Erin Goat Bragh!

"Erin Go Bragh" is an Irish expression we see every year around St. Patrick's Day, plastered on t-shirts, little wooden decorative signs, and other memorabilia of the season. While it means "Ireland Forever" these days, I read an article that explained that its literal origin is in the more somber phrase "until doomsday." Here at my temporary farm, erin goat bragh meant a little taste of doomsday for a plastered St. Patrick's Day reveler in green sneakers.  He was clearly not Irish, as his luck was nowhere to be found.   

Last night, Jess, my partner, was awakened around 2:00 a.m. by loud yelling. She stepped outside, peered into the darkness, and saw a shadowy figure of a man out on the sidewalk along the main road. She heard him yell out a few times - "Wooo hooo!" - as he weaved, then fell, then weaved, then fell. Shortly thereafter, a bush blocked her line of sight, but she could hear the sound of activity and crunching leaves, which she assumed to be goat traffic, or maybe Sweet Pea investigating.  This was followed by loud exclamations of "Yes, sir!  Yes, sir!" Jess suspected the police had found him, but she leaned out to look and there was no one else around. The man continued his declarations of respect as he staggered away into the night.

As it turns out, the authority he was addressing was the electric fence. He had fallen into it, as I learned when Michael the goatherd showed up to fix the twisted and flipped section of fence. The man had apparently gotten quite tangled in it. A neighbor helpfully called Michael this morning to report the fence situation.

A bent plastic fence clasp remains as evidence of our drunken friend's struggle to free himself.

Somewhere, today, within walking distance, there is a guy with a hangover and one sneaker. We have placed the other shoe in a prominent place, should he wish to return to retrieve it.  Thanks, drunk guy, for not driving, even though walking turned out to be a bit hazardous for you as well.



Getting my Goat(s)

So, here's what happened. I decided I could. not. live. with my front yard any longer, and I found myself with a savings account and (relative) job security, so I decided to spend some money to return my yard to its former state of making me happy.

Here's what it looked like when it made me happy (is that my yard...or Augusta National?):

Here's what it looks like today (I'm aware that it's shameful):

How did it get this way, you ask?  So many reasons, so little desire to talk about them here...

I'm usually a pretty determined do-it-yourselfer. But this time, I definitely needed to pay people to help me. People who don't wind up in the ER after touching invisible poison ivy, or being stung by invisible scorpions, and who have snake boots. I got one price from a guy who said he could solve all of my problems with a Bobcat. The heavy equipment kind, not the large feline kind. That was a little too drastic, since I still have some surviving azaleas and camellias out there, hidden and being overtaken by English ivy, wisteria, and privet.

At some point, I had read an article (there it is!) about using goats to perform lot clearing. I recalled that they don't eat azaleas... Hmm... I had called a company that specializes in such work a year or two ago. One call back, then he vanished. I tried again. No luck. So off to craigslist I went, in search of my own goats. Why couldn't I just buy some goats, I thought? But, fortunately, I found another company - a couple, actually - in the portable goat grazing business.

The next day, Michael & Kristin Swanson, the owners of Get Your Goat Rentals, came to my house, measured, and stood with me, hands on our hips, staring into the abyss that is my front yard. They had to take my word for it that there are 10 foot tall azaleas in there. I was worried about the goats - azaleas are apparently poisonous to goats. Who knew? They did. They were also unconcerned, which concerned me a bit, but I've learned to let the pros be pros.

We talked money. I live on a busy street, I said. It would be great exposure for you, I said. You could even call the local news to come do a story, I said. We arrived at a price that didn't take me out of the game. I told them I needed to sleep on it and promised to call them the next day.

That night, I got an email offering a discount if they could start tomorrow, since the goats had just finished eating a nearby yard and it would save a trip back to the farm if they could come directly to my house. "Goat people, you got yourself a deal!," I said to my computer. I still wanted to sleep on it, though. It never seemed to resolve anything, but people do it, so I was hoping the answer would be clearer in the morning.

When I woke up, much to my surprise, it actually was clear. My first thought was of an English ivy-weakened pine tree crashing through my roof. The goats will eat the bottom six feet of leaves, leaving exposed vines I can cut off - or pay someone to cut off (since there will undoubtedly be the dreaded poison ivy vines mixed in). My second thought was the picture of the dream fire pit, taped to the wall above my desk.

Long story short, they just got here. They're putting up the electric fence now, and the goats are impatiently staring out of the horse trailer, smelling like a farm.

Friends said I should blog about this experience. Since there were no blogs about it that I could find, and since my sister keeps telling me to blog, here I am. Figuring it out as I go. I named this blog after my oft-repeated preface to conversations with my friends. The one that elicits groans....

So, come along as we watch the goats eat the Jungle of Shame outside my window! Then, who knows...this blog will probably end up being about other things home and DIY-related....Or, like the ivy, it will go with the goats.