We are located in south-central Kentucky about a half-hour east of Bowling Green where the rolling green hills and a temperate climate create an ideal environment for raising this most American of dairy goat breeds. The present American LaMancha was accepted as a breed for registry on January 27, 1958 with the first true LaMancha being Fay’s Ernie, L-1. Approximately 200 animals were accepted as original stock. Since then, the tiny-eared dairy goats have spread throughout the country and are enjoying a surge in popularity, due largely to their dairy character, adaptability, and, of course, their most well-known feature, or should we say lack of it — no ears. (Reprinted from the Dairy Goat Journal, January 1978 “American LaMancha Club” brochure)

Available year ’round! Fresh brown and white country eggs brought to you from the happiest hens in south-central Kentucky. Once you’ve tried country eggs you’ll never go back to those pale, old (sometimes up to three weeks old) supermarket eggs. Particularly good in omelets and baked goods!

Our country eggs are always available for $1.25 a dozen (large). You get a FREE dozen when you buy 10!

Drop on by and get a few dozen to take home. We are located about a half-hour east of Bowling Green in the community of Dry Fork in Austin, Kentucky on Hwy. 921 (look for 1051 on the mail box) between Hwys. 87 and 249. We’ll be looking for ya!

Hello,

I am interested in dairy goats. Right now I only have chickens (plus the 3 cats and a dog). I am trying to decide between Nubians and La Manchas. The only goat I have ever milked is a La Mancha and I really enjoyed her. I guess I am just wondering if you have any information to help me get started and if you have goats for sale or know anyone who does.

Thank you,
Virginia

Hi Virginia,

I’ve had all 6 breeds of dairy goats and showed them all. My goat dairy in California consisted mainly of La Manchas for several reasons. Most importantly, they are calmer and quieter than any other breed. Of course there are exceptions but I ran about 60 milkers and they were predominant. All the swiss breeds (Alpine, Toggenburg, Saanen, Oberhasli) are generally more skittish and/or bossy.

Nubians are very noisy (ask ANY Nubian breeder) but they have those long ears that catches your attention. They all have the genes to milk great quantities. I would have to say that Saanens tend to milk heavier than any other breed. I had a top ten (top ten in the nation) Saanen who raised her twins, 2 alpine twins and 2 lambs all at the same time. I called her Super Mom.

If you are going to pick out a milker, make sure she is easy to milk. Don’t buy until you try! Some does have orifices that only a milking machine can milk. Some Togg milk has an off flavor (try before you buy, again). All the breeds can be a sweet, loving and wonderful addition to any family. It really depends on the individual.

I hope I have pointed out the main differences between the breeds. I’ve had hundreds and I will always love the La Manchas the best.

Gay Vines

Goat milk is a very popular source of refreshment because of its creamy taste and nutritional value, and its popularity is growing like never before. Many people are acquiring their own dairy goat or goats so they will always have a fresh supply of milk on hand. Milking a goat, like milking a cow, takes a bit of practice, but once you get the hang of it you’ll be regularly squeezing out healthy and delicious milk for you and your family whenever you like.

Milking Your Goat

The first thing you will want to do is put your goat on a milk stand (stanchion), or have her stand on a flat surface. You can get your goat to hop onto the stand by herself through training, which can be as simple as rewarding her with grain. We always milk when we do chores so the goats always know when feeding time has arrived and are ready to be milked. Regularity in a daily routine is key for most animals. Generally it is better to have a more quiet place to milk your goat as she will be more calm and relaxed and without distraction, making for an easier milking process. A dedicated milk room is ideal, but not necessary. We bought a 12′ x 14′ prefab barn when we moved to the area and it has been indispensable for everything from grain and hay storage to milking goats. Remember to use a stainless steel pail and strainer when milking your goat as these surfaces will not harbor bacteria the way plastic might. Before getting started you will want to wipe down her udder to make sure she is clean. You may want to consider purchasing commercially available udder wipes that also kill bacteria.

Some caution that the first few squeezes of milk should be discarded as this milk could contain bacteria. This is also a good time to look for a pink or red tinting to the milk, which is a sign that your goat may have mastitis. To milk out a goat you will simply place both your thumb and forefinger around the teat, right up against the udder. Now squeeze firmly, but not hard. This is important because it will keep the milk from flowing back into the udder. Now you squeeze your middle, ring, and pinky finger together against the teat, sequentially, from top to bottom, in a rapid movement. You’ll know you’ve got it right when a full stream of milk shoots out with every squeeze. It’s important that you do not pull down on the teat, but bring your fingers together in a downward motion from the top to the bottom of your hand as you squeeze. It may be difficult to get out the habit of pulling down on the teat at first since we all grew up watching those silly cartoon characters incorrectly milking (pumping) a cow on our TV sets. Release your fingers to let milk fill the teat again and repeat the process.

It’s much more efficient to milk two teats at a time, and when you get good at it you’ll establish a rhythm, doing one teat first and then the other. You’ll want to keep squeezing until the udder is (mostly) depleted. Remove the pail and wipe off any dampness that remains on the udder and apply udder cream if necessary.

We drink the milk straight from the pail, but some people prefer filtering and Pasteurizing the milk first as a guarantee against contamination. Home Pasteurizers can be found from online sources such as Caprine Supply and eBay. Be sure to discard the milk if your goat accidentally steps into the pail during milking, which does occasionally happen.

Benefits of Drinking Goat Milk

Goat’s milk has long been consumed by those who cannot drink cow’s milk due to lactose intolerance. While goat’s milk also has lactose in it, it is better tolerated by those with milk sensitivities. The fats in goat milk are small-chain fatty acids. Their small size makes them easier to break down and digest as compared to the much larger, long-chain cow’s milk fatty acids. Other people like goat’s milk because it is a better source of calcium, having as much as 13% more than cow’s milk per serving. In addition it has 25% more vitamin B-6, 47% more vitamin A, 134% more potassium, and 350% more niacin, making it a more nutritious diary product across the board. In addition, goat’s milk does not contain any of the hotly disputed Bovine Growth Hormone found in cow’s milk.

So now that you know how to milk a goat, you may also want to consider making one of the most delectable foodstuffs known to man–goat cheese!

In the 1970’s actor, art collector and connoisseur Vincent Price recorded a series of 12 cassettes called, “The Beverly Hills Cookbook,” later titled, “Push Button Cookery,” to capitalize on the growing popularity of portable audio players. We acquired a set of these tapes while yard sale rummaging one Saturday morning and were immediately taken by Price’s familiar voice and wonderfully charming character. It was after playing these deliciously narrative recipes that we both realized how much we really missed his presence. He was a gentleman who has never been matched in graciousness, taste and a lover of everything life had to offer–characteristics that are sorely missing today. The recipes aren’t bad either. We digitized the tapes and are making them available here for your enjoyment. Listen to them all, and try out a few recipes in the same spirit as they are presented. We hope you savor them as much as we have.

Tip: If you Right-Click on a title and select “Save Link As,” you can download the file to your PC then transfer it to your MP3 player and listen to his mellifluous voice on the way to work in the morning as I do. Clicking on thewill utilize a built-in MP3 player for playback.

The Beverly Hills Cook Book
by Vincent Price

Cuisine Italia

Classical Spanish Cuisine

Delights From the Sultan’s Pantry

Dining at Versailles

Dinner at the Casbah

Exotic Delights of the Far East

Food of the Gods

Foods From the Austro-Hungarian Empire

La Cocina Mejicana

Bounty of Paradise

The Bards Board

The Wok

By Mike Vines

Harry couldn’t have been more than five when he and his father, Walter, visited Pug’s Country Store on a brisk Friday morning in April, 1926. His daddy usually made the ten-mile trip alone by buckboard every other week to fetch supplies and, occasionally, get something special for the boys and their mother and some tobacco for granddad. But today he wanted to introduce his oldest son to the city of Clanton, Alabama, and show him the beauty of what the changing of the season had brought to the countryside.

Young Harry sat quietly next to his father. His little body was as tightly bundled as a basket of hot biscuits and his eyes were as wide as searchlights seeking out all of the exotic colors of spring. His eager mind was captivated by the bountiful sprays of emerging flowers adorning every pasture and meadow, his soul was made tranquil by the slow, rhythmic clopping of horse hoofs and whistling Bob Whites. He knew they were nearing the end of their journey when he spotted rows of towering hollyhocks standing erect as solders trumpeting their arrival along side the old dirt road leading into town.

The city was a carnival of new sights and sounds to Harry, and a test of horsemanship to his father as he skillfully guided the buckboard around fool-hardy pedestrians and the steaming mechanical contraptions that were becoming more common around town. Walter hitched the horses in an alley along side of the Chilton County Post Office as a measure of precaution. Harry waited outside while his father collected the mail observing the amusing and daring tactics of both pedestrian and driver of horse or buggy jockeying for position on the narrow town street. When Walter returned, he lifted Harry from the wagon and took him by the hand.

“Let’s go see who’s at Pugs today, son,” He said, as they walked down the road and around the corner from Doc Grissom’s office. Harry looked closely at the hand that held his. It was strong and made course from many years of working their land. At times it held him and his younger brothers, brought food to the table and protected his family from the threat of man or beast. It was strong enough to till the hard soil all day and gentle when it held his mother at night, and it wiped the tears from his eyes and reassured him when he needed it most.

“There it is, son,” Walter said as they approached the old log cabin store. “I hope Ben Nelson is here today. He was in the war with your grandaddy, you know.”

The door to Pug’s Country Store opened-up a whole new world of sensory discovery to Harry. The intoxicating fragrance of sage, basal and sassafras emanating from a wooden spice cabinet combined with the scent of smoked ham and fried eggs overwhelmed his olfactory. The air was thick with smoke infused with the earthy aroma of fresh tobacco. The morning light glanced through the windows and illuminated parts of the store making the interior appear as spotty as an incomplete jigsaw puzzle. Several strange men, some eating, some engaged in conversation, barely gave notice to Harry and his father. Red Wahl, owner of Red’s Livery just outside of town, stood next to a window absorbing the warmth of the sun while gnawing on a ham biscuit. Around a red hot, pot-bellied stove were Clay Nellis and Billy Joe Garmin grumbling about the price of cotton and whether it’ll rain too much or too little. Ben Nelson and his old friend, Moses Jordan, sat in rickety, high-back rocking chairs silently taking it all in. Ben was a proud, old ex-confederate soldier who wore, along with his usual well-cleaned overalls, the same pair of Brogans issued to him during the war that he re-soled, and had re-soled, at least a dozen times. Pug Arnold, the store owner, was a tall, amiable man with dark bushy eye brows and a pushed-in nose. He always spoke out of the side of his mouth which made Walter think he was telling him secrets, and he had a sure-fire way of making everyone feel at home by treating them as kin.

“Well, hello, Cousin,” Pug cried out to Walter. “And who have ‘ya got there with ‘ya today?” Harry eagerly stepped forward and smiled.

“This is my oldest son, Harry,” his father beamed.

“Well, proud to meet ‘ya, young man,” said Pug, reaching out to shake his hand. “That feller by the win’der there is Red Wahl; he rents horses and can spin a good tale now and then.” Red smiles at Harry in-between bites of his biscuit. Harry shyly returned a smile. He noticed the slight red color left in his smoothed-back hair, and how his mouth looked like a torn pocket when he smiled. “Over by the stove is Clay and Billy Joe, and the old geezers in the rock’in chairs are Ben and Moses,” Said Pug. “Don’t get Ben started on the war unless ‘ya wanna take a long nap.” They all nod at the boy. “Now go git ‘ya a hog sandwich over yonder,” Pug said, pointing at the stove. “Throw an egg on it if ‘ya don’t care.”

Harry watched as his father walked over to the stove, cut open two biscuits and cracked a couple eggs into a hot iron skillet. His mouth began to water in anticipation of the smoky feast.

The sound of sizzling eggs, the smell and taste of smoked ham and the soothing sun rays had brought a jagged smile of content to Red’s face, until he focused on what was coming down the road. His eyebrows suddenly puckered together.

“Oh, oh.” He said, cautiously. Pug looked over at him.

“What do you mean, oh, oh?” He asked.

“I mean Stinky Monroe just came ’round the corner and he’s headed this-a-way!”

“It ain’t the weekend yet! What’s he do’in coming here?” Pug asked. The men hastily light cigars and cigarettes.

“Dunno, but…” Red said.

“But what?!” Pug shouted.

“He’s got his daddy with ‘em!”

“His daddys’ even gamier than he is!” Pug yelled. “Open the win’ders and turn on that durn fan, quick!” Harry laughed at the men’s frantic attempt to aerate the store.

Red looked out the window again, frowned, then tossed his biscuit back into the pan. “Reckon I’ll postpone dinner fer a spell,” he said to himself.

Pug desperately searched the shelves of his medicinal provisions for a bottle of camphor.

“Quick, rub a dab of this under yer noses!” Pug yells.

Harry looked up at his father, puzzled.

“Boy could puke a buzzard off a gut wagon, son,” he told him. “You’ll see.”

All the men, except Moses, huddled around open windows when the Monroe’s entered the store. Walter and his son stood near the stove–the farthest point from the front door.

Harry gazed curiously at the Monroes. Stinky looked like a miniature of his father with his denim overalls, red plaid shirt and wide brimmed straw hat. They weren’t outwardly ignorant and appeared fairly clean. He overheard Clay say Stinky had to leave school at the age of ten when his mother died to help his daddy with the farm. It was an unfortunate situation that was unanimously approved of by the school board. But he couldn’t understand all the fuss made about them.

Pug took a deep breath, and then turned to the Monroes.

“Well, how ya all been doing, Thomas?” He asks, ignoring Stinky the best he could. “Haven’t seen ya around here in an age.” Harry held onto his father’s hand, not quite knowing what to expect. The men smile and quickly nod at Thomas, keeping a side of their face safely toward the open window. Moses smiled and waved to them as he rocked comfortably in his chair.

Then it hit.

“Ohhhh!” Harry bellowed. His eyes closed shut as he stumbled and hid behind his father’s legs. He cupped his little hands over his nose and mouth trying to breathe in his own air. Walter grabbed a piece of kindling and lit the small cigar Pug gave him, holding it close to his face as he smoked it.

“Jack’s been after me to hold us a little soiree like we used to when his mama was alive.” Thomas Monroe said. “They’ll be plenty a fixin’s, and Cousin Leonard said he’ll provide the fid’lin.” Everyone’s eyes closed shut. Pug’s mind raced faster than it had in years trying to think-up a good excuse.

“Ya can count on all of us being there, Thomas,” Moses hollered. “Just let us know when to show up!”

If looks could kill, Moses would have been dead six and a half times over.

“Fine thing, then.” Thomas said. “Come-on by about seven next Sunday. We’ll be a look’in fer ya all!”

Pug nodded as the Monroes left. Then the entire store, windows and all, let out a big sigh of relief.

“You dern fool,” everyone yelled in unison at Moses. “Why in God’s name did ‘ya go ‘en do that fer?” Moses was taken back.

“I’d been there ber’fer,” Moses pleaded. “The Misses made a right fine table, even though me and the family were the only one’s there.”

Pug stood in front of Moses, fists resting firmly on his waist. “Well, how in Hades did you manage to eat anything in all that stink?” Pug asked. “Food and the Monroes go together as much as earl ‘en water does, you ole goat!” Moses sat up and looked at Pug.

“I ain’t smelt nuth’in since ‘83, when a smudge pot blew-up in ‘ma face and burned-out the hairs in ‘ma nose,” Moses said. “It also stole away any chance of me grow’in a handsome mustache, too!”

Pug shook his head.

“I’m sure glad there weren’t any womenfolk in here,” Billy Joe said, “Would have had to get Doc Grissom over here.”

Pug yelled. “That’s why I started carr’in smell’in salts!”

“Good Lord, what in the world is that smell?” Ben asked, catching his breath. Clay shook his head a few times, trying to clear the fumes.

“I’ve been slopping hogs all my life,” he said, “and I ain’t smelt nuth’in like that!”

“No cow, chick’in or goat in rut can reek that bad,” Red said. “What can it be?”

Harry rubbed his eyes as he caught his breath. His fresh, young smell sensors had been plain assaulted. Billy Joe wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

“I once stumbled head first into the belly of a long dead cow and came out smell’in better ‘en that.” Billy Joe said.

Moses smiled as he held in a tremendous chortle for his own safety. He sat helpless as the dry folds of skin in the corner of his eyes squeezed together and pinched out a big fat tear. Ben saw his old buddy in a state of fettered frustration and decided to ease his burden. He leaned forward in his rocker and made an observation.

“Some folks say it ain’t what’s on ‘em,” he said, “it’s what’s in ‘em.”

The store was silent.

“Guts are rotten!” He exclaimed.

That was all Moses could take. He worked-up such a belly laugh his dentures shot clear out of his mouth and cart wheeled across the wooden plank floor. Harry laughed hysterically. He’d seen his grandpa do that before but never did they travel so far on their own.

Harry watched the men in the store laugh uncontrollably to each other. For a brief juncture, everyone seemed like family to him. It was a snapshot of warmth, understanding and comradely he wanted to share with others, and a succinct lesson in his young life that would begin to mould his character as a caring human being.

The ‘ole boys at Pug’s Country Store had little to worry themselves about. A few days after their visit the Monroes found themselves as successful bidders at a commodities auction in Sylacauga. They were visiting an ailing cousin and happened upon an auction where they were about the only participants and won several dozen bushels of corn at a very cheap price. Their buckboard couldn’t haul that much fodder so they hired a farm wagon and a fine pair of draft horses to get it home. But there was a terrible commotion when the Monroe’s boarded the wagon. Witnesses say the horses violently reared up with a look of terror in their eyes as they madly galloped away for their lives. They said the wagon headed uncontrollably out of town and straight for the cliff overlooking Skaggs Creek with the Monroes helplessly trapped on board. Another witness near the incident said, “I ain’t never see’d no animals so intent on a commit’in suey-cide,” when the wagon and its occupants plunged down the steep gully and into the rocky creek below.

They were still plucking pieces of the farm wagon out of the water when the town folk of Clanton got enough money together to order a coffin and fetch the Monroes. There was a brief church service followed by an equally brief burial where both father and son were interned in a remote meadow at the far end of their granddaddy’s farm.

It is said to this day there are no flowers in the entire state of Alabama that grow more beautifully and more abundantly than those that spring up over the Monroes every single year without fail.

Copyright 2008 Calliopy Ranch

By Lester Queener

The biggest drawback to countrysiders who want to farm these days is the price they have to pay for land. Thirty years ago farms were cheaper, but if you consider the wages in the south back then, the prices were actually high. A lot has changed in 30 years – higher employment, higher wages, higher inflation and farms are selling for higher prices than ever. Farmers cannot make it and they have learned the land is worth more than what they can raise brings on the market. This is why larger farms are being sold at absolute auctions and cut into acreage tracts.

This is where the little farmer comes in. Finally a small farmer can earn an income by growing truck crops and selling at road side stands or out of the back of a pick up truck. Go where the customer is – nearby cities. Raise those vegetables that “they” want. If you have the cash to buy a small farm, outfit it without going into debt, and have an income coming in from another source, you have it made. But for the guy who is in debt, he has to have a job off the farm. In his off time he can raise those things he needs for his family and sell the surplus for added income.
I was raised on a farm; my parents were tenant farmers. They taught me plenty – how to live off the land, farm, fish and hunt. I can remember the Depression years. My parents stressed saving and buying only when you had the cash to buy with. This stuck with me all my life. Today you can’t live off the land like I could 50 years ago. There’re are too many people and not as much gain as there was then. The rivers and creeks were full of fish, turtles and frogs, as well as fur bearing animals, and the water was not polluted. All that has changed now. When I was 18, I heard tales of city living, good paying jobs and cars and I thought they were getting rich. After a stint in the military, getting married and a job in the city, I soon found out it took everything that both of us earned to make ends meet.

All you Countrysiders out there who are in your 40s and 50s and want a piece of heaven – meaning a small farm – and have the cash, I would certainly start looking then buy it and live on it and make preparations for your retirement years, which comes faster than you think. You need to choose the state and a county you want to live in. I chose a place with four seasons a year, lower property taxes and lower population. Contact the Jaycee’s or local a bank for a free county road map. Then contact realtors and absolute auction companies for listings of small farms.

I looked for a small farm but my wife located the one we presently own. I didn’t like it at first but the more I looked the better it proved to be and she liked it from the beginning. It’s been the best farm we’ve ever owned. It has everything we could ever want. Say you buy five acres and a farmhouse. To work a garden you need tools. If you grow a half acre, you can use small tools like a push lawn mower and a rear tined tiller to work up the soil after the grass and weeds are cut. Shortly after a rain, when the dirt is just becoming slightly dry, is the time to start tilling it. On the first pass set your tiller at two inches deep, the second pass at four inches deep, and the final pass at full depth.

Buy brand new tools. Buy two hoes – one for him, one for her. Get some two-foot long stakes, a roll of twine, a hammer and measuring tape. Mark your rows three feet apart. Pound your stakes in at each end, and place your string six inches from the top of the soil. Take your hoe and turn it on its side edge and make a furrow under the line from one to the other. Then plant seed, fertilize and lightly cover with soil, and repeat for the next row. I buy triple 19 fertilizer – it does not burn your plants. I take a handful and spread it lightly for three feet or so and repeat but not too heavily. You will be amazed what a half acre will raise. The lady of the house will have to know how to can what you grow. You’ll need a pressure canner, canning jars, lids and a lifter to take the hot jars out of the canner once they’re done. My wife puts her hot jars on a towel, covers them with another towel and leaves them overnight to seal before moving them.

If you own more acreage and plan to raise two acres or more of garden, you will need a small farm tractor. New ones are pricy but good used ones are available much cheaper, just be sure to pay a good mechanic to look it over before buying it. Instead of a plow, I prefer a tiller – it does the job on two passes and its run by the power-take-off on the tractor. It’s fast and easy. Buy a cultivator and the two “feet” that ride at the back of the tractor tires to loosen the soil where it has been driven over. These can be used to lay out your rows for planting. Try to find a good used International Harvester Cub farm tractor, a cultivator, disk plow, a side mounted sickle mower, and a tag along disk harrow. It shouldn’t cost over $3000. It’s the best small tractor ever built; ideal for the small farmer. I own one and also a big diesel tractor.

A person could raise two acres for truck crops, one acre of sweet corn and when the corn is one foot tall, plant pumpkins, squash or watermelons in the rows between the corn. I’ve planted this way and it produced well. The biggest sellers are tomatoes, okra, yellow crookneck squash, sweet corn and early green beans. Grow green and hot peppers, head lettuce, cabbage, cucumbers, watermelons, cantaloupe, four long rows of Irish potatoes and four long rows of sweet potatoes. You will need a potato plow that is pulled behind your tractor. When the plow goes in the ground under the potatoes, it lays them on top of the soil for picking up. That is the time to “grade” them – from bakers on down. Baker’s are what most buyers want. Price them below what the stores sell them for.

When you’re “putting by” and canning, I’d can two years’ of produce – you never know if next year will bring a drought. Most old homes have crawl spaces dug under them for storing canned jars and taters, to keep them from freezing during cold winters. The foundation around the house has to be closed in to stop cold air from creeping under the house. The heat in the house keeps it nice under the house thereby keeping stuff stored there safe from freezing.

Gardening on a small scale for truck cropping on a bigger scale is not easy. It is hard work, but a lot depends on the tools and equipment you have to do all the work that is required. Remember: A garden requires constant care to keep weeds from taking over. Cultivation and hoeing are the keys. There are three people in my family and we can over 1000 quart jars of produce each year, but we usually have some left over for another and then only can what we need from there on. We have one large chest freezer for farm beef and we squeeze juice apples and put it into half gallon plastic jugs and freeze them. (In 2003 we froze 77 half gallons of juice.) Take out a jug, thaw and pour into glasses. It is better than pop and cheaper. Some apple orchards will sell you juice apples by the bushel for $7 or so.

When we first bought the place, we planted apple, peach, cherry, plum, pear and a fig tree. Yes, a fig tree, “turkey figs.” That tree is eight feet tall and full of green figs as I write this; others I’ve seen are just bushes. Now that we are old and retired they are all producing and they are a lot of help on the old food budget.

The greatest enjoyment on the farm is to sit on my front porch at night and listen to the sounds. Small mountains I call “knobs” surround our farm, and our home is located at the end of the farm for privacy. These knobs form a sanctuary and I feel their presence and can see their dim outline against the starry sky. Off in the distance I can hear the call of the whippoorwill, hear the spring water babbling over the rocks, the whispering of leaves in the breeze, chirping birds roosting in the treetops and the barking of a fox up on the top of the knob. I hear the sounds coming from a host of creatures that fly and crawl in the fields, knobs and hills at night. Everyone needs to stop and listen to these mighty sounds. It is very refreshing to me after a hard day’s work, a cool shower, a home grown and home cooked meal, and then I go out on my porch and sit on the swing to listen. I wish everyone could experience this.

On the farm you never starve or lack for anything. Think of that peace and privacy! In town you see the same thing everyday; on the farm life is renewed everyday. In the fall we gather black walnuts, get exercise and pick up nuts. We see squirrels scampering about from tree to tree and enjoy the different smells of the woods and the changing color of the leaves. I had a dozer make a one lane road through my big timber stand where we can walk or ride the tractor to enjoy the scenery. I love to walk with my hounds and sit on a stump while watching them trail some animal and to listen to the sound of their voices baying on the hunt. They never catch anything but it is fun to watch and hear. In the spring I enjoy the wild geese flying overhead. It is a welcome sight and signals the change in the season.

Yes, God blessed me and my family.

Reprinted with permission from Countryside Magazine.

Aside from mad dogs and fishermen, who else would wake up before the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning and crawl out of a warm, comfortable bed to voluntary brave the elements outside? Why, your friendly yard sale rummager, of course. With the arrival of a more comfortable outdoor season and the memory of last year’s conquests still fresh in our minds, our thoughts turn to new found treasures just waiting for their discovery by rummagers like ourselves. But, more than once I have watched in complete horror as that priceless antiquity slipped into unknowing hands simply because they were the first one there, or the first to catch the seller’s eye. What can you do to optimize your yard sale experience or, if you’re newly addicted, what are the rules of the road and some useful etiquette to practice when bargaining with potential sellers?

You play this game as the buyer or seller of orphaned goods. The buyer shuts off the alarm clock and shoves the spouse out of bed to hastily brew a pot of coffee before they hit the road. The seller prepares by placing free advertisements in the local papers and scribbling on torn-up pieces of cardboard to make the signs that guide us hapless Nimrods to our prospective treasure. Accurate interpretation of signage is necessary if you intend to beat the other guy to the booty. You begin by learning how to differentiate between a lost cat sign and a yard sale sign. And although any yard sale sign may lead to a find, you must also be able to prioritize in case of multiple targets. “HUGE Yard Sale” usually translates into “Scant Offerings.” This is a clever ploy to get people to spend their money first at his or her place instead of the guy down the road. If you see a lot of parked cars and people walking in another direction, don’t think that someone has created a diversion just for you. They haven’t, so follow the gang and see what you can salvage from the feeding frenzy before it’s too late.

This brings up a phenomenon I have witnessed that could be interpreted as a malicious prank or strategic warfare. In a certain area we frequent that is known for good finds there is a nearby neighborhood that always seems to have yard sale signs posted that lead to nowhere. We usually succumb to curiosity after a time and follow the arrows but we always end up facing a yellow “Not a Through Street” sign. I imagine a bunch of kids peering out between drawn curtains laughing their heads off at those silly fools that followed their signs to a dead end road. Even worse, it could be a very clever rummager who places their own signs to misguide the greedy in order to give themselves more time to shop. I don’t know which it may be, but there are a lot of people who make a living from what they find at yard sales and the rules of haggling don’t start until the chips are on the table, so drivers beware.

Once you’ve located a seller its time for a drive-by-a quick peak at the offerings from the comfort of your car to determine if it’s worth getting out for or not. You will, of course, have to navigate to avoid collision with not only other rummagers on foot, but also the many beat-up vans and SUV’s parked every way imaginable. So you’re out and about and mingling in with the crowd, intently searching here and there, and lo and behold in an old cardboard box tangled-up in some ancient Christmas garland is that turn-of-the-century art vase you saw just last night on the Antiques Road Show worth ten grand! You take a gulp and look for the seller and hope she’s still half asleep.

At this point there are a couple of rules that must be observed in order to assure a successful transaction. First and foremost is MOVE IT OR LOSE IT! This is where the Relinquish Rule goes into effect. In the game of chess, it’s the other guy’s turn when you let go of a moved piece. At a yard sale, if you don’t immediately pick-up the thing you can bet your life someone else will, and they will most assuredly buy it, and for half of what you had on mind. Second most important is AVOID AN AUCTION! Don’t wave that priceless object in the air getting the attention of the seller AND the other buyers looking for the same thing. Grab it, tuck it in, and quietly walk over to the seller and say, “Hey, someone stuck a half-melted, multi-colored candle in this thing. How about a buck and a half?” Now, if you’re a seller, it’s time to practice some good old-fashioned informal economy by way of unreported income. If you’re a buyer, this is where your bargaining skills come into play and subtlety is the key. My wife has developed a particularly effective technique (read sting) where she fills her pocket with a certain amount of change and when making an offer, pulls out the handful of coins and shows it to the victim asking, “Would you take what I have left in my pocket for it?” She then lets them pluck the coins out of her hand in total submission to the deal.

The amount you offer, or counter-offer, depends on the time of day. The early morning hours of fresh discoveries usually demand the highest prices, while the afternoon sun motivates the seller to consider heavy discounts verses lugging it all back into the garage. You’ll also run into sellers that are so sick and tired at looking at the same old junk that they will gladly let it go for almost nothing just for the sake of transferring ownership. Also, if you are a seller, remember that a yard sale is not limited to mobile customers. The neighbors may also be interested in your wares so you must be careful not to put yourself into an embarrassing position by unloading something on them now that might become gossip fodder for them and everyone else later.

There is a commonality in all yard sales and that is of content. In order of preponderance you can expect to find, above all, an abundance of clothing-mounds and mounds of it. I think the economy of this entire country could exist on what people spend on clothing alone. Next is a bewildering assortment of forsaken toys and children’s furniture. I bet Toys “R” Us would double their fortune if they opened a second-hand store. Then come books and magazines, kitchen goods, sporting goods, and other miscellaneous items such as personal electronics and tools. Interestingly, Tupperware and art are always overlooked. Sure the beauty of art is in the eye of the beholder, but yard sale Tupperware sells for a fraction of the original cost and it’s always so useful. I see large families attending yard sales and wonder why they weren’t clawing for the Tupperware until it finally hit me-they eat out more often than at home. Could eating out now cost less than preparing food at home? You’ll also find a copious selection of nicotine-stained Robert Wood landscape reproductions still available in their original simulated wood-grained frame that will remind you of those good ole’ days when motel rooms with kitchenettes were as common as cactus.

So now that you’ve gathered a mountainous collection of the worlds finest of all sought after treasures, what do you do with it? This is the point of evolution for the rummager.

You have a yard sale.

Copyright 2008 - Calliopy Ranch

“Now, do you remember what I told you?” I asked, trying to negotiate the narrow, shrub-lined driveway leading up to Grandfather Andersen’s house with one eye on the rear view mirror. The kids were as anxious and excited as I was to attend one of Grandfather’s banquet dinners, only their excitement was compounded by the fact that they were decked in their very best dress, and their father was conveniently out of town on business for one of his “unexpected emergencies.” Duane gave me a mischievous, toothless grin in the mirror while Michelle sat quietly next to him testing the springiness of her new pinafore dress with her fingers. Lee and Jeff fidgeted next to me in the front seat while trying to slip their new shoes off the back of their feet with their toes. It was going to be a test of patience and covert facial warnings, but we would be in the presence of the most understanding people in the world, and I had faith in their upbringing and knew they would behave — I hoped.

I remember the loving feelings I had when visiting my Grandparents when I was a little girl, and felt fortunate that my children were able and eager to enjoy their love and affection as I did, even if it was only every couple of years or so. Grandfather retired long ago as a very successful developer during the booming Southern California housing industry of the 1940’s and 50’s. He and Grandmother still live in the enormous stone house he built on a hill surrounded by tall pines where they enjoy spending their remaining years entertaining their numerous friends, and those special get-togethers just to spoil us relatives.

We stepped quickly in a light, misty rain along side the cars that lined the circular driveway leading to the entranceway where Grandfather was greeting everyone. “It’s so nice to see you again, Gay,” he said, as he kissed my cheek. I always forget how tall and handsome a man Grandfather is until I hug him. His now white mustache contrasting against his tanned face makes him look even more distinguished than I recall from our last visit. “Don’t tell me this young lady and gentlemen are yours?” he says, beaming down at them. Michelle smiles and curtseys for him while Grandfather gives her an exaggerated bow. The boys each politely shake hands with Grandfather as I start to grin uncontrollably. “Please, all of you go inside where its warm and cozy — Grandmother has arranged something very special and has been waiting anxiously to see you again,” he said, directing us through the tall doorway.

I never knew for sure the enormity of my family until the first time I attended Grandfather’s dinner. The interior was brimming with aunts and uncles, cousins-removed and otherwise, and the offspring of said relatives hooting and hollering about everywhere. After a quick, “you’d better not,” glance at my stalking siblings, we were enthusiastically greeted by Grandmother as she led us toward her huge dining room where remnants of Christmas lingered softly in the air. Grandfather always cut a fresh tree from his woods every year, and insisted on keeping it standing until it was quite ready for the fireplace. The room was tastefully decorated with abundant pickings of local flowers and plants, with a veil of strewn flower peddles encircling the stone hearth. I heard a servant announce dinner in another room causing guests to begin collecting around the long, exquisitely decorated dining-room table laden with floral arrangements, center-pieces, candelabra, glasses, serving dishes, and plates. All were laid out in an orderly fashion still leaving areas of clear white tablecloth visible underneath. Grandmother’s cutlery adorned each place setting as knives and forks made specifically for cheese, fruit, fish, shellfish, salad, melons, ice cream, and cakes were all positioned in their respective places. Little Dutch spoons were laid out crossed as ornaments, surrounding the various ranks of crystal made of distinctive shapes to hold brandy, wine, champagne, sherry, and water. There were roast beef platters, covered meat dishes, salmon dishes, dishes with warmers, numerous sauce dishes, vegetable dishes of various kinds, desert presenters, and champagne buckets placed around the table. Little placards were positioned on top of the serving plates with our names designating our seating positions.

Everyone took their seats, with Michelle, Lee, Jeff, and Duane eagerly climbing onto their chairs at the “children’s” end of the table. As I sat down, I was surprised to feel the chair slide gently underneath me. It was Uncle James, my favorite Uncle, helping me move the heavy wooden chair forward. Of all my relatives, Uncle James was the closest, having been our most frequent baby sitter and close friend during my childhood. It was Uncle James who helped dad build the home in which I grew up, and was there when any of us needed a hand or a comforting shoulder at that time when life seemed to be so intolerable when growing up. We exchanged a brief greeting so as not to seem rude the other guests, knowing I would get the chance to spend all the time I wanted with him later. Uncle James sat directly across from me and Grandfather, of course, sat at the head of the table with Grandmother sitting by his side. No sooner did the conversation start when the servants began to serve the first course; escargots bourguignon, another favorite! The aroma of the dish as it was placed down reminded me of when I was first introduced, or rather dared, by my brother to try snails. It even surprised me, when I bit the little morsel for the first time that I would crave the flavor and texture of something we used to throw against the brick walls in the garden just to hear them crack. The servers tactfully brought little rolled-up slices of roast beef stuffed with cheese for the children, which alleviated any potential comment from the current generation.

I usually attack the little critters with both hands and a fork, but since they were served on a snail plate which has indentations for the shell, and a pair of snail tongs, I thought I’d better set a proper example for the kids, and anyone else, in case they were watching. Snail tongs have a little bowl that opens when the handle is pressed then closes around the snail shell, anchoring it. I eagerly squeezed the snail tong handles together and placed one of the succulent looking shells into it, but just as I reached for my snail fork, and to my horror, the contraption snapped tightly closed, and sent the morsel into a spinning, elliptical orbit high above the dinner table.

As on your deathbed when an entire lifetime replays before you within moments, countless lessons learned from mother and years of studying the ways of proper etiquette, manners, and protocol, all seemed to vaporize before my eyes, as that slurping mess of a snail shell rotating high in the air was about to nullify whatever dignity and social reputation I so far had attained at this stage of my life . . .

Just what is it that makes a person feel so disheartened and impotent in public society, or in the company of friends, when one commits an Epicurean grand faux pas? Perhaps the answer lies in the roots that go so deep and so far back in our culture that we somehow inherit those traits that were so firmly established and accepted by our ancestors when it comes to food. Food means kinship when eaten together, and serves to separate us from the animal kingdom by the way we acquire it and portion it out. Birds, dogs, and other animals carry food home to their young until they are old enough to forage for themselves. Only humans actively and continuously work at portioning out our food. Bread, in western European languages, means food in general, and “breaking bread” with friends becomes the actual bond that unites us.

Table manners are as old as humanity itself, and without them no human society can exist. Food is the great commodity to which we all submit. It can be shared, bartered, and used as a weapon and therefore a test of moral values as well. Food represents a commonality among humans in that no matter how rich or how poor you are, you can only consume so much food. Food is tradition solely because a taste acquired is rarely lost, and the smells and tastes from the past are instantly and vividly recalled when a similar stimulus is encountered. One of the lengthiest novels ever written is “Remembrance of Things Past,” by Marcel Proust. In it he recalls a piece of cake he soaked in tea one day just as it had been the custom in his childhood. He was electrified by a pleasurable sensation that he could not understand. “…so in that moment all the flowers in our garden and in M. Swann’s park, and the water-lilies on the Vivonne and the good folk of the village and their little dwellings, and the parish church and the whole of Cambray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from my cup of tea.”

Women have always symbolized the knitting together of families, and were “given away” in marriage, stolen, shared, and used to enhance status. But food, as anthropologist Raymond Firth remarked, has the advantage of being divisible. “Women can be shared but they cannot be divided, whereas food can be almost infinitely portioned out without loss of quality.” His remark is to say, “close to the bone,” wherein lays the idea of cannibalism, and that humans might become food and eaters of each other. Violence is a necessity if any organism is to consume another, and cannibalism is the old taboo regarded as “unthinkable” and therefore barbarous and void of etiquette.

Table manners are politeness where food is concerned, and ancient societies had developed their own forms of etiquette as described by their own cultural inclination. Cannibalism is a symbol in our culture of a total lack of morality, law, and structure, and stands for what is utterly inhuman. Regardless of what we think of as total societal confusion, the fact remains that cannibal societies have existed since time immemorial. As tribal beings cannibals must have had manners, for whatever we believe to the contrary, rules and regulations had always governed their society and behavior. The Aztecs are unique in that they were the only imperialist state we know of with a large population that fully institutionalized cannibalism, and greatly cared how, whom, when, and where they ate people. Every gesture of sacrifice was based upon ritual. A citizen’s portion of meat was based on their status, and its consumption was performed with elaborate care. The Aztecs were terrified of sacrifice carried out in disorder and believed the gods would become violent and descend upon them and eat them as indiscriminately as they consumed their victims. Ritual is an action frequently repeated, laid down in advance in an attempt for others to “get it right.” A meal can be thought of as a ritual since it serves both the appetite and expectations of those present as to what should happen, and notices when it does not.

Ever since mankind began thinking we have concerned ourselves about the differences between us and the animals. Since animals have no culture in a human sense, they are not immune to some of the vulgarities of natural law as we are. It’s interesting to note how twentieth century man has become so preoccupied with “how we are the same as animals,” rather than “how we are different.” In 1953, the differences or similarities started becoming clearer when a year-and-a-half old female ape called Imo impressed her simian friends, and the Japanese scientists watching, by washing her sweet potato in water before she ate it. She repeated the action whenever she ate until other monkeys were soon imitating her. Within four or five years potato washing became the norm among monkeys aged two to seven. All monkeys over five who took up washing potatoes were female. By 1958, a tradition begun as these females passed on potato-washing to their children. A variation occurred when some monkeys preferred dipping their potato into the salt water between each bite apparently savoring the taste, while others simply used the water to wash off the mud. It is interesting to observe that not only do monkeys adapt improvements, but also regale in “getting it right,” even without the preconceived notion of material benefit. By recognizing this behavior, we as humans are reminded of the pleasure we take in reenacting rituals, and the satisfaction we enjoy in performing our daily routines.

Feasts, by way of ritual, utilize the power of food to recall the origins of earlier times. Festival food is richer and more spectacular than the food we usually eat. It is also more traditional and intended to be enjoyed as an ancient custom and ritual celebration. Never in the history of mankind have we eaten as much meat as we now do. The hunting and killing of an animal had only rarely been done, or for special occasions. A feast requires meat, and since a dead animal can no longer give milk or breed, its loss had to be well considered. Festivals and celebrations forced animal owners to stop hoarding their livestock and start enjoying the fruits of their labor. Since meat is perishable, more people had to be called in to help finish a meal with the side benefit of socializing. The New Testament contains numerous stories of dinner parties and feasts. Humility, which Christians consider an aspect of wisdom, is told in a story about a guest who lowers himself instead of competing for the best position at the table, and is rewarded with higher regard. Because of table manners, the elite were more aware of the adjustments in etiquette since the low were asked to move to a higher status and those at top were demoted to a more fitting place. Today, it would be considered rude to take a seat different from what your host offers to you. The host has to make the decisions and the guests must obey because seating is very difficult to get right. It would be considered false humility therefore to upset the host’s seating arrangements.

The old system of dining, a la Francoise, had evolved from the earlier medieval and Renaissance models and was adopted as a dining style in the eighteenth century. Guests would arrive at a table and find it laden with food. Dishes, candles, salts, and ornaments were carefully placed with attention to the hierarchy of food. Order was important because of the crowding at the table, and the entire affair was designed to give the impression of opulence and abundance. The second course began after the dishes from the first course were removed from the table. This made way for the really big pieces, allowing guests to attack a particularly splendid dish, or the “piece de resistance.” A theory for that phrase is that diners had to “resist” eating too much of the lesser dishes and wait for the more spectacular creations to arrive. The dishes were again removed and the last course consisting of cheeses, sweets, pastries, and fruit were set out along with desert plates, knives, forks, and spoons. In Paris in the 1830’s, the Russian Prince Kourakin is credited with first introducing a new way of serving feasts, the ancestor to our own style. Dishes were served in succession instead of all at once. The first course was soup, then the plates were removed and the next course appeared, then the next. Since dessert was the most decorative item in a meal it was sometimes left on the table though out the meal, but it was never eaten until the table had been cleared and swept clear of crumbs.

Table manners evolved from a system of civilized protocols meant to relax and protect people from one another. Guests show up with their own knives as was the custom, and their teeth, formidable weapons as they are, could hardly remain concealed. Belly laughing was forbidden since an open mouth would bare teeth. Erasmus suggested in his treatise on manners, which he wrote in 1530, that “If something so funny should occur that it produces uncontrolled laughter . . . the face should be covered with a napkin or with the hand.” He also wrote, “It is equally impolite to lick greasy fingers or wipe them on one’s tunic. You should wipe them with the napkin or on the tablecloth.” Medieval table napkins were very large and could be draped over the diner’s left arm or shoulder. By the mid-seventeenth century, napkins were used to cover the eater’s front to protect a man’s lace collar that was fashionable at the time. In the early nineteenth century, napkins were about a yard square, and were being placed on the lap. Tying it around the neck or fastening it to a button was a sign of a lower-class upbringing. In our culture, napkins should be kept clean; an unusual requirement considering the purpose for which they were created. The concept being that we do not want to be aware of grease and spills, but only to use it for an inconspicuous dab of the lips. Until the nineteenth century, they were dipped into finger bowls and used at the end of dinner to wipe the lips and chins. The exclusion of this habit is a reminder of why we now carefully cut up our food and place it into our mouths.

During the seventeenth century, manners became a political issue in France when King Louis XIV, along with the nobility of France, created something of a school of manners. The career of the courtiers who lived under the watchful eye of the king in the palace of Versailles depended on their observance or deference of etiquette. If you displeased the king, he would simply not see you, or his gaze would not fall upon you as he surveyed the crowd before him, and not “being seen” by the king was to not exist in Versailles. Since there was no ever-present king to enforce these standards outside the palace, the bourgeoisie were even more demanding than the nobility regarding the rules of civility and imposed limitations on themselves. Their ambitions to rise meant they had more to lose by making mistakes, so their self-governed manners had to be more deep rooted.

Since table manners are insistently drilled into us at an early age, we act impulsively once we have matured and expect everyone else to act in a similar manner. We also tend to enjoy hearing about people that behave indifferently, or seem to have no idea how to behave at all. They remind us that manners are not natural at all, but second nature, and the absence of proper behavior is an indication that they lack good breeding. Contemplating other people’s odd behavior seems to be a dwindling past time with the modernization of communications. One has to look hard now for shocking manners not because we have seen them before, but because there are fewer examples to see. “Manners have changed,” more than one person has said over the centuries, but it may take centuries for people to accept or follow suit of something different. It took eight centuries for the fork to become a universally accepted utensil for dining in the West after the appearance of the first document describing its use. The first modern fork is mentioned as having been used in the eleventh century by the wife of the Venetian Doge, Domenico Selvo. Forks were mentioned again three centuries later, in 1361, in a list of the plate owned by the Florentine Commune. The use of individual forks became wide spread in the seventeenth century. People often would share forks with others as they would spoons after wiping them off with their napkins before passing them on. It was also during the seventeenth century that hard plates and individual knives and forks were provided for each diner at the table.

Prior to that, at medieval banquets, plates had been “trenchers’ or slices of bread used to hold food taken by hand from a serving dish, or for sopping up gravy or dripping sauces. The earliest version of our flat plates are depicted in a buffet on a fresco of the Palazzo del Te at Mantua, which dates from about 1525, and were made of metal. Ceramic plates were common in France by the end of the seventeenth century. By the beginning of the nineteenth century, North Americans were replacing their wooden trenchers with pewter and china dishes, and the use of forks was spreading. The spoon is the safest member of the cutlery set, and the easiest to use. Babies start with spoons, and it is the implement with the most versatility. A spoon is a bowl with an arm attached, reminiscent of a human hand. Every race and culture on earth has made spoons out of whatever material was available to them. The flat spoons made by some North American Indians were so large they could be used as plates. For a hundred years it was forbidden to leave tea spoons in tea cups. “Never,” says “Andreani’s French guide to etiquette” (1988), “leave your coffee spoon in your cup when you lift it to your lips.”

There has never been a shortage of advice on etiquette available in literature for those wishing to improve themselves and their standing. Sociologist Norbert Elias claims that from 1530, when Erasmus published “De civilitate morum puerilium” (On the Civility of the Behavior of Boys), significant changes began in our history. Bodily functions in public, belching, spitting, etc., became less and less common, even to the extent of being banned in polite society. The intriguing point about this is that people obeyed these rules not because of their consciences, but because they were convinced it was that way it’s done. Civilized people acted like this, those not participating were showing how uncivilized they were.

As the bourgeoisie became wealthier and more affluent in court, they were given self-appointed experts to write manuals for them on how to behave as people did in “the best circles.” In 1672, Antoine de Courtin penned “Nouveau traite de la civilite qui se pratique en France parmi les bonnestes gens” (The New Treatise of the Civility Which is Practiced in France Among Honest People). In it he advises how the bourgeoisie should address the nobility, and how to perform as hosts and guests. The Church in France produced handbooks on manners and taught their principles in schools. Eventually gentility spread from the court to the bourgeoisie and down to the general public. Even before Louis XIV, French aristocrats adopted the advise contained in the Italian Renaissance treatises such as “Il Libro del Cortegiano” (The Book of the Courtier) by Baldassare Castiglione (published two years before Erasmus’s “De civilitate”), “The Galateo” (Etiquette) by Giovanni della Casa (1558), and “La Civil Conversazione” (The Civil Conversation) by Stephano Guazzo (1574). These were more philosophical, ethical, and political in nature than books on manners, and were addressed to aristocrats only, although they soon became more widely read and adapted.

China’s three great works on ceremony, “Tcheou-Li,” “I Li,” and “Li Chi,” were written between the second century B.C. and the first century A.D., from much older sources. The “Li Chi” in particular has specific sections on table manners. Teaching children manners by way of riddles and stories have been done for millennia. Hesiod advised about 2,700 years ago, “At the abundant dinner of the gods, do not sever with bright steel the withered from the quick upon that which has five branches.” Meaning, “Fingernails are not to be cut at the table.” Didactic poetry has existed since the time of Ptah-Hotep’s “Instructions,” written for his son which date to about 200 B.C. but were copied from another book 500 years before. A whole new generation of manners books arrived in the twentieth century. Emily Post’s “Etiquette in Society, in Business, in Politics, and at Home,” appeared in 1922. She was careful to remind her readers of the tradition of civility by writing, “Best Society is not a fellowship of the wealthy, nor does it seek to exclude those who are not of exalted birth. It is an association of gentlefolk, of which good form in speech, charm of manner, knowledge of the social amenities, and instinctive consideration for the feelings of others, are credentials by which society the world over recognizes its chosen members.” When her book was written, she thought it would be purchased by the upper class, but it wasn’t true; they didn’t need it.

. . . I doubt all the books on manners and etiquette in the world could have helped me at this moment as I watch that snail descend with astonishment. The best I could hope for was an unnoticed plop into someone’s wine glass, or a muffled landing inside one of Grandmother’s bountiful arrangements placed around the table. I closed my eyes and waited for the scream or gasp that would soon end my spotless reputation as a welcome guest, and turn me into an object of chatter and gossip, and the subject of countless long distance phone calls among the relatives. I breathlessly waited, my mind swimming in a dark gloomy pool of self-guilt, until I felt someone brushing up against my arm. I opened my eyes, expecting an irate guest standing there staring down at me with a snail shell stuck to his or her forehead. Instead, it was a servant, calmly pouring my class full of champagne. I gave him a quick smile and a nod, and then surveyed the expressions on the people’s faces near my end of the table. Nothing was unusual; no panic, no sprinting toward the door, no fainting as in that silly commercial on TV when the matron of the house is asked to “pass the jelly.” Just everyone happily enjoying their food while chit-chatting around the table. Even the kids were emerged in a game of trying to see who could make the other laugh by making funny faces. Did I just imagine my dinner plate had turned into a Cape Canaveral launching pad for gastropod astronauts?

I felt my guilt slowly waning as I reached for my glass to take a sip of champagne, until I noticed a rather stealthy grin on Uncle James’ face. He looked up as if searching for something on the ceiling, then looked me square in the eyes as he dabbed his lips with his napkin. I watched as he inconspicuously rolled-up the napkin into a small ball and casually placed it into his coat pocket. He then smiled and turned toward one of my aunts who had leaned over to speak to him. I looked down at my dinner plate with the guilt of a five-year-old and could see my crimson reflection in Grandmother’s bone china. When I looked up again, Uncle James was holding up his champagne glass in a private toast to me. I felt a very familiar warm glow inside as the twinkle in his eyes told me everything was alright in the same way he had done so many years before. I raised my glass and toasted to Uncle James. My favorite Uncle.

Bibliography

Claiborne, C. Elements of Etiquette: A Guide to Table Manners in an Imperfect World, New York: William Morrow and Company, Inc., 1992.

Giblin, J. From Hand to Mouth: Or, How We Invented Knives, Forks, Spoons, and Chopsticks & the Table Manners To Go With Them, New York: HarperCollins, 1987

Martin, J. Miss Manners Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior: The Ultimate Handbook on Modern Etiquette, New York: Galahad Books, 1991.

Martine, A. Martine’s Hand-Book of Etiquette and Guide to True Politeness, New York: Dick & Fitzgerald, c1866.

Visser, M. The Rituals of Dinner: the Origins, Evolution, Eccentricities, and Meaning of Table Manners, New York: Penguin Books, 1991.

Copyright 2008 - Calliopy Ranch

A panicky phone call from my mother-in-law had my wife and I packing and flying out to British Columbia, Canada the next day as her elderly father had fallen and sustained a critical injury. We flew into Spokane, Washington and were picked-up by a cousin who drove us to Bonners Ferry, Idaho and across the Canadian border to the little town of Creston which we reached just before midnight. I knew it hadn’t snowed up there yet but I still expected the temperature to be on the cool side. I didn’t expect it to be 15 degrees, which the locals said was on the warm side. When we stepped out of the car I got smacked in the face by a freezing cold that went straight through my parka and into my bones-much worse, it seemed, than the minus-eighteen degree weather that hit me when I got off the plane in Frankfurt, Germany in January several years before. We quickly unloaded the Jeep, said hasty goodbyes to our cousin and RAN into the house where a very warm fireplace and my equally warm-hearted mother-in-law greeted us.

We spent the next day at the hospital reassuring her father, and being reassured by the hospital staff, that although he had suffered a setback he was going to be fine, in time. The Creston hospital staff were quite personable and the doctor, a German import, more than capable. Feeling confident that dad was in good hands, we left the hospital to get some groceries for the week at Overweightea’s (named after the merchant who was known for adding a bit more tea to your order than you paid for) then went back to the house and cooked-up an everyday meal that seemed to taste just a little bit better up there (kinda like bacon and eggs do when cooked outside on a camp stove). We were indulging in a bit of mom’s favorite after dinner chocolate when she up and said, “I keep Bob Ingersol in the attack!” I have heard that chocolate does make some people giddy, but I didn’t expect anything quite that off-the-wall from my darling septuagenarian mother-in-law. I took the bait, anyway.

“Who the heck is Bob Ingersol?” I asked. It was then I learned that when you ask a Canadian a question, you don’t get an answer. You get a story, and a most likely interesting one at that.

Prior to being hitched to my father-in-law, mom had been married to a man who was the son of Alta Day. Alta Day was the granddaughter of John Day Jr. (founder of the fossil beds in Oregon and to whom John Day, Oregon was named). His father, John Day Sr., Lew Wallace and Robert Greene Ingersol were 19th century politicians who held various positions in government and were known to be great friends. It was Bob Ingersol, who was called, “The Great Agnostic,” that challenged Lew Wallace to write a book proving Jesus Christ was anything other than the Son of God. Wallace accepted the challenge and traveled to Jerusalem for his research, but instead of disproving Christ, he penned the classic novel, “Ben Hur,” and himself, converted to Christianity.

John Day Sr. was not only a politician but also an artist. He so admired Bob Ingersol that he carved a wooden statue depicting the controversial politician in one of the characteristically relaxed stances he favored while addressing congress. When John Day Sr. left Washington to settle in Idaho, the statue went along with him, occupying a prominent position on the buckboard of his covered wagon during the long and arduous trek west.

It was customary, when traveling by wagon train, for the front wagon to move to the rear of the assemblage at the beginning of a new day. The daily cycling of wagons would eventually give everyone a chance to travel in the front for a time without “eating someone’s dust.” That is unless you could afford to purchase a position up front, and since John Day Sr. was a wealthy politician, he was able to buy not only a lead spot but the best string of horses and the best wagon available.

The Indian tribes that tracked the wagon train from state to state noticed the cycling of wagons each day, and how they all seemed to be following the one prominent wagon in the lead position. They also noticed the statue of Bob Ingersol on the wagon’s buckboard and believed it to be a powerful God that protected the White Man during his journey. Just when the Day family reached Twin Falls and set-up camp the Nez Perce Indians raided them. Northwestern settlers shared an anxious relationship with the Indians in the late 1800’s as the Nez Perce, led by Chief Joseph, were about to go to war with the U.S. Army in an attempt to thwart the push to wipe the Indians off the land (Chief Joseph was later pursued into Montana where he gathered all the Nez Perce Chiefs together and delivered one of the most famous quotes of American history, “Hear me my Chiefs. I am tired; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands I will fight no more forever.”). Expecting the worse, the Day family was puzzled when the only aggression the Indians inflicted upon their camp was the abduction of the Bob Ingersol statue. They took it, and left them alone.

Years later, when John Day Jr. was clearing the land on his own settlement his plow hit a rock. To his astonishment, when he reached down into the soil to remove the obstruction he pulled out the Bob Ingersol statue! By then the Nez Perce had accepted the settlers into the area and a certain Brave (name forgotten) who befriended John Day Jr. informed him that the Indians who followed his father’s wagon train believed the statue to be a God, and the worst denigration they could do to the effigy was to bury it-an action that would also remove its power to protect the White Man and leave him vulnerable to an attack. According to Alta Day, this was also the same Indian that showed John Day Jr. the location of the fossil beds in Oregon-a fact missing from the history books.

After I heard this story I just had to see that statue. With mom’s permission, I ran up to the attic and after shuffling around boxes of family pictures, old coats and trunks filled with ancient memorabilia, I spotted the whitewashed form of Bob Ingersol standing there proudly and looking right up at me as if to say, “Now that you’ve found me, Honorable Sir, you will have the courtesy to sit quietly and listen to exactly what I have to say!”

The statue stands almost two-feet tall and is covered with a thick white paint that has cracked over time and which was probably applied within the last 80 years or so ago, according to mom. She was told the statue originally sported a black suit, gray vest and a white shirt, and that it was a very good likeness since people that knew Bob Ingersol back then would say that it indeed looked just like the Senator.

“The irony of the story,” as mom put it, “is how that great agnostic, Bob Ingersol, was himself mistaken for a God.”

I love small towns and the folks that live in them. I once thought the people there aren’t that much different from us city dwellers and that it was only the country atmosphere that influenced our perception of them. Who was I kidding? These folks are not only vast storage banks of usable wisdom, but are exceedingly unpretentious and openly friendly to anyone who cares to say, “Hello,” or rather, “eh?”

I came away from our week stay in Canada feeling the old adage that says everyone has a book contained within them is quite wrong when applied to Canadians-they have volumes.

Today many people are familiar with the LaMancha diary goat, either by name or by their relatively unusual appearance. The history of the LaMancha dairy goat is quite obscure, with its true origins being virtually unknown. References have been made to short eared goats dating as far back as ancient Persia. Were these related to the LaMancha diary goat of today? There’s no true way to tell, but a more recent history is easier to trace.

Today many people are familiar with the LaMancha Diary Goat, either by name or by their relatively unusual appearance. The history of the LaMancha Dairy Goat is quite obscure, with its true origins being virtually unknown. What is known about the LaMancha Dairy Goat is that there have been references made to short eared goats dating back to ancient Persia. Were these related to the LaMancha Diary airy Goat of today? There’s no true way to tell, but a more recent history his a big easier to trace.

The Background of the LaMancha Dairy Goat

It’s thought that the first LaMancha Dairy Goats were brought to California as Spanish missionaries were settling in the area. It’s not know if these were true LaMancha’s but it is thought that these short eared goats were at the very least related to the LaMancha of today. The Spanish used the goats for many different things including milk and meat, in fact the goat became known as the “poor man’s cow” because it could provide the same things as the cow, but for less. As the missionaries spread out, so too did the short eared goats that they brought with them, with LaMancha’s being found in more and more areas.

In 1904 a crate of short eared goats were sent to the Paris World’s Fair for exhibit. There was an inscription on the crate but all that could be read was “LaMancha, Cordoba, Spain” and so the name LaMancha stuck. LaMancha became the accepted name of the short eared goats worldwide. Today the name is synonymous with the short eared, or more precisely, the no eared goats.

The first herd of LaMancha Dairy Goats was owned by a woman named Phoebe Wilhelm. She had about 125 LaManchas in the 1920’s. It wasn’t until 1958 that the first true LaMancha was accepted as a breed for registry. This first true LaMancha was Fay’s Ernie, L-1. There would be approximately 200 individual animals that were accepted as the original stock. This herd of 250 were breed to develop hybrids in which all have the physical features of the LaMancha. While the first American LaMancha wasn’t registered as a breed until 1958 since then they have become very popular and can be found throughout the country!

Much of the reason that the LaMancha Dairy Goat is so loved is for its dairy character, their adaptability, and of course their unique look. Many people don’t know the name of the LaMancha; they simply know them as the goat that has no ears. While this is a relatively new breed of dairy goat it is better known than other species because of their unusual appearance. While the history of the LaMancha Diary Goat is quite obscure, it’s future appears bright and clear.

Copyright 2008 - Calliopy Ranch

When people think of dairy goats they often think of a couple goats on a farm somewhere in Ruraltown, USA. Dairy goats are actually much more common than that. Just as there are herds of dairy cows that supply local as well as international consumers, there are also dairy goats that support a similar demand. Many people drink goat’s milk and that is why dairy goats appear in large numbers all over the world.

More on Dairy Goats

There are six different types of diary goats today and these include Nubians, LaManchas, Alpines, Oberhaslis, Toggenburgs, and Saanens. Each type of diary goat offers something just a bit different than the other. They all satisfy the growing number of people who are drinking goat’s milk. Today more people drink goat’s milk than they do cows milk.

Nubians are recognizable by their long, floppy ears and appear in a wide variety of colors. They are one of the larger breeds of diary goats and their milk is quite high in protein and butter fat. Many people know Nubians because they can be stubborn and make a unique noise to express their displeasure.

LaMancha’s are a popular breed of dairy goat. These goats are well known because their ears are very small; in fact they look like they don’t have ears at all! LaMancha dairy goats appear in a wide variety of colors and they are known to be one of the most gentle and friendliest breeds available.

Alpine dairy goats are a very popular because of the amount of milk they are capable of producing. These goats also appear in a wide range of colors except for solid white and their face should be either dished or straight, and have ears that stand straight up off the top of her head.

Oberhaslis goats are very specifically marked. These goats are usually a bay color with a black dorsal strip, udder, belly, and marked with black behind the knees. Oberhaslis should also have a black head, though there are some individuals that are almost completely black. These two color markings are the only acceptable markings for this breed.

Toggenburgs are another breed that is very specifically marked. Toggs are light brown and have white ears and white on their lower legs. The side of the tail and two stripes down the face are also white. This breed also has erect ears and they have some of the smallest height requirements for dairy goats, though they generally grow quite large. The Toggenburgs are a long haired breed and are quite popular.

Saanens are a pure white species of dairy goat. Their large udder capacity makes them popular with a lot of dairy goat farms and are reliable milk producers. These goats have a smaller head than other breeds and their all white appearance makes them stand out in the crowd.

Copyright 2008 Calliopy Ranch