Starting
in March, my phone conversations with Tasha often discussed the first snowdrop
or crocus to blossom, the return of red-winged blackbirds, or the constant
cheeping of spring peepers. As much as we loved the first flowers and flocks of
robins, one of the most important markers in the progression of spring was when
our goats delivered their kids. Even though we had both kept goats for numerous
years, we confessed tidbits of apprehension when we found a doe in labor. Most
of the time the births were normal, but now and then, we had to assist the
mother as she brought forth twins or triplets. When all the does had birthed
their young, our conversations turned to how many kids now scampered in the
barn, how well they drank from their bottles, and which female kids would make
champion milkers.
But of course, the spring ritual of goat kids
actually began in a different shed where Tasha kept her male goat, nick-named
Bucky after Buckminster Fuller, who lived with another goat in a separate shed.
While Tasha never accepted my offer to milk her does, she sometimes sent me to
fill Bucky’s water bucket and to feed him hay.
During
the evening chore time, I would follow Tasha around, assisting in small ways.
Milking her does was a cherished task. Her gentle female goats knew who was to
be milked first, and without any prodding, the does would walk out of their pen,
and jump on the stanchion. They needed no restraint to keep them on the small
platform where Tasha stripped them of their milk as they munched on a pan of
grain. As soon as one goat was finished, she jumped off, and allowed the next
doe, her special moment with Tasha. The only sound was of milk flowing into the
metal bucket and the goat’s teeth crunching on her feed. As the Irish poet, Patrick
Kavanagh wrote, these sounds are the “music of milking”.
Tasha
preferred Nubian goats with their floppy ears and broad Roman noses, splashes
of vanilla-colored spots shimmering on their brown coats. Nubian does love
attention and can be one of the most vocal breeds, bawling about their need for
more hay or a small snack from the garden. Because the goats provided a rich
manure that Tasha spread on her vegetable and flower garden, so that those
plantings yielded bountiful crops, and lush blossoms on her peonies, foxgloves,
and numerous roses.
Although
I had crafted cheese from cow’s milk for many years, I turned to Tasha for
answers about how to perfect my goat cheese. She suggested a French
cheesemakers book, The Fabrication of
Farmstead Goat Cheese, and also gave me a subscription to Dairy Goat
Journal. Tasha also pointed out that cheesemaking is an art that demanded
precision, patience, and constant practice. Like the paintings and sketches
scattered at the end of her trestle table, Tasha applied these character traits
to her simple life and encouraged me to follow her example in whatever artistic
pursuit I explored.
