The year was 1971. It was late May and in Kansas, in those years, we graduated before the summer’s heat was too unbearable in classrooms without air conditioning.
Graduation was that Saturday, and the night before I had been to one of those post ’60s senior parties. I woke up a bit late that next morning (some things don’t change), threw on my cap and gown, jumped on my brother’s Yamaha 175cc dirt bike, and shot off to the graduation ceremonies just in time to make the entry with classmates — with just a slight bit of chain grease on the gown.
When you spend enough time with animals, you start to truly understand them. Maybe it’s the barn fumes, but lately I feel like I can even hear what they’re saying.
Take our pet goats, for instance. As soon as the three of them see my husband and me preparing to move their fence to new pasture, they come bounding up to us with eager smiles, saying, “That looks interesting. Here, we’ll help.” The next thing you know, they’re weaving in and out between us, nibbling on the fiberglass posts, stepping on our feet and generally being more problem than solution.