Some of my fondest memories of summers on the farm is when we would bring the hay into the barn. The whole family worked together to load and unload the hay, sliding the bales along the smooth floor boards to the growing stack of hay. It made me feel important and capable to be given a hay hook and be expected to do my part to accomplish this task. Smelling the cured grass while the breeze cooled the sweat along my neck and I rocked back and forth on top of the hay bales loaded on the truck redeemed summer vacation for a girl who loved school.
One summer, after San and I came to live here, a young goat went under the barn and for some bizarre reason the goat decide to stick its head up into a crack between one of the floor logs. At dusk I heard it bleating as I put the other goats away for the night, but I couldn't find it. Finally, I located it by crawling underneath the barn. When I tried to free the goat, it yelled as if I was beating it to death. By then it was dark. I called Justin. He came and together, after several unsuccessful attempts to free the goat, we figured out the only way to free the goat was to tear the floor boards up, no small task. It took two tries to find the spot where the goat's head was. Even with the floor boards up we had to hammer a wedge between the logs to separate a space wide enough to release the horns and head of the goat. The floor still bears the wound from that ill fated act by a curious goat.