Goat Racism
A couple of months ago, my aunt was offered early retirement from her 25+ year tenure as assistant district attorney for Yolo County, CA. She accepted.
Dogs, horses, pigs, steers, turtles, sheep, cats, iguanas comprise the set of pet varieties my aunt has tended in her life. With the sudden abundance of time her retirement affords, not only did she sew five bridesmaid dresses for her daughter’s wedding, she also delivered three kids, the product of her latest pet project, goats. She did not expect to do this. She was careful to pen Billies and nannies separately. But as Spielberg-instructed Jeff Goldblum hammily said: “nature always finds a way…”
As best as she can figure, rutting billy-goat of breed A maneuvered into the pen of breed B does, and the pasture shook. Three half-breed offspring were conceived and carried to term.
Sadly, shortly after their birth, mamma-goat, failing to recognize her kids, withheld her milk from them. One baby goat died.
My aunt now spends here mornings and evenings bottle-feeding the two unfortunate beings; victims of racial discrimination.
Seeds of Animosity
My father and my great uncle Pep (see: Epic) never got along. Whenever I asked why, dad only replied with vague, unsubstantiated descriptions of Pep’s occasional idiosyncrasies –never any specifics. This past weekend he finally let one slip.
Drilling is the act of driving many tons of steel pipe hundreds of feet into the ground while simultaneously removing the displaced clay, sand and gravel “cuttings”. Occasionally, if drilling is hurried, the hole can cave in around the drill pipe. When this happens, the rig cannot generate sufficient upward force to dislodge the stuck pipe (called “tools”). Drillers, reluctantly, must drop explosives down the hole to break free as much of the tens of thousands of dollars worth of tools as they can salvage.
If one is born male in my family, one necessarily spends time in “the Gulag” (i.e. working 12 hour shifts on drilling rigs) at some point in one’s life. It’s our rite of passage. While some Eaton males, myself included, have managed to escape, my dad, my grandfather and my great uncle Pep were not so fortunate–drilling is/was life for them.
Not only did the Z-boys of Dogtown prosper during the drought of ’77, so did the family drilling company. That year, California farmers near and far demanded more water wells than the business could produce. To keep up with demand, drilling was hurried. And during one job, the frenzied pace likely caused a cave in of legendary proportions. Explosives were required.
Because both my grandpa and my dad lacked the guts to even get near nitroglycerin; purchasing and handling of explosive charges laid in the (assumed) capable hands of Pep. Now Pep was a smart man; he usually did things right. In 1977, terrorism must have been as foreign a concept as equal rights for homosexuals because Pep purchased a crate of TNT wholesale with not so much as a driver’s license.
Pep dropped charges down the hole and managed to salvage some of the tools.
Fast forward to 1982. One morning, en route to preschool in a beat up pickup truck typical of the company’s fleet, dad opened the glove compartment and discovered two, long-forgotten sticks of dynamite laying in wait for a sufficient jolt to awaken them.
When dad furiously relayed his discovery to Pep, Pep replied: “take it easy, they’re pretty safe without the blasting caps…”
What a Tangled Conceptual Web My Mind Weaves
Speaking of preschool and goats. Next-door neighbors to my preschool would sacrifice the occasional goat in their backyard. Only a thin wire fence separated our play area from their ritual. According to my mom, after the first bloodletting any hint of goat plus ax would be grounds for immediate indoor story-time.
Wimpy Christians.
