Then there was a goat in my bed

One afternoon, in the fall of my senior year of high school, I trudged in after a long day of chemistry and trigonometry. I flung my backpack on the couch and headed for my bedroom to mope like all 17-year-old girls do. In spite of years of experiences, I was stunned when I opened my bedroom door and was met with a “baaaa-aaaa.” 

There was a goat on my bed. It wasn’t a very big goat, but it was a goat looking at me with my nightshirt dangling from his mouth.

I closed the bedroom door and stood for a minute. Shaking my head, I walked back through the living room and picked up my backpack. As I grasped the front doorknob, I turned to my mother who had just walked into the room and said, “Should I try this again, or is there something you want to tell me?”

“Oh. You mean the goat?” she replied as if this were a perfectly sane conversation.

“So, there really is a goat on my bed? He’s eating my pajamas. … You put a goat in my bedroom to eat my pajamas?” I blinked.

“Well, it’s like this… “ she started and I knew it was going to be good. “I was vacuuming and there was a knock at the door. When I opened the door, the goat was standing there and he walked right in. So, I put him in your bedroom.” And she smiled and began dusting the coffee table.

When I regained my ability to speak, I asked, “What do I do with the goat, Mom?”

“Whatever you like, but he seemed pretty intent on staying.”

"I'm not sleeping with the goat, Mom."

In the following days, we tried to figure out who owned the goat. The neighbors had a small farm outside of town, so when we couldn't figure it out, they took the goat to their farm.

I think about these stories and I wonder why I am half as normal as I am.

Summer

On Facebook several people posted something that went like this: "I'm from Texas where summer starts in June....." No. That is not right. In Texas, summer starts in April, if not March. We could never wait until it was hot enough to play in the sprinkler. Mom's rule was that it had to be 80°. That was usually around the first of April.

Here in Iowa, it's June. But we go from using the electric blanket to needing the air conditioner in a week.

This morning, I was outside filling up the little wading pool for Beau and remembering the blistering days of childhood. When you went to get a drink from the hose, you had to let the water run for a few minutes before you took a sip or you would scald your mouth. The only time I ever wore flip flops was if we were going to the big store—B&W. I never even bothered to wear them to Pic N Pack or Dairy Queen. At night, I had to scrape the tar off my feet from walking on the melting black top. During drought years, you could only play in the water after sunset and then on even days. We didn't have air conditioning but a swamp cooler on the roof. Many nights, it was cooler to sleep on a blanket in the back yard. The Sno Cone man came by playing an upbeat rendition of Brahms Lullaby and that was the sweetest sound of the day. When the price of Sno Cones went from a dime to a quarter all the parents were aghast! The swimming pool in town had a slide and inner tubes and that was awesome.

Now the pools are waterparks and Sno Cones are "shaved ice." Water doesn't come from a hose, it comes from a spring in the mountains courtesy of a plastic bottle. Everywhere is air conditioned and kids rarely play outside unless they are at the aforementioned waterpark.

I prefer the childhood of my memories.

Dear Santa, I can explain...

My mom was not one for holidays. As kids, we were lucky if the tree went up a week before Christmas and it always came down by the 26th... sometimes on the afternoon of the 25th.

We didn't have Christmas stockings. I didn't even know there was such a thing until I was almost grown. We hung our socks. Our nasty ol' used socks on the bookcase on Christmas Eve.

My dad made it funny though. He always had a plan. He was always going to figure out a way for Santa to put more in his sock than anyone else's. But every year, the same thing happened. We got up on Christmas morning and our socks had a little bit of candy and an apple or an orange and my dad's sock had a switch in it. We thought it was hilarious.

One year Dad had a really elaborate plan. He hung one of his long dress socks that had a hole in the toe. Then he put a box on the floor under the sock. He explained to us that Santa would start filling his sock and it would pour through the hole and into the box. By the time Santa realized what was happening, Dad would have a whole box full of goodies. The next morning, we all ran to the socks first to see if the plan worked. We howled with glee when we saw the usual switch... through the hole and resting in the box!!!

Now I have pretty Christmas stockings hung for my Hero and me, but I will never forget those socks and that switch.