adventures in milking

Greg and I are alternating the milking duties so that we each can learn how to do it. So every other day I lie cozily in bed while Greg stumbles out into the misty dawn with his milking pail in hand. And then, vice versa. It's August, the days have been clear so far, it's the best of all possible worlds for milking a goat in the early hours of the day.

So, let's see. The first day I milked, I got nada. Both Molly's owner Mary and Elaine, a reader who has kept goats, told me to nudge her hard with my hand, like a kid bumping up against her stomach and udder. That worked. So then the second day I was doing pretty well until Molly knocked over the pail. I kept milking just to get her milked, but it was strictly a practice session after that. The third day, I got my full complement of 3 and 1/2 cups.

So I approached my duties this morning with some degree of confidence. I was getting better every day. But the learning curve is seldom smooth. I had almost finished when Molly somehow performed a Houdini-like move and escaped from the milking stand. O magical goat! Perhaps tomorrow she will begin to float about in the sky, like one of those goats in a Chagall painting.

But I was able to grab the pail and save the milk. She and I were both having to contend with mosquitoes who were taking advantage of our captive positions. I had decided to just endure them, but Molly was more stubbornly opposed. More goat-like, come to think of it. Next time I will make sure the latch on top of the milking stand is properly fastened before I start. There are several small things to remember when milking a goat, and they are all of equal importance.

chicken dreams come true

I have always wanted to live in a place where chickens could wander about, clucking and pecking. Last evening after they had spent four days getting used to their new living arrangements, we opened the door of the pen and let the flock out. They had a great time. This morning they seemed pleased to go exploring for bugs, fallen apples, and whatnot.
I think Mary told me the chickens are Rhode Island Reds. A beautiful old breed.
They scared away a small flock of ewes and lambs last evening with their clucking. The sheep raced off down the path toward the fish house and safety. And I'm pretty sure the mink won't

stand a chance against Chevron, that best of all possible roosters. This really is a dream come true.

camping out

Blake, Walter, Andy and Elijah -- cousins and friends whose family connections to the island go way back -- are camping out tonight. I walked down to the end of the cove to see their set-up.Really, they picked a fine night.
When I peeked inside one of the tents I could see that they have big plans.
They have built an excellent campfire and they brought marshmallows. Their site looks out at Gray's Island on the western side.
It's on a grassy rise on the shingle beach, across the cove's end from the sheep pens.
When the tide rises they will be cut off out there!
But they cleverly brought enough food to see them through, including clams which they are steaming in rockweed. I imagine they will have a night to remember.