PolitiCook.net

Preblowout speech Diversion - Granddad and the Sick Goat

Crossposted at Dailykos.com

To try to get away from such serious stuff, at least for a little while now and then, I have been offering some diversion occasionally. Last time it was about Granddad’s housing situation.

Tonight is shorter, and has to do with his love of animals. Whilst he could be a crusty old cuss, according to my family, he had a soft spot for animals.

Back before he burnt down the third wooden house, Granddad kept a few goats. I never remember him milking them, and certainly not butchering them. I think that he kept them just to have a little company. Nanny goats are affectionate, curious, and not as pugnacious as billies are.

I remember going out to the farm many times and playing with the goats. I was really little, and this was before Granddad went through his “Blue” exterior decorating period.

It can get pretty darned cold in west central Arkansas during the winter, so late one fall my parents bought Granddad an electric blanket to help him keep warm in the very drafty house that he built. He did at least have electric service, so the blanket was useful to him and he appreciated it.

As I said last time, we would go to check up on him a couple to times a week, and for a good while all was well. Since he did not have a telephone, we would have to make the physical trip. That is just as well because he was so hard of hearing that thunder had little effect on him.

One cold morning we went out to check on him, and he came to the door obviously very cold. It was in the 30’s in the house, and he had been sleeping on the couch under a thin blanket. Dad was out of town (Granddad was Dad’s dad), so Mother asked him, “Mr. Smith, what happened to the electric blanket that we got you?” “It’s on the bed,” he replied. “Did it quit working?” she asked. “No, it works fine. They’s jest not enough room in the bed.” (He had a twin one).

So my mum and I went into the bedroom (actually, sort of a lean-to roughly cobbled to the main structure, and there was Daisy, one his goats, in the bed under the electric blanket. My mum was astonished and amazed. After a long silence (and she was hardly ever at a loss for words), she asked, “Why is the goat in the bed and you on the couch?” “She has been poorly the last day or two, so I put her in here to keep her from gettin’ the pneumonie.”

My mum just shook her head and said to me, “Come on David, we’re going home.” Then she said her good-byes to Granddad and we left. I had to pet Daisy first. She recovered and was fine as a goat can be for a couple of years longer, and Granddad was no worse for wear.

By the way, I got a lot of support for writing about Granddad and the Ivory Soap, but want to hold that one until next week when we really need a laugh during the Republican convention.

Warmest regards,

Doc.