Udder End Farm

On the 29th of September Rose, my younger daughter, and I were be-bopping through Stuff Mart looking for some stuff. Reasonable stuff as recall- toothpaste or a spatula or some other legitimate item. We both stopped in our tracks and stared like deer in the headlights at a display of Christmas stuff. I checked my calendar. It was indeed September. Forgive me if I’m shocked. I lead a very sheltered life. At the moment, I failed to grasp the humor in it. I felt like I had seen something obscene. Everywhere in America folks were rolling up their sleeves, loading up trucks, and working to set right all those lives hurled apart by hurricane Katrina; but here at Stuff Mart we had moved on into the future and it was Christmas. Alrightythen!

Not many days later, Rose came seeking me out. I was perched on a bucket in the yearling pen, at the top of the hill. It was a warm blue and gold day and I was gazing mindlessly for miles across the sage. The goats had given up standing on my shoes, climbing in my lap, or chewing my hair, and had gone down to the field. I was at peace.

“Pull up a bucket Rosie, and join me,” I invited. “Tell me what’s on your mind”.

Rose is eleven years old. Her long hair is like cornsilk and her eyes as blue as October sky. Rose is an artist and a philosopher. She is a little pink prairie rosebud crossed with a Jedi master. Her voice sounds about seven, and her words weigh in at seventy. Rose doesn’t pull any punches.

“Are you looking at your goats?” she inquired politely.

“No, I’m looking at your sister.” I nodded towards a miniscule cloud of dust roiling along the edge of the wash. “She seems to be riding my colt, which is very, very verboten. If that horse doesn’t kill her out there, I will do it myself when she gets back here. If she’s wearing my boots, I’ll kill her twice”

“Well, don’t kill her too bad because then I’ll have to clean goat pens all by myself.” Then she dropped her bomb. “Mom, what do you want for Christmas?”

What do I want for Christmas? ...

Kodak moments flood my mind. When I was eleven, I brought my horse into the house on Christmas morning. I see my mother’s face. I think of many Christmases- A big box from my brother in Germany, where he was safely finishing his military service in the last days of the Viet Nam war. I don’t remember what was in the box. He’s my best big brother. My last Christmas with my dad; I was thirteen and he gave me a doll, and a new pair of boots. My first Christmas with my husband-our house was so small we skipped the tree and decorated the elk antlers. What did he give me that Christmas? What hasn’t he given me since? What do I want for Christmas?

What do you want for Christmas, Rosie? I saw your list- three items, priced less than $20 each, no batteries, no assembly required. What do those folks in Louisiana and Mississippi and east Texas want for Christmas? You want to go home, with your family close at your side and your photographs and Grandma’s dishes safe in the cupboards. What do all those brothers, fathers, husbands and sons over there in Iraq want for Christmas? All you men over there fighting the enemies of freedom and the American Way, so I can sit safely here on my bucket raising goats to feed the same people you’re fighting. You want to come home too, but not with the job unfinished.

I am recalled to the present time, and I check over my goats. From where I ‘m sitting I can see one of my two fine new billy goats exchanging sweet words with a very pretty lady goat. My yearlings are fat, shiny, and exquisite against the still green field. I’m aware of the snug barn behind me with the fancy Boer goat weathervane perched on the peak of the roof. What do I want for Christmas? New clippers? Something for the house? Chrome for my truck? No, no, and no. I glance over at Rose. She is like her father, not requiring a steady stream of talk for comfort. She waits patiently for me to sort out my thoughts.

I have so much! How could I want anything for Christmas when I have all this? Everything I own owns me instead. Favorite goats fall over dead. Not-so-favorite goats make holes in my fences. The plaster in my dining room is cracking for some mysterious reason. Praise God for the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics! Things just don’t last. Entropy keeps me humble.

An Indian war whoop disturbs my disturbed thoughts. Even from the place I’ve just been, I can distinguish it as a joyful sound, as opposed to the cry of some small person being killed by a large animal. The dust cloud rolls along my fence line, resolving itself into a fancy young horse, bareback, topped by a fancy young lady, barefoot. Good grief! The shutter in my mind’s eye snaps, capturing the vision for all my days.

“Hey Mom!” calls my Mimi, “I think I about got this horse safe for you to ride now!”

That is what I want for Christmas. I want this wild child safe, every day of her long eventful life. I want both of my children to come home safe from their travels, every day, for the next hundred years. I want my husband to come home safe to me every day forever. Life is fraught with peril. There is no such thing as safe. But that’s o.k. God is good, all the time.

What I want for Christmas is to say thank you, to the good Lord for keeping us all safe, to my precious children and husband, for loving me and my goats. I want to say thank you to Ted and Phyllis, Tom and Carrie, John and Cathie, for all their help. I want to say thank you to that man who changed my flat tire and that lady at the airport who helped me get my dog home and to that other lady who found my wallet in the street. I want to say thank you to all those men who are in Iraq and so many other places keeping America safe for my children and my goats. Thank you.

I know what my daughter has asked me. She has asked what she can give of herself, from her own resources. She is not probing into the depths of my emotional quagmires. “Would you please paint me a picture a Rose? A picture of our home and farm, and all the things you love best. That’s what I want for Christmas. To see what you see.”

Her smile is like the sun coming up in the morning, another great freeze-frame moment in my life. “Sure Mom, that’ll be fun. I can ask Dad to frame it for you.”

A painful tug at my hair nearly jerks me backward off my bucket, but I am saved from the fall by the sharp pressure on my instep. Christmas is coming, but the goats are here now.