moved there in 2007, I decided that I wanted to raise some goats. I have an issue with cows milk and this seemed like a good alternative. How hard could raising goats be? They eat everything and have been around for thousands of years.

Uh, yeah. It was harder than it looked. I learned about goat bloat and how to drench a goat, while in a business suit and high heels, so they didn’t die from it. I gave them shots and trimmed their hooves. I de-loused them. I was almost a goat vet.

So when I found this book, the memories, not all unpleasant, came flooding back. ‘What if we lived in the mountains in Spain?’ I asked myself. ‘What if we raised goats and I milked them and made artisanal Spanish goat cheese?’ Or more like, ‘What if I actually knew how to make artisanal Spanish goat cheese?’

I’ve spent all of today, while I’ve sorted through other things, fantasizing about my new life as a Spanish goat farmer and artisanal cheese maker. I’d be up at dawn, milking and tending my goats. I’d probably have to herd them from one pasture to another, while wearing a cute pair of overalls, Hunter boots and straw hat, clutching my shepherds crook. At one point I texted my husband at work and filled him in on my musings.

It was about 1 minute before the phone buzzed. ‘Give that book away and step away from the goats!’ Apparently, he remembered my goat rearing days differently, and a little less fondly. Perhaps my rose colored glasses are still too firmly in place, where shepherding is concerned.

‘Think beach. Think blue water. Think no pets and total weekend freedom.’

His practicality shook me out of my revelry. So, I guess someone else will just have to supply the artisanal Spanish goat cheese, because I’ll living in a flat in the city – sans my goats and those cute Hunter boots.

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