Going to See the Goats

On Sunday afternoon Hubby, The Boy, and I took Grandma to the Carl Sandburg House.

Normally, I would not make a point of spending my Sunday afternoon at the home of any famous dead person. I seem to have some kind of allergy to historic homes. The second I enter them the heavy, dust-smelling air turns to cotton wads in my brain, and before I can say, "Hey! Cool antique tea set!" my eyes are drifting closed.

Since I have known Hubby, I have visited historical homes with him only to prove my True Love. The first time, I dutifully feigned interest in colonial methods of spinning wool in Pawtucket, Rhode Island on our way home from a wedding. We weren't even engaged yet, and I suppose the romance of a wedding put me in the mind of working toward one myself. Or maybe it had been so long since I had consented to this sort of outing that I half hoped I would enjoy it, creating another shared activity for the two of us. Lucky we have plenty of others.

Most recently, Hubby and I stopped by a historic home in our historic home of Long Beach. The grounds were lovely, and we were in a part of town unfamiliar to us, so I was happy to be along. But when it came to agreeing to a guided tour of the house, I begged pregnancy and swollen ankles, even though they never really were.

By now, I feel secure enough in my marriage to know that I will never, ever have to go to another historical home with Hubby.

What persuaded me to join in the trip to the Carl Sandburg house on Sunday was the promise that we wouldn't have to tour the house. We were going to see the goats.

We had set out to visit Carl Sandburg's goats before. (I suppose these are more likely descendants of his goats, since he's been dead for a while. I can't say how long because I carefully avoided the plackets bearing information about him and his life. I did read one poem, though, and liked it very much.)

On Thanksgiving Day, when Hubby had to be at work at three o'clock, we cheerily decided to check out downtown Hendersonville, not far distant from the goats. We thought we could find a cozy restaurant serving a turkey-free Thanksgiving meal before tiring The Boy out with a goat encounter. In this way, I would have an actual holiday because he'd be so tired when back home alone with me all afternoon that entertaining him would require nothing more than choosing a movie I could half watch on TiVo and devoting the other half of my attention to whatever it was we used to play with before Christmas and his birthday rained the presents we play with now.

I still marvel at the fact that I was actually surprised to find no restaurants open in historic downtown Hendersonville on Thanksgiving Day. I felt sad and waifish wandering the gray street alongside people plainly walking off too many servings of mashed potatoes. By the time we were ready to concede, we were so hungry that we ditched the goats for a little Mexican restaurant we found on the way home, where we enjoyed being the only gringos among the Spanish-speaking workers and The Boy, not speaking any language, waved corn chips around and considered it a perfectly good Thanksgiving.

There have been other plans to see the goats. But we've never quite made it. Because, don't you know, there are so many fascinating distractions in the vicinity of Asheville.

At any rate, I was anxious to join the family on Sunday, as I had bowed out of their jaunt to the Cradle of Forestry on Saturday. Turns out it involved horses, but The Boy found them terrifying. Better to wait for the goats.

We set out in the car as The Boy settled in for his nap. Usually, having The Boy nap in the car works well -- but usually we are facing a drive of longer than half an hour. The Boy was already suffering from a cold wrought by our indulgently letting him skimp on sleep to spend time with his visiting aunt and cousin earlier in the week. Grandma was around for several more days, and I was adamant that he not be gypped out of his nap.

So we took the long way, winding past the charming mountain sights of car lots and strip malls. We zipped through historic downtown Hendersonville with only the faintest sigh of nostalgia and continued on to the Carl Sandburg House.

We drew near. The Boy snored.

"Let's keep going," I suggested, even though my bladder was suggesting otherwise.

And so, for half an hour more, we wandered, until I and my bladder concluded The Boy had enjoyed sufficient nap time. At which point Hubby concluded that he needed to eat in order to enjoy the goats.

We headed for historic downtown Flatrock, home of the Carl Sandburg House. Although it was not a national holiday, it was a Sunday, and we encountered exactly as many open restaurants as we had on Thanksgiving Day in historic Hendersonville.

Thank goodness for Mexican restaurants. We were decidedly not the only gringos in this one -- in fact, the only people who spoke Spanish (if you don't count my hesitant knowledge of words and phrases useful for conversation with our house cleaner) were the wait staff. But it was surprisingly good, considering the circumstances, and The Boy loves him some refried beans.

We finally pulled into the parking lot of the Carl Sandburg house as the sun, which had been warming up the car during the entire drive, slipped behind a thick padding of clouds. I drew The Boy close to me for warmth and noted with pleasure that we were in a park with trails. Carl Sandburg's house, I was happy to see, was only a minor attraction.

We headed over a little bridge and started up the hill in the direction of the goats. I was deep in the thick of a cold that had my chest feeling like a sack of overcooked grits, so I encouraged The Boy to hitch a ride with Daddy. Nothing doing.

Normally, I would be happy to climb a half mile hill carrying a twenty-five pound boy on a chilly April day after eating three shrimp tacos and stolen bites of The Boy's beans. But I was most uncharacteristically not in the mood for exercise.

The Boy consented to ride on Daddy's shoulders for a few blessed yards, then continued in my arms until we reached the top of the hill and we all decided it might be a good idea if he walked a ways himself.

Letting a newly walking toddler walk two-tenths of a mile under his own steam seems like a good idea only after you've carried him three-tenths of a mile up hill while wheezing from a cold. Especially when he stops every two feet to observe the older children passing him by on their way to the goats.

At some point, I grabbed him and pretended not to notice his squirms of toddler determination, nor his tearful assertions of independence. He'd shut up, I was certain, once he saw the goats.

I wasn't wrong. "Look! Goats!" I cried when they came into view, as if he could remember his past joyful encounter with goats two months ago at Disneyland. Still, they were furry four-legged creatures and patently not horses and therefore, he seemed to figure, worth checking out.

The Boy did find the goats interesting, though not as interesting as the goat dropping riddled sawdust in the barn. The chickens were pretty cool too; but the huge pile of dirt on the other side of the chicken house was even more intriguing. These attractions, as any parent knows, could be avoided only with clever distraction. To my disappointment, eight-day-old goat Thor wasn't much of a distraction, while the historic goat milking house was.

Ah well. The historic goat milking house was only a few rooms sporting very little written information to slow down people like Hubby and Grandma who actually read it. And it was cold enough to prevent me from falling too deeply asleep.

Plus, I discovered, historic homes are more fun with a little boy running joyously ahead of you and then turning to peer through doorways with a gap-toothed grin spread across his face.