9th Thing Wrong with Me
October 10, 2008
I am intelligently stupid or stupidly intelligent. When I was in 8th grade, I took shop. The shop teacher, who was also the junior high athletic coach, was actually quite a nice guy. As he observed me blundering about the drafting table, the wood shop, and the machine shop (which were all in the same room), he said to me in some exasperation, “Random, for such a smart kid, I don’t know how you can be so dumb.”
After we got rid of our cow, Stormy, whom I milked before and after school, and who periodically tried to gore me, we got a goat for me to milk. The goat kicked constantly as I tried to milk it.
The shop teacher helped me build a stock to hold the goat’s feet. After about a week of flailing, the goat broke the stock. Although the goat was a nuisance to milk, she had a fun personality. Goats are a lot like cats. Unfortunately, the goat eventually took sick, bloated up, and died. Then I had to bury it.
My youthful farming career was not especially successful or inspirational.
We also had chickens. The chicken yard was poorly designed, and the chickens constantly escaped and hid their eggs. I frequently found rotton eggs.
My wife, who has gardened but not animal husbanded is eagerly awaiting our chickens. I love my wife, so I am trying to feel the love for the coming chickens.