Goat Grief

From the Farm:

GOAT GRIEF

Published in the Casper Journal January 31, 2012

It’s officially been four months since twin goats and their mama arrived at our house. Thankfully, I can report that our experience has been relatively enjoyable ... well ... except for a few moments of “goat grief.”
The first month of goat ownership was very fulfilling. I loved looking out the window to our pasture where the goat kids played happily together. “I’m a real farm mama now,” I thought. Whenever my own children went outside to play, the goats would run to greet them, bleating happily. Our life was a picture-perfect farm.
Then, one fall day, my preschool son came screaming into the house. “She’s out! She’s out!” Dropping my mixing bowl on the floor, I ran to the door and saw mama goat Vicki happily standing near the road, on the wrong side of the fence. Luckily, she didn’t seem interested in the passing cars, and was content to simply eat the grass “on the other side” which must have been greener. My immediate instinct was to phone my husband. “No,” I told myself in my best farm mama voice, “I can handle this goat.” With my wide-eyed preschooler and toddler twins watching, I walked around Vicki, blocking her from the highway, and gave her a gentle push in the direction of the open gate. No good. She loved that grass.
Putting all dignity aside, and ignoring thoughts of how I would look to the passing drivers, I put a rope around Vicki’s neck and attempted to drag her back into the field. Nope. She was stronger than I was, and resisted the pulling.
“Wait here,” I instructed my amused children. Running into the house, I came back with an apple. “Goats love apples...don’t they?” I wondered. Just then my phone rang. It was my Las Vegas friend calling for a good chat. “I’ll have to call you back,” I said as I breathlessly answered. “I’m dealing with a runaway goat.” Her high-pitched laugh didn’t add to my confidence level.
“Here, goat,” I said, offering the apple. She looked up from the grass and eyed it, then began walking slowly to me. “Block the gap!” I instructed my capable two-year-olds. Neither one was as tall as Vicki, but they obediently stood between the goat and the open road while my preschooler held the gate open. My apron blew in the wind and I tried to look as non-threatening as possible. Farm Mama vs. Mama Goat. Vicki slowly sauntered to me, licked the apple, and then turned and walked in the opposite direction. I tried several more times, but she always changed her mind at the pasture gate. Finally, I had had enough. I picked up my phone and called for help. I wasn’t smarter than a goat.
That evening all escape routes from the pasture were sealed off, and the following days ensued with no noteworthy incidents. However, a few weeks later, tragedy struck. One day, goat twin AJ jumped from his favorite perch and broke his leg. We were heartbroken. My teenage son, AJ’s owner, was in tears. A trip to the vet spelled out our options: amputation, operation or death. Even goat medical care requires cash, and I suddenly wished for an animal healthcare plan. We spent the weekend debating: How valuable is a goat? Can a three-legged goat live a fulfilling life? “If I broke my leg would you put me down?” was the hard question asked us as parents.
Finally, with the help of generous grandparents and my son’s own hard-earned money, we decided on an operation. Monday morning I called the school secretary to inform her of my son’s delay. “He’s taking his goat to the vet,” I told her. The other end was silent. “Well,” the stunned secretary finally admitted, “I’ve never heard that tardy excuse before.”
AJ was left in the vet’s capable care and my son went to school with a promise that I would call once the operation had started. This time, a different secretary answered the phone. “Please let him know that AJ is in the operating room,” I said. The secretary’s voice immediately oozed with sympathy. “I’m so sorry,” she offered. “Would you like to give the news to your son yourself?” “That’s OK,” I responded, not wanting to admit that the operee was a goat.
In the end, infection forced the operation into an amputation, and AJ returned to our pasture as a tripod. After a week he was bounding happily with his sister again, and my son thankfully accepted the outcome. Watching him suffer emotionally had been difficult enough, and knowing that our pet goat was in pain hurt terribly. But I survived, and this mother is wiser for it. There are no longer just children in our family; we now have nine children and a few “kids.” Goat grief? Perhaps it’s the real “farm mama” test.

Presidential Politics

From the Farm:

PRESIDENTIAL POLITICS

Published in the Casper Journal January 18, 2012

Why anybody would want to run for president is beyond me. To suddenly have your entire life put on display, like a slow movie, one millisecond at a time, for passersby to scrutinize and scowl at; to have every action, every glance, every word dissected; to have personal relationships torn to the ground - it's an exercise that only the very toughest could hope to endure. The process our nation puts politician-wannabes through is nearly dehumanizing. Their words are "twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools." The cruelty reminds me of "Lord of the Flies," a group of young boys, playing with sticks at being men, who mistakenly kill one of their own.
Our political atmosphere sometimes mirrors the mood in my home. "He said ... She said ..." How do I know who's telling the truth? Mothers not only need to be good cooks, maids, chauffeurs and teachers, they also need to be good attorneys. My college degree has been helpful, but I'll admit, sometimes I wish for a few litigation skills. A law degree would come in handy as a mother, especially when I'm called upon to serve justice. Perhaps a Pinocchio's nose isn't such a bad idea for children ... or politicians.
Mudslinging isn't new, in the White House or in our home. Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, two great founding fathers, even stooped to outrageous accusations during a presidential campaign. The people were left to discern who was right and who was wrong. And they chose Jefferson. Smeared by false scandal, John Adams left town in anger the day of Jefferson's inauguration. Although they had once worked for a common cause, the two became fierce enemies. Later, they made up their broken relationship, and miraculously died on the same day, July 4, 1826, just a few hours apart.
In a country where there's no royalty, we the people must choose our loyalties. Thankfully, as a credit to democracy, there are generally honest citizens who're willing to put personal interests aside for our country. George Washington, our first president, had to be coerced into accepting the position. He preferred the country life, at home on his plantation, to that of politics. In a true show of citizenship, he gave up his comfortable lifestyle to lead our country through the first eight years, until he warded off all pleas to continue and returned to Mount Vernon. Thank goodness for men like him.
If we must go through another political season, would there be any way candidates could simply share their ideas, their policies, their plans for leading our country? Instead of the bashing, the mudslinging, the challenging, the picking, couldn't we just hear the truth? Perhaps it's too much to ask of a democracy. Until there's an outraged mother to hand around a few good spankings, there will be meanness. However, despite the criticizing, I'm still grateful for men and women who're willing to put their lives, their family's lives, and their personal reputations on the line for America. It's up to me (law degree or not) to discern between truth and mud.

What is Real?

From the Farm:

WHAT IS REAL?

Published in the Casper Journal January 3, 2012

We’re not a television family. We don’t have cable, and rarely take the time to watch a movie. However, during September, October and November, we spent several Monday nights watching my brother, Jake Hunsaker, perform on The Sing-Off, an NBC reality show featuring a cappella groups from around the country. His group, Vocal Point, a nine-man chorus from Brigham Young University, did quite well, surviving to the top five finalists and making a name for themselves with their catchy, upbeat tunes.
It was a little strange to see someone I grew up with perform on television. I remember the day Jake was born. (He is the second youngest, and I am the second oldest.) I remember feeding him his bottle and changing his diaper. I recall many of his milestones through the years ... graduating from high school, buying his first car, going on to college. And I remember singing with him around the house and on family trips. The difference is, now he’s singing on national television.
It was fun to get the inside scoop from Jake after each episode of The Sing-Off. “The judges took nearly two hours [not two minutes] to make their elimination decision,” he told us one week. “We became good friends with that other group,” he offered another week. “Filming an episode actually takes several hours,” he explained once. In other words, reality television is only partly real. Despite what we’re told, much of what we see is carefully orchestrated.
It’s not just reality TV that’s not entirely real, however. I walked into a store the other day and was greeted by a wall of television screens. Each one played a different movie, and not one showed a real person. Blue people, animated people, creatures mixed with human likenesses, twiggy ladies with overgrown hair ... not a single being was an actual human. The blatant farce made me wonder how much time today is spent watching things that are real. A real tree, a real river, a real cloud in the sky, a real person, a real conversation ... the reality of life is slowly slipping away.
Statistics compiled by TV-Free America state that parents usually spend 38.5 minutes in meaningful conversation with their child each week, yet an average child watches 1,680 minutes of weekly television. The average youth spends nearly 1,500 hours watching television each year, and only 900 hours attending school. At age 65, most Americans will have spent nine years watching the tube, not counting internet, iPad, iPod and other “screen” viewing.
I remember taking our children to a winter park when we lived in Las Vegas. On the hour, electric blowers, hidden in the tree tops, began shooting beautiful, white snow out onto the park green. My children were thrilled. As Las Vegans, they had never actually seen more than one or two “real” snowstorms, and they were enamored with the wet fluff on their heads and jackets. After 10 minutes, the snowfall abruptly stopped, and we were left in the warm, Nevada night air, the fake snow soon melting around us. The rapt attention of those watching was incredible, and a little scary. I wondered if our world has become so computerized, so simulated, that we’ve forgotten simple beauty. Are we so starved for reality that we’re amazed at manmade counterfeits?
We enjoyed watching The Sing Off. Even after my brother’s group was voted off of the show, we continued to sing the songs around the house. Santa brought us the Christmas CD, and we’ve even downloaded some of the music from iTunes. The real music simulated by real voices will continue to make its mark on America.
Our television watching stint is over for now, at least until another friend or sibling makes it onto national programming. Watching television isn’t all bad; I just hope we’re filling the rest of every real day with real people, real images and real conversations. Because, like every group on The Sing-Off, you never know when life could suddenly change and you will be singing your “Swan” song.

Keep Christmas

From the Farm:

KEEP CHRISTMAS

Published in the Casper Journal December 20, 2011

Christmas is busy. Christmas is hustle. Christmas is bustle. Christmas is hurry and Christmas is scurry, but I don’t care. I still vote that we “keep Christmas.”
Keep Christmas by giving. Despite popular belief, Christmas isn’t just for children, it’s for adults. If the “very best part of Christmas is the presents you give away,” then parents have the best part. I don’t care what the scrooges say, I love this time of year. Imagine shopping for nine children. Just the thought calls for a long winter’s nap. It’s crazy, exhausting, overwhelming, but sooo much fun! My husband and I thoroughly enjoy planning, scheming, dreaming, giggling and wrapping. We generally go shopping about 9 p.m. Once most of our children are asleep and the older ones are keeping watch, we can go to the store for hours. Other bleary-eyed parents are usually out as well, making last-minute choices, shopping, discussing. The stores are generally quiet. Associates are close to answer our questions, or reach the bikes on the highest shelf. We can make decisions and plan our secrets without too much distraction. Something about late-night shopping and hiding gifts makes magic. I’ll keep it.
Keep Christmas by dreaming. “Let’s do a live nativity!” suggested one of our children excitedly at dinner one evening. The idea caught on like wildfire. “Our goats can be sheep!” “I’ll be the shepherd!” “We can borrow a donkey for Mary to ride in on!” Soon our rustic goat stable was transformed into Bethlehem, the tool shed became the over-crowded inn, and the chicken coop became the cloud for an angel to stand on. Our good-natured friend brought the donkey (a mule) for the children to practice with a few times. Finally, it was dress rehearsal. With the karaoke machine plugged in on the outside porch, I started reading the Christmas story. Out of the shadows stepped the donkey, led by our oldest son (dressed in a bathrobe). Daughter number two rode on top, trying her best to look pregnant and tired. At the inn, the couple was turned away, and stepping carefully across the snow, they made their way to the goat stable. I tried to control my voice, reading in a serious tone, although I had to cover up a giggle every once in a while.
The shepherds kept watch in our pasture as another daughter, hiding in the bushes, flipped on the flood lights. There stood our six-year-old, a white costume draped over her snowsuit, her pink ski cap on her head, and her mittens extending from the flowing angel sleeves. “Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy ...” she began. Just then a car drove past. “They must wonder about this heavenly scene at our farm,” I laughed silently. The shepherds made haste to the stable as the goats pulled impatiently on their harnesses, bleating softly. As the next verse began, a wise man appeared (only two years old) riding solemnly on the donkey and supported with a steady, older hand. Our makeshift star lit up at the nighttime sky above the shed, and we all gathered around to see young Mary holding a child in her arms. It was perfect. A memory to keep.
Keep Christmas by remembering. A miracle happened in a Bethlehem barn. A miracle happened in our barn. Everyday barns, everyday people, everyday lives. It’s good to be children sometimes. It’s good to be childlike at Christmas. Despite the hustle and bustle and hurry and scurry, it’s worth it. Keep Christmas.

Over the River and Through the Woods

From the Farm:

OVER THE RIVER AND THROUGH THE WOODS

Published in the Casper Journal December 6, 2011

When we moved from Las Vegas to Casper, I was thrilled to start a new life of simplicity in the “wild” west. As we packed our belongings, I put our plastic Christmas tree into the “donation” pile. “We won’t need a fake tree in Casper,” I told the surprised children. “There’s a mountain there, and we’ll just cut down our own.” In my mind I pictured our first Wyoming Christmas, driving “over the river and through the woods,” to select the perfect Christmas tree.
As our first Thanksgiving approached, I reminded my husband that we no longer owned a Christmas tree. “We’re Wyomingites now!” I told him in a patriotic tone. “We’ll cut down our own tree.” Dutifully, he drove to the BLM office to purchase a permit. “It only cost $7!” he said when he returned. “What a deal!” He also showed me the map of designated tree cutting areas. Words like “Shirley Basin” and “Medicine Bow” were new to us, but they didn’t seem too far away, so we weren’t worried.
The day after Thanksgiving, we bundled our children into the van and set out. Our spirits were high and we sang carols as we drove. However, our happy “over the river” singing soon drifted into silence as we drove out of town and around Casper Mountain. When civilization had been out of sight for what seemed like hours, the map guided us off of the paved highway onto a small, gravel road. I looked around. The land for miles seemed deserted. I had anticipated seeing other happy tree-cutting families, but realized that I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen a house, a car or even a decent tree. “Oh well,” I thought. “Surely there’s more civilization up ahead.” The falling snow and barren landscape nearly swallowed us as I tried to swallow the sudden, uneasy knot in my throat.
Our van was silent now as we drove on for what seemed like hours. “How much further?” I finally asked. “We’re almost to the mountain turn off,” my husband assured me. Sure enough, soon the road turned to the left, up a mountain. “Christmas trees!” the children shouted. As if by magic, we were suddenly surrounded by hundreds of beautiful trees, the first we had seen in miles. Our spirits brightened. Still, the mountainside seemed silent. “There are more people around here,” I told myself, hoping also for a civilized restroom. But besides a lone parked car, the landscape was white and still.
“There’s the perfect tree!” my children called out excitedly. Sure enough, a beautiful pine tree was standing just off the road in the falling snow. “Yes, let’s take it!” I said, a little too eagerly. “This isn’t the designated area,” my law-abiding husband said. “It’s still a few miles up the mountain.” Looking ahead I saw only the faint outline of a road. Knowing that our Las Vegas van had never attempted a snowy mountain pass before, I wondered aloud, “Will we make it?” Armed with determination, my husband revved the engine and drove the van through the first feet of snow. For a few yards we skimmed across the icy whiteness, and then the van stopped. The wheels spun and stalled. He tried again, and again, but each attempt took us deeper into the snow. “How about we just cut that cute little tree right there and go home?” I suggested again. “No. We’ll get a fine,” my husband insisted, and put the van in reverse.
Wondering who would possibly see us illegally cut down a tree in this forsaken land, I held my breath as we slowly backed down the mountain. “Watch behind us,” my husband instructed my sons. “There’s nobody,” they said glumly. “No cars. No people. You’re all clear.” But just as we backed out of the snow, we felt the van slip to one side and were soon in a ditch. “Will we die here?” I wondered. It had been several hours since we’d seen another human being, and our Las Vegas heater wasn’t very efficient. With two screaming babies in the back seat and snow falling outside, my husband and sons dug and pushed and dug some more. After a good hour of working, we miraculously pulled the van up onto the graveled road.
“Now let’s really cut down that tree over there and go home,” I suggested. I saw my husband’s jaw set. “We’ll try the road on the other side,” he declared. The next hour was silent as we drove back around the mountain. The sky grew darker and the snow fell harder.
When the second road grew steep and snowy and the van stalled (this time with no picture-perfect trees in sight), my husband stopped in the middle of the road and reached for his saw. “Is this the legal tree-cutting area?” I asked. There was no reply as he tramped up the hill. In 15 minutes he returned with the scrawniest tree I had ever seen. The three half-hearted branches on one side made Charlie Brown’s tree look like a forest. Without a word, my husband tied the twig on top of our van, and despite the fact that we were still going “through the woods,” we silently drove home.
As we arrived back into town we passed a tree lot filled with thick, gorgeous pine trees. “$40” a sign read. I glanced at the $7 permit and our empty gas tank.
The next day we pulled out our Christmas decorations, and the children were each allowed to choose two to hang on the tree. “Let’s turn the light off,” my daughter offered when we stood back to admire our work. With only the tree lights shining in the dark room, our twig didn’t seem quite so scrawny. In fact, despite its few branches, the scent overwhelmed our house. “People pay money to have their house smell like that,” suggested my husband with a smile. “You’re right,” I sighed.
We’re now looking forward to our third Wyoming Christmas. Although we do love living in the “wild” west, we have a new Wyoming tradition: we buy a sweet-smelling tree at the in-town lot. And after we tie our gorgeous, full tree on top of our van, we always sing, “Over the river and through the woods,” all the way home.

The Pilgrims' Progress

THE PILGRIMS' PROGRESS

My family is living in poverty. Shocking, I know, especially since my husband has a steady income, we have food on the table three times a day, and we even go on vacation occasionally. However, our income is thousands — even tens of thousands of dollars — below the government determined level for a family of our size.

It’s strange that we could be poor (according to federal standards) and not know it. In fact, when I think about it, we have at least as much abundance as the Pilgrims of Plymouth Rock did: a bit of earth, a house, a well with clean water, orange-golden pumpkins, several fat chickens (no turkeys), blue sky, a fireplace and a home full of children.

  In addition, we enjoy the freedom to worship as we please, and the ability to determine our own destiny.

Still, caring for a large family every day is hard.  This is America! Shouldn’t life be easy? Perhaps I could drum up some sympathy for our situation if I took my nine children and camped out on the lawn of the County Building. I’m sure that if we pitched a tent and stayed for a week, people would truly understand how destitute we are.

Good grief! The Pilgrims didn’t come to America to live on Easy Street, or because houses, food, or doctors were free; they came because of opportunity! “Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” have nothing tangible attached: no mansions, no perfect jobs, no great health benefits--just freedoms. Wealth isn’t about having things, it’s about having choices — choices that can progress to abundance if made correctly.

Although we celebrate abundance as a trademark of those first colonists, life wasn’t a piece of pie for the Pilgrims. Just days after the 1621 Thanksgiving celebration, another ship arrived bringing 36 more people to the fledgling colony. These new Pilgrims were as poor as those from the Mayflower. The added mouths were an additional burden on the original Pilgrims, still weak from the previous harsh winter, and preparing for another one.

The first Thanksgiving didn’t guarantee a life of ease ever after; it was only an expression of gratitude for their progress so far. There were still many long winters, cold days and difficult years before “plenty” became the norm in their lives. Landing in Plymouth wasn’t the end, it was the beginning. I believe their eventual progress was, in part, due to their gratitude.

My parents recently lived in Detroit as church service missionaries. They combined their efforts with many denominations to gather blankets, clothing and food for destitute people in the area. One medical student from Africa was happy to help their humanitarian efforts. However, although he had lived in downtown Detroit for several years, he remarked, “I still have yet to see real poverty in the United States.” Indeed, American poverty is a breed all its own, very different from the terrible hunger in many other countries.

Perhaps, in some ways, poverty in the USA is a state of mind. A stamp (no pun intended) that’s placed upon us and can potentially damage our free way of thinking. Maybe the real remedy isn’t freebies, but freedom.

Perhaps those who think that protesting these freedoms is patriotism should try gratitude instead.

So Happy Thanksgiving! This distinctly American holiday is founded on gratitude, not “gimme.”

Are we living below the poverty level? Not in my book. If this is being poor, I’ll take it! I’d rather live on a small income in America than above the national average in any other country. My family is rich! The blessings the Pilgrims enjoyed when they arrived on the Mayflower are still here. I would be honored if my own posterity’s progress mirrored that of the Pilgrims’.

No matter what our income level, “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” can still be served up in abundance on our platters and in our lives, if we will but partake.

Thank you, Pilgrims.

The Victory of Veterans

From the Farm:

THE VICTORY OF VETERANS

Published in the Casper Journal November 15, 2011

A month ago I visited my sister in Los Alamos, N.M. The small mountain town may not ring a bell for people of my generation. However, I’m certain that it strikes a chord in the hearts of an older generation.
I first heard of Los Alamos somewhere in a high school history class ... something to do with the making of the atomic bomb, something about a national laboratory. But visiting the town was an eye-opener.
My sister picked me up at the airport, and we drove up, up through the rugged mountains of New Mexico. Sagebrush, scrub oak and pine trees dotted the beautiful, red landscape. Aside from a few cars traveling with us, it was hard to imagine that anyone lived nearby. Suddenly, the mountain road leveled out onto a mesa, and there was a town: “The Town That Never Was,” according to archives of World War II. But it did exist in the 1940s — hundreds of people, houses, schools, stores and, of course, the national laboratory.
The land was originally owned by Mr. Ashley Pond. He had a sophisticated boys’ ranch, where wealthy young men came to study both books and botany. The students had lessons indoors, and spent time swimming, hiking and camping outdoors - strengthening both their minds and bodies. We toured the original ranch lodge, beautifully built of logs, the inside with large fireplaces and inviting classrooms.
However, when the government purchased the land, the school was closed and the buildings were inherited by a group of international scientists. Their mission: develop a bomb to end the war.
Within a few months, the ranch was transformed into a town. Those who lived there during those tense times must have found some peace. The view was gorgeous. From my sister’s back yard, we could look down on the Rio Grande River. The tree-covered hills and hiking trails were perfect for any outdoor enthusiast and well-secluded from the world ... and potential enemy invasions. It was a time of secrets. Residents of Los Alamos couldn’t use the town name off of the mountain. Their address was a P.O. box in Santa Fe. Children born in Los Alamos had the same P.O. box listed as the location on their birth certificates.
Secret messages were sent to Presidents Roosevelt and Truman from the laboratory, informing them of the experiments and successes taking place on the mountain. Those involved in the project sensed the implications of their work, and did it with a heavy heart, yet with fervor to bring peace back to a crazy world. And, after months of experimenting, the weapon was ready. When the bomb was tested, less than a month before it was used, the light and explosion were seen for miles. Mankind had changed forever.
My sister and I toured the museum. Replicas of “Little Boy” and “Fat Man,” the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, were there, complete with details of their creation and destructive powers. Having been to Hiroshima and having seen the “other end” of the story, my heart was heavy. There were real people in Hiroshima. There were real people in Los Alamos. However, the victory and peace that came from the war’s end were also powerful.
We wandered through the museum for several hours, learning the history, studying what the lab does now, and feeling great gratitude for those who protect our nation.
My generation has lived mainly during peaceful times. Military drafts, rationing and bombs are words that don’t forcefully affect our lives today - at least, not yet. When I returned home and shared my travelogue with my children, they asked, “What’s the national lab?” I tried to describe it to them: the town today, the beauty around it and the incredible history involved. It was hard for them to grasp the feeling that was there, but I want them to comprehend it. In fact, I think I’ve already planned our next family vacation. Veterans aren’t just those who fight at the forefront of battles; there are those behind lines working and sacrificing as well. And their victories also deserve our gratitude.
The national lab isn’t part of our everyday vocabulary and could potentially be forgotten in the history books. However, just as we honor our veterans, we must never forget people who gave up everything and moved their families to a small, mesa-top town to defend us.