The Rural Voice, 1995-09, Page 26In My Keeping
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It was a farmer's tale. First there was the
miracle of survival
Now was the time of sustenance.
By Helena Malton
22 THE RURAL VOICE
When my mother makes her
annual May escape to the
city, she leaves her small
herd of Nubian goats in
my care. I am always glad
to do it. Without the full-time
responsibility of milking,
pasteurizing, washing buckets, doling
out hay and grain, bottle feeding the
babies and cleaning the pens, it's
easy to slip into a kind of pastoral
trance. I get a childish kick out of
playing farmer.
This time is no different from the
others. The milkers put up with me,
rolling their eyes heavenwards and
flicking their tails. Niobe's teats are
enormous water balloons, hard to
grasp and strangely elusive, like soap
in the bath. (My mother can milk her
out in five minutes, but it takes me
half an hour.) I sing to her — lullabies
and folk songs, my voice shaking
slightly as I will her to remain still
and not kick over the bucket. Echo's
left teat is misshapen; it's like trying
to milk a ball point pen. She kicks
and I plead, finally bribing her with
an extra portion of grain to keep her
quiet. It is an old game we play —
Echo is a manipulative so-and-so, and
she knows I know it.
I love the intimacy of the barn, the
smell of warm, furry bodies, the
bizarre, juicy noise the goats make
when chewing dry hay — as if they
were munching fresh carrots.
When I have finished with the
chores, I return to the house, carrying
the full milk pail like a trophy,
amazed, as always, that milk does
indeed come at blood -heat from the
glands of mammals and not chilled
from a wax cardboard box. I find a
note on the fridge — my mother has
left a bottle of milk for me, and a
soft, cold paper package, labelled
"goat chops".
I return home and turn on the grill.
The chops will be seasoned with a
little salt, pepper, and a dash of
Worcestershire — delicious. I unwrap
the package. The chops are tiny.
Chop -shaped, yes, but from a goat -
kid — a small one. I flash back to
December.
It is Christmas night. Niobe is
pregnant; due to deliver at any
moment, and my mother has turned
on the intercom — the audio
connection between house and barn.