Greenville, a respite.

Greenville is one of those small New England towns where nothing ever changes but it seems like every summer when we come up here there's always something new to wonder about. Usually one small business has opened and another one has closed, typically a mom and pop restaurant but sometimes a novelty or antique shop. The population is somewhere in the neighborhood of 600, so we’re seriously talking small town here.

I can make the same observation though, for all the equally small (or smaller!) towns we drive through on the 25 mile stretch of Route 7 that carries us from Exit 157 off of I-95 to the crest of the hill that slowly dips down into Greenville, Maine. This summer I noticed that the Fish Market in Corinna had closed after being open for close to four years. That in particular made me sad as I wanted that little shack to succeed. I mean, the words “Maine” and “seafood” just belong together, even if you are 150 miles inland. Plus, I love all types of seafood and hate to see any source shut down. The one time my husband and I stopped into the Fish Market however, we found the shop pathetically under stocked and completely lacking in charm so we never went back. Too far of a drive when there is a little old retired fisherman parked on the side of the road in Greenville with battered coolers of lobster and clams and fresh picked peas lined up in the back of his truck. A handwritten sign declares the product but not the price. I’m not entirely sure if it’s the same man every year though, as the weathered faces of 70 year old Maine men, with their distinctive accent old-fashioned accent and lack of eye contact start to blur together.

My father, my grandfather’s only son, inherited this house 25 years ago from his childless Great Uncle Ross, who in turn had inherited it from a woman I only know as “the crazy lady” who was his companion for many years. They lived together in the house until she died and then Ross continued here for many years after until he died in a nursing home in Dover-Foxcroft. I think he might have been a little bit crazy too.

At any rate, we’ve been coming up here for summer vacations since my father inherited the house, and for the last five or so years it’s been mainly me and my sister and our families because mom and dad are getting too old to make the five hour drive comfortably, although they do try to make it up here at least once a year, usually after Labor Day to close the place up for the winter.

It’s an extraordinarily simple house. Roughly 1,200 square feet and absolutely square with a dormer on one side where the window for the upstairs bedroom sits. Two bedrooms, one modest bathroom, a simple kitchen, a living room, and one all-purpose room that has at times served as a second living room, a dining room, or extra bedroom.

Like the town, this house never changes. Year after year we come up here in the warm months, unlock the door and step into a place both familiar and new. We haven’t seen it since the year before so in a way it’s like going off to a new land that’s free from the chores and needs of home, but it’s also excruciatingly familiar. The summer sofa in the screened in porch still has the patriotic red, white, and blue throw tucked carefully over it’s cushions. The little ceramic dogs are still lined up like canine soldiers on the upper sill of the living room doorway. Pictures of Greenville from 50 years ago still adorn the walls and the handsome oak woodwork still brings warmth and charm to the humble rooms. Even though the last remodel of the bathroom and kitchen were in the 1970s the fixtures don’t seem worn because, frankly, they get so little actual use. So on the one hand we’re are “away” and on the other hand we are “home away from home.” It feels nice, being here.

My sister and I are up here this weekend outwardly to bring up a new (old) sofa that she has, and also to get away from the daily demands of home, teenagers, animals, and husbands for a couple of days. My sister is my only sibling and my best friend. We talked a lot about friendship this weekend, something I’ll probably write about later, and we laughed a lot, which we usually do.

Settling Into a Routine

My husband and I are settling into somewhat of a routine. A routine that will change dramatically when the doelings are fully grown and milking, but we have a way to go before we get there (thank God). For the past week we've been getting up and making our coffee and going out and opening up the barn and sitting with our new family members.

Unlike the beagles, who would make a break for it if we opened up the door of the house, the kids prefer to stand around with us, getting their heads scratched and munching hay from our hands. The outside world isn't really calling them -- they're homebodies. Adorable little Ruth has taken to nibbling our fingers if we stop petting her, kind of like how a dog will bump your hand if he wants attention. Boaz and Ruth, who are more similar in size, butt heads now and then. And when I was talking to Boaz after a sip of coffee I got the most amazing expression from him. His face was merely inches from mine and his top lip curled up while he stared directly into my eyes.

Now, a little research revealed that this could be a moderately alarming development. Goats, horses, and other animals display the flehmen response, which is a curling back of the upper lip, as a way of better examining scents. ALSO, it is displayed when a goat detects the smell of urine and is checking out the scene for a little hanky panky. Boaz was staring at me, more specifically my mouth, when he did the flehmen.

Okay. Ew.

Is our little guy starting to feel "the urge?" Or is he trying to tell me that my morning breath scented with coffee smells like a toilet?

Both options are disturbing. The first possibility could be a problem for us as we don't want Boaz getting ideas before he undergoes snippy-snippy at the vet next week. We won't be breeding Boaz with his cousins as they all share the same grandfather. Plus there's that stinky buck thing I already mentioned. The second possibility spells peril for my husband who must face me each morning before I brush my teeth.
I'll start brushing my teeth BEFORE visiting the new babies and see if I get better results.

I think the kids are also settling in because instead of bawling when we left them to get ready for the day they just quietly wandered out into the field and started browsing away.

Becoming a Goat Herder

So we've taken the next step toward becoming a "farm," as much as an acre "in the village" can be a farm. A Gentleman's Farm perhaps?

 

This week we brought home three baby goats who are joining our 12 chickens in the barn behind the house. We decided on Nubians because they're sort of a good cross of goat. My 6'5 husband put the kabosh on Nigerian Dwarf goats because they are too small. Nubians are a pretty good size with does weighing around 135 pounds and bucks coming in around 175 pounds, standing at, 30 inches and 35 inches at the withers respectively. Plus, I absolutely love their huge floppy ears. See the picture below to see what I mean.

 

Then I read an excellent book "Goat Song," a gift from my sister-in-law when she heard we were thinking about getting goats, that is all about a couple who moved from New York City who bought a farm in Vermont and started raising Nubian goats. The author, Brad Kessler, made Nubians sound so sweet, funny, and mischevious that I was sold on the breed by the time I finished the book.

 

In a twist of fate I was searching for kids (baby goats) for sale on Craig's List and came across an ad for kids by the author of "Goat Song," although I didn't know it at the time. I emailed for information and a few days later we found ourselves driving three hours to see our potential new kids and to select a buckling, which was thrown in for free as a way to avoid the little guy from becoming a meat goat. Doelings turn into does which can be bred and then milked. Bucklings grow into bucks which then go into rut and become obnoxious, stinky, smelly horn dogs. Needless to say most bucklings go the way of the meat market.

 

But we did want a herd of sorts and two does seemed like a small herd. Two does and a wether (castrated male) seemed more respectable. Plus two girls and a boy would be the perfect bookend for our household. In the house live Katie and Suki, our female beagles, along with Lucky, our neutered male beagle. The barn needed a similar balance. Also, we fell in love with a dappled little guy when we went to visit Brad and Dona's farm and that completely sealed the deal.

 

I can't tell you how funny it was to put hay in the back of a black Escalade and load in three baby goats.

Ruth, Naomi, and Boaz traveled quite nicely with us. Brad called it -- the kids fussed a bit for the first 15 minutes or so with Boaz letting rip a few ear splitting screams initially. Nubians are very vocal animals.

 

I sat in back to keep an eye on them and Ruth, the youngest and smallest of the three kids, leapt into my lap after a few minutes. The  kids are all super friendly and people-oriented in large part because they were bottle-fed. I soothed Ruth and let her stay there for awhile but my husband was concerned that she'd pee on the leather seats so off she went back with the others. They were troopers on the winding roads but I think poor Boaz suffered from motion sickness. My clue was when he parked himself in a corner, head down, for a good 90 minutes. He seemed to rally though when we hit the highway in New Hampshire.

Naomi is quite the love. She stood on the edge of the tilted and folded dog crate that leaned toward the back seat where I was sitting for virtually the entire trip, alternating between nuzzling my arm and gazing intently out the front window. For the first couple of hours she would shy away every time a car passed us in the other direction, but she's a quick study and after that seemed to realize it wasn't a threat. She made the least noise of the trio and seems game for the new adventure.

Really, they all did very well. I was concerned when we first put them in the new stall because they ate hay non-stop and we just weren't sure if that was okay or not, but a quick search online seemed to indicate that a goat can't overeat good hay so we let them be and turned out the lights. At last check they were quiet and we assume asleep. We didn't want to turn on the light and take the chance of disturbing them.

I'm really amazed at how intelligent and wise these little guys are despite the gangly limbs and youthful, naked curiosity. Perhaps we got some old soul goats? I like to think so.