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Gary and I went to the Washington County Fair yesterday in Hillsboro, OR.  We were headed into Portland to buy a chair, and I wheedled my way into a side trip to the fair.  I had an ulterior motive - the Pygora goat show was scheduled that morning and I wanted to see all my “goatie gal friends” and see this year’s new crop of Pygoras!

To me, this is what a county fair is all about:

Sara, with one of Hawks Mountain Ranch does, introducing a Pygora goat to a new fair visitor!

And then this: my friend Kathryn’s daughter Erin showing one of her new Fivebrooks Farms does:

Sometimes the new little goats need some assistance around the ring!

Here’s a shot of the junior doe class (Chris Utterback was the judge):

Here are two Chimera Creek Ranch cuties!

And I managed to take some photos of some of the winners - sorry I didn’t get goatie names to go with them!  I WAS busy gabbing, you know!!!  This is one goat show where I don’t have to worry about recording placings, etc.

First - the winning wethers!  Photo on left looks like top wether of the show - this is a Chimera Creek Ranch wether, and photo on the right is Marcelle Anderson with reserve champion wether (Weldon’s Merry Menagerie).  I have to admit, I missed some of the wether show when I was visiting - so I’m not sure if these are jr or sr wethers! 

 

Then jr doe champ (Chimera Creek Ranch), and sr doe champ (Hawks Mountain Ranch).

 

In looking at the photos, it would seem that the sr doe also took best doe of show.

We had a wonderful time!  To me, this is what the county fair is all about!  Not the “commercial buildings” that have things like political party booths or somebody selling water filters.  Eeeek!  I think it’s VERY important for children to know “where things come from” and understand the roots of this country!  (sounds like a soapbox speech, heh!).  But I honestly heard the following conversation between two kids yesterday at this fair:

kid #1: did you see those dill pickles?  kid#2: yeah, where can we get more?   kid #1: I think they come from cucumbers.  kid #2: no they don’t!  They come from the store!  kid#1: I think cucumbers make pickles.  kid #2: no they don’t!  cucumbers aren’t pickles!

I think that is very sad.  And yeah, I do know you can make pickles out of things other than cukes.  Watermelon pickles come to mind (Yum!).    It’s sort of like when I’m discussing goat fiber with someone at a fair (or yarn shop for that matter) and they wrinkle up their nose at the term “goat fiber”.  They think of wool from sheep - who would want goat fiber?  I ask them if they like cashmere.  “Oh yes!” is the reply I often receive.  Heh heh - guess what, ladies?  Cashmere IS goat fiber.  (insert very big grin here!).

Please!  Support your county fairs!   - Terry (who is now stepping off her soapbox!)

I grew up “east of the mountains”.  That’s a southwest Washington term for anything east of the cascades.  I grew up in north Idaho (almost central Idaho) where we would have many summer days over 100 degrees.  I was used to that.  Not any more!!  Thank goodness for air conditioned offices because it’s about 125 degrees out on the floor where I work.  I can’t stay in the office all day, but it’s nice to have a place to cool down.  Poor Susan is melting at work (aren’t you?) as the a/c there is on the fritz (or totally non-functional).

There’s this dyeing experiment that I’ve been “dying” to do - but it’s soooo hot.  So I gave this “solar dyeing” a test.  I will admit to being rather skeptical, because I didn’t believe it would get hot enough in the sun to actually set the dyes.  I left small pieces of yarn in a rather shallow container out in the sun all day.  Last night I checked them.  Liquid was still there, but at least half of it had evaporated.  I began washing the bits of yarn.  Wow!  The dye DID set.  Hmmmm.  If I were to do this for something “important”, I would still probably steam-set the dyes.  But for now it gave me the feedback I wanted - photos maybe tomorrow?

Terry

A couple of years ago I was given a very nice, young Aracauna rooster.  He was a gentle soul and filled the barnyard and field with his delightful crowing.  He would follow me around waiting for little treats of apple bits or corn and was never aggressive in any way.  Even his hens liked him!

 

Unfortunately, I guess his lack of aggressiveness and sweet personality also translated into a lack of brain power.   Now, considering he was a chicken (and they’re not known for being highly intelligent), this turned out to be a serious handicap.    I noticed that he began to go to his roosting bar earlier and earlier every day.  He became listless and stopped crowing.  I was heartbroken!   I did so love to hear him crowing because to me it epitomized life in the country.  I watched him begin to fade away and thought, “Well, heck, I take everything else here to the vet, I’ll haul him in, too.”  My vet majored in Poultry Science while at college, so I thought she’d be the perfect one to take a look at him.  Unfortunately, she could find nothing wrong with him outwardly.  But I knew in my heart that he was dying and asked her to put him down.  She asked me if I wanted her to do a necropsy on him but I said no.  I just couldn’t see paying for her to post him when he didn’t cost me anything.  After all, I do need to be reasonable about these things.   She agreed to put him down but because her own curiosity got the better of her, she did the necropsy on her own time and at her own expense.  What she found amazed me.  For whatever reason, that dang rooster thought goat hair was food!  He was stuffed from stem to stern with goat fuzz!   Poor thing – he couldn’t take in any food as a result and was indeed dying. 

 

Well, I missed that rooster and the farm just didn’t seem the same without the crowing.  A young couple came to the farm one day and bought three darling wethers from me.  In passing, they mentioned that they were also raising up some chickens in their laundry room.  I mentioned that I was looking for a rooster and if, by chance, one of their “sexed” chicks turned out to be a rooster, I would be interested in buying him.  They said they would be happy to give one to me if they had one because they had no interest in keeping a noisy rooster around. 

 

One day the woman (Sarah, are you reading this?)  called me and said, “We have a young Americauna rooster for you if you still want one.”  Yeah!  I hopped in the pickup with my cat carrier and went down to the road to pick up my rooster.  He was young and not yet in full adult feathers and his name was “Dante”.  I should have thought better about the whole situation when I heard that his name was “Dante”.    I headed home with my new rooster and thought all was well.   I prayed that he wouldn’t find goat hair an attractive food material!

 

When I got home, I waited until it was dark and then slipped Dante onto the roosting bar next to the hens.  The hens made their little chicken noises when they realized someone had been added to the group, but they quickly settled back down to sleep for the night. 

 

Dante grew quickly and established himself as the flock leader.  He also decided that I was not going to be included in that flock and set out to ensure that I respected his territory.  He turned into the meanest creature on this earth and did not miss an opportunity to beat the snot out of me, or at least give it his best shot.  I began to carry a broom with me whenever I entered the goat yard in order to protect myself.   Carrying a broom wherever I go, in addition to carrying hay or grain or whatever, is neither easy nor convenient.    There are times when I thought, “Oh, he’s way out in the pasture.  I’ll just sneak in there and wash out those water buckets.”   Hah!  Somehow, that dang bird knew I’d once again entered his domain.  I’d be working away and then I’d hear his big feet thumping up behind me.  If I was lucky, I could turn around fast enough to glare at him.  I fiound that if I looked him in his beady red eye and made faces at him showing my teeth (kind of like a snarl, I guess) I could cause him to pause briefly before he attacked.  (Gads, I’m sooo glad no one ever saw me, they’d think I was nuts.)  Sometimes that would be just long enough for me to make a quick grab for the broom.   Now, if I was silly enough to wander too far from my broom, it was as if Dante knew it and he became quite vicious is his attack! 

 

One day, when I had a shovel in hand, Dante came at me for a frontal attack.  Usually, simply sweeping him away a couple of times with my broom would convince him to lay off and stay away, although he would continue to glare at me with that red eye.  However, this day he decided he was going to do battle until the end.  He came at me time and time again and I found that after ten minutes of this rather strenuous aerobic exercise, I was getting a bit winded.   I was also getting angrier by the minute.  I’m ashamed to say that I finally saw RED and felt a strong urge to bash the heck out of him.   But I thought, “No, I shouldn’t act on this urge while I’m so angry.”  

 

The next day while I work, I thought long and hard about what I needed to do about that dang rooster.  I couldn’t in good conscience give him away to someone else.  I had previously  asked my husband if he would dispatch that nasty rooster for me and he looked at me horrified and said, “No, I’m not going near that monster.”  Rats!  That meant I would have to do it.  

Upon returning from my day at work, I quickly changed into my battle gear and headed for the barn with a big heavy shovel in my hands.   As I entered the barnyard, Dante made his first charge, but I certainly couldn’t start swinging that shovel around with all those goats in there.   So I flung some hay into the various feeders and while the goats were eating, I walked outside the barn with Dante in hot pursuit.   When he came at me with those spurs and that wild look in his eye, I raised my shovel up over my head and thumped him a good one, right down on his head.  He dropped like a rock and lay spread eagle (or is that spread chicken?) on the ground, head flopped to the side.  Immediately all the anger went out of me and I felt terrible remorse.  I had killed him.  I have never in my life intentionally killed any of God’s creatures and never imagined myself as an animal abuser.  Horrors!   Then I thought, “Well, maybe it’s not so bad that he’s gone after all.”   He was so mean and aggressive, he made me bleed, and every time people would visit to look at the goats, I had to chase around the barnyard with my husband’s salmon net to scoop him up and lock him away into a dog crate.  What kind of host (or salesperson) would allow visitors to be assaulted by a rooster while on their property?   

 

So, after feeling terrible for a few minutes, I went back to doing the rest of my barn chores.   I must admit it was a joy to leave my shovel in the corner and work with two hands for a change.  I didn’t tend to his body right away but after about twenty more minutes of chores, I found an old feed bag to put him in.   I didn’t want to pick him up by his wing because his weight  would cause his body and wings to flop out to full length, and I just wanted to get him into the bag and out of sight as quickly as possible (remember I was feeling guilty at this point).   So I stuck the toe of my boot under his body, thinking I would turn him over so I could more easily grab a leg by which to pick him up. 

 

When I started to turn him over, the unthinkable happened!!!  It was like something out of a really bad science fiction movie!   This nightmare was just never going to end.  Dante stood up and glared at me once again with that evil red eye (which wasn’t quite in the same place in his head as it had been before – gulp).  Oh, dang it all.  I had to do it all again!  I ran for the shovel in the corner of the barn, ran back outside and proceeded to whack that rooster back into oblivion.  When I was certain that Dante would never move again, I shoveled what was left of him into the feed bag and took him off to the forest where the little forest creatures could make good use of him. 

We have a barn monitor which transmits all sounds to the house.  I’m quite sure that my husband heard all the banging of the shovel and my mutterings about that dang rooster.  However, to this day he has never asked me what became of Dante.    Hmmm…..wonder why? 

Susan