Udder End Farm

Goat ranching can be hard on a gal. I suspect a lot of ladies end up running the farm full time while hubby works a couple outside jobs to support it. There is a sunny side to it, and a dark side. One ray of sunshine is that I wear my husband’s clothes. The corresponding shadow is that I rarely get an opportunity to model the nice stuff that has been hanging in my closet for the last 15 years.

Building fence, baling hay, plowing snow, and tossing 50 pound feed bags around all day can be a fun way to keep your girlish figure. I bought a new set of post hole diggers the other day while I was town. They are the extra heavy economy size ones that are supposed to sink deep when you stab ‘em in the ground.

“Whatcha got there?” inquired Fred down at the Conoco. “That looks like a lot of work to me.”

“No, that’s just a new addition to my home gym,” I flipped at him.

I find goat ranching takes a toll on the complexion. My hands look just like my father’s hands, and he was a bricklayer. Well, I’ve set a few stones around here myself. I’m not a redneck just because my taxidermy bills run more per month than my house payment. I’m a redneck because my ponytail doesn’t keep the sun off my neck. For that matter I’m a rednose. I sport the Ranch & Rural Living centerfold farmer’s tan.

So I’m not the most stylish babe you ever met. Most days I’m fairly scruffy, and if I’m really busy you might mistake me for something that got caught under the brushhog. I do want you to know, however, that I make heroic efforts to clean up nicely if there is something going on. I am convinced my husband loves me in spite of myself, but the most memorable thing he ever said to me was,

“Wow. Wow. Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

This leads me to believe that I’m perfectly capable of keeping up my own appearance when it really matters.

And sometimes it matters. At a show, I figure I ought to dress decently out of respect for my goats. They go to, or rather through, a lot of trouble to be beautiful and I don’t want to embarrass them too bad. I was in 4-H as kid, and you can take the kid out of 4-H, but you can’t take the 4-H out of the kid. We were taught to show respect for our critters and the judges. I personally recommend a pair of Wranglers with no holes in the knees and a plain Kelly green western style shirt for showing goats. The green shirt compliments any shade of Boer head, and it camouflages the tattoo ink you are going to be applying to yourself 10 minutes before you take any given goat into the ring.

I’ve just realized it’s important to convey respect at home as well. I’m sitting way up here in the farthest corner of Colorado raising the finest goats on earth. When folks drive for hours and hours to see them, they might feel slighted at being greeted by someone who looks like the hired help. He’s not here anyway- he’s off working two jobs. I work pretty much for free, or for food, and I look like it. Recently, the idea of keeping up appearances hammered me quite hard.

I knew those nice folks were coming to visit. They called and told me when they’d be here. I don’t know why I wasn’t paying attention to the time. I had frittered away the day irrigating, moving hay, mowing the lawn, weeding flowers and just generally goofing off like I usually do when I’m home alone with no adult supervision. I think I had gotten all the water tanks scrubbed. Inside the house, there was a faint path hacked through from the front door to the kitchen sink, but the dishes weren’t done.

I was rocking out to some loud obnoxious tunes and staring glassy eyed at my solitaire game on the computer, having racked up about 3,742 points at the time, when the doorbell rang. I quickly assessed my grungy denim shorts, green knees, assorted scratches, bruises, smudges, and Hubby’s dirty T-shirt, which hung down to my knees. I realized that my hair, although still somewhat braided into two pigtails, had not seen a comb since the night before. Uh-Oh. The doorbell rang again. I heaved my short, squat, frumpy little bulk out of my chair, flicked alfalfa leaves out of my ears, stuffed the shirttails into my inadequate pants, and opened it up with a big, sheep-eating grin. Welcome to the Udder End.

It went from bad to worse, if you can believe it. The nice gentleman was dressed in appropriate farm attire, albeit clean. Then his wife walked up. A tall, slim, stunningly beautiful lady smiled down at me and, in a warm, rich voice straight from the West End (as in London), said “I’m very pleased to meet you”.

Since I was stricken fairly low, I surveyed her from the ground up. She was wearing shiny but honorable cowboy boots, clean Levi’s that fit like glove and a white, white, white blouse. I grinned stupidly and averted my gaze back down to my wet, stinky sneakers, and fought the urge to tug my forelock. Mama said there’d be days like this.

I expertly ushered the beautiful lady off the porch and kicked the front door shut behind me. Over my dead body would anybody get in that front door. “Come see the goats,” I chirped.

My mind whirled over the empty iced tea jug, the empty lemonade pitcher, and the empty ice trays. I kicked myself nine times. These folks had driven a long way, and I had completely failed to meet the basic tenets of hospitality or civility. My appearance was merely a symptom of the complete breakdown of society. I pulled my head out of my shoes to see my guests eyeing the four very large, very pink pigs occupying the once luxurious cow pen in my front yard: Like I said- the complete breakdown of society.

I cannot relate in detail the dread, the ignominy, the interminable horror of that visit. My reputation in shreds, I was certain I would never sell another goat to anyone. The worst of it was that I liked these people at first sight. I sussed right off they were pleasant people who had a plan and would take good care of their animals and succeed with them. I couldn’t even give my goats a fair showing because in my slough of despondency all I could see were the flaws, the warts, and the inconsistencies. The clearest recollection I have is that when they got into their car to leave, that lovely lady’s blouse was still a pure and shining white, without spot or wrinkle. And while I’m unable to recall a single word she said to me, that 24 karat voice still echoes between my ears.

Years ago a friend of mine went off to Bible college in the deep south to catch herself a young preacher for a husband. She told me about a two semester course she was required to take in training to be a pastor’s wife. They taught her to place a full length mirror next to the front door, along with a pair of high heeled shoes, and to never, ever get caught wearing pants. Ladies always wear skirts, you see. A lady would slip into the heels and check her look before she opened the door. The story left quite the wrong impression on me then. It’s made a deep impression on me now.

I had just finished hanging a small mirror behind my front door, and sticking, not a pair of heels, but a comb next to it, when the phone rang. It was the nice gentleman!!!
“Jeanie, I’d like that little buck we talked about, and I wonder if you would pick me out a couple really nice does to go with him”.

Well, how about that? In a flood of warm grace, it suddenly occurred to me whose appearance truly matters. I took that little mirror out to the barn and hung it about 3 feet from the floor. The goats will know how to make the best use of it.