Event Date: Early 1981

Event Date: Early 1981 Drafted: 2025-11-23

Somewhere in that newspaper clipping is my favorite kind of memory: the goat in the doorway of the barn, silhouette framed by winter light, ears flicking, waiting to see if a kid might drop something edible.

Our goats were characters — stubborn, curious, mischievous. They were as much part of the landscape as the barns and the hay bales. They’d wander into the lean-to, push open half-latched doors, or try to climb into the grain bins if Mom didn’t keep a close watch.

That goat in the photo wasn’t posing. He was doing what goats do — inserting himself into human business like he owned the place.

That doorway is burned into my memory: the rough wood, the cold dirt floor, the shadowy interior behind the goat, the sense that the barn was alive — breathing, creaking, watching.

Even now, whenever I smell hay or old wood, I can picture that doorway and feel the gentle head-butt of a goat nudging at my side.