"Cultivators of the earth are the most valuable citizens. They are the most vigorous, the most independent, the most virtuous, and they are tied to their country and wedded to its liberty and interests by the most lasting bonds."
Winter has continued with no additional goat kids so far (which is fine with us). As a quick recap, the two males arrived two weeks ago today, on the coldest morning in memory; the female kid came a few days later.
We had to bottle feed the males, because the mother goat had an injured udder. We were aware of this injury, and had intended to butcher her last fall, but time got away from us; our reward was two kids that needed to be bottle fed. (The mother goat finally did go into the butcher a week ago, so we will not be having any repeats.) Both kids got off to a reasonably good start, and we were able to move them to the barn within a few days. After that, however, they diverged. The larger of the two continued to thrive and do extremely well. Unfortunately, the smaller of the two began having mobility issues, which only increased despite our extra attention.
We initially posted the kids for sale on the local Facebook page for $25 each. After several days we got a buyer for the larger kid (a farm family up the street looking for a pet), but I wasn’t comfortable letting the smaller one go until his mobility improved. Sadly, he ended up deteriorating to the point where I had to put him down; such are the highs and lows of raising livestock. But on the plus side, the large female singleton born on January 25 is doing extremely well. Her mother is taking very good care of her, and she has required no special attention since the drama on her birth day.
Careful readers of the previous two posts may have noticed a common “background character”: the woodburning stove in our house. We had the stove, a Kuma Wood Classic, professionally installed last November, just in time for the winter heating season. We could not be more happy with it. The build quality is top notch (everything about it feels very solid). The wood box is enormous, holding big pieces of wood and enough to easily burn all night. There’s always a nice bed of coals in the morning, requiring nothing more than tossing in a few pieces of wood and opening up the air supply to revive the fire. The ash box is also huge, and the slats in the bottom of the burn box make it easy to drop ashes each morning without losing the nice bed of coals. The air controls make it easy to adjust the intake and regulate the size of the flame.
But finally, and best of all, the stove has a huge metal cook surface — actually, two cook surfaces. The larger one, toward the front, is more directly over the fire and gets hotter. The smaller surface is raised and toward the back; it works nicely to keep things warm. (For example, we can bring a big kettle of water to a boil quickly on the larger surface, then keep it warm all day on the raised rear surface.)
Even on the front surface, there are zones which are hotter than others. When making a large batch of chicken soup, I can bring the stock pot to a boil in the center, which is most directly over the fire. I can then move it to the side, where the pot can simmer for hours. For a long simmer overnight, I can move it back to the center and reduce the flame for the all night burn. (All of these techniques have been fun to explore.)
The stove is set up in our family room, near the back door of the house and adjacent to the kitchen. This makes it fairly easy to use for cooking; in addition to soups, it’s also good for anything cooked in a skillet, such as a grilled cheese sandwich (or even making a slice or two of toast). Mrs. Yeoman Farmer makes a pot of oatmeal on it every morning.
Very longtime readers will remember that when we lived in Illinois twenty years ago, we installed a huge, Amish-made, Baker’s Choice model wood cookstove in our kitchen.
If we were building a new house from the ground up, we would most likely make the kitchen central, with a behemoth cookstove like the one we had in Illinois included. There was simply nothing like it. Twenty years later, we still talk about how much heat that stove put out and how much we enjoyed cooking on it (plus, it included an oven box).
Given the way our house in Michigan is set up, installing such a stove isn’t possible — but the Kuma Wood Classic we just bought is probably the next best thing. Up until this year, we’d been getting by with a smaller, soapstone-topped unit. It was a nice source of supplemental heat, but not practical for cooking. The fire box wasn’t large enough for overnight burns; we had to completely rebuild the fire pretty much every morning. And the ashes had to be shoveled out all the time. The Kuma has been a night and day improvement.
One final thought about woodburners in general: regardless of the particular unit, in our climate we consider a second heat source to be essential. Even a mild Michigan winter can be dangerously cold if one’s primary heat source goes out. We have an oil-burning furnace that heats a boiler, which circulates hot water to baseboards throughout the house. It works well, but is old and occasionally breaks down. It also doesn’t work if the power goes out. In the event of a blizzard that takes out the electricity for a week, we would be in deep trouble without a woodstove. We do have a generator which can be hooked into the house electric panel, but that can’t be run forever. Even if the roads were clear enough for us to travel to a family member’s house that had power, who would be taking care of our livestock and everything else on the property? How would we keep the pipes from freezing?
The woodstove is our insurance policy. It ensures we can always stay in the house. Plus, in the event the power goes out, a stove like the Kuma or the Baker’s Choice we had in Illinois allows us to continue cooking. And even in a “normal” winter, there is nothing quite as wonderful as the superabundance of heat from a woodburning stove. It makes the house so much more comfortable. Not to mention that it allows us to run the old furnace so much less. We haven’t used even half of a single tank of heating oil so far this winter, and this winter has not been mild.
Our only regret about the Kuma is that we didn’t get it sooner.
The two goat kids born during the extreme cold snap earlier this week are doing very well. They spent most of their first couple of days in a crate in my office building, keeping warm and keeping me (and the dogs) company as I worked. They took a bottle several times each day, and are thriving. They even mastered the art of running around on my slick vinyl floor without falling (much). Goats are sure-footed and quick learners.
Fortunately, the weather has warmed up enough to move them to the barn with the rest of the goat herd. As of this morning, they are officially livestock and not pets. Unfortunately, we have not yet found a new home for them. I got some good pictures of them today in the barn, which we will post to more of the local “for sale” sites.
I had just sat down to lunch when, as if on cue, our youngest son emerged from outside with news: One of the good milking does (“Margot”) is in labor and having trouble. She was walking around with the head of a goat sticking out of her, trying to push, but not getting anywhere. Could I help?
Sure. Lunch could wait. I scrubbed my hands, removed my wedding ring and class ring, and grabbed a couple of old towels. We booted most of the herd out of the barn, so as to give Margot some privacy. As expected, this is what greeted me:
For a successful birth, both of the front hooves need to be coming out with the head. It’s like a human diver making a smooth entrance into a pool. If either leg is down or curled back, the shoulder is too bulky to pass through the birth canal. This goat kid was twisting as it came out. Neither front hoof was protruding with the head. Fortunately, however, the kid was moving its head and shaking its ears. Definitely alive.
I eased one of my hands into the birth canal, feeling around for a leg. I found it pretty quickly, then (despite Margot’s bellowed objection), worked the hoof out with the head. Unfortunately, the kid’s body was now twisting very badly and was almost 180 degrees from how I wanted it (it was facing toward the ceiling instead of toward the floor).
We let Margot rest for a moment. The next contraction hit. I got a good grip on the kid’s head and one leg, then pulled as she pushed. Somehow, even with just one foot protruding with the head, the whole kid managed to come out. Success! And, best of all, she was a big female. I wrapped her in one of the old towels and did my best to get dry the slimy fluid.
We decided to leave the two of them alone for a while. I didn’t want to interfere with their bonding, particularly after the difficult birth experience. However, when I peeked into the barn a little while later, I was concerned. The kid was still laying on the floor, wet and shivering. Margot was standing a ways off and not licking the kid dry.
Much as I hated to interfere, we needed to get this kid dried off and warmed up. I took her to the house, set her in a basket, and gave her a good toweling-off in front of the woodstove. Meanwhile, our eldest daughter went to the barn and collected a couple of cups of colostrum from Margot. I offered a bottle to the kid, who initially struggled against the nipple. However, as soon as we managed to dribble the first bit through the side of her mouth, her attitude immediately changed. She attacked the nipple and sucked down about five ounces.
About a half hour later, we returned the kid to Margot and left them to connect. But when I checked in again after another half hour or so, two things concerned me. First, the kid tended to just stand around looking miserable (she was definitely still wet). Second, Margot wasn’t making a move to do anything. The Yeoman Farm Children assured me that Margot is an excellent mother, so I wasn’t terribly worried. I just wondered how we could help the process.
What we really needed was to get the kid nice and dry, without all the time that would take if she were just left in front of the woodstove. I asked my daughter where our blow drier was. Unfortunately, she replied, it broke a few months ago and we didn’t replace it. Drat. We really needed to get this kid warmed up and dried off in the barn.
Mrs. Yeoman Farmer offered to run up to the local thrift store and get a drier. Thirty minutes and six dollars later, we were in business. (Note to self: a blow drier is an essential tool during lambing and kidding. Never start the season without one again.) I ran an extension cord into the goat pen, fired up the drier, and within a few minutes had the new little kid almost fluffy.
Then, while I held Margot by the collar against the barn wall, my daughter worked to get the now-happy-and-dry kid to latch on to a nipple. After a few failed attempts, we had success. Suckle suckle. Yes! Once we were positive everything was working, my daughter and I quietly crept out of the goat pen. We took one more look back. The kid had separated from the teat, but then found her way back on by herself. My daughter said, “See? Margot really is a good mother.”
Hopefully that is the end of this story. We will let Margot take it from here!
We often joke that our goats seem to wait for the coldest day of the year to deliver their kids. With much of the upper Midwest locked in an Arctic blast this week (this morning’s air temperature was seven below zero Fahrenheit), I suppose it was inevitable that we would get at least one happy arrival in the barn. I heard a few occasional distant cries while tending to the sheep early this morning; once I brought hay to the goats I was able to track down and confirm the source of those cries: not one but two brand new little kids.
One of them was standing against the stone wall; the other was huddled nearby. Both were shivering. Both looked miserable. Their mother had done a reasonably good job of licking them off, which was encouraging. However, both kids were still quite wet – and neither was nursing from the mother. The temperature in the barn was certainly warmer than the outside temperature, but still well below freezing and dangerously cold for newborn kids. They needed to get warmed up and dried off ASAP. I made a note of which doe had recently delivered (it was obvious from the bloody afterbirth), then snatched up her twins and hustled them to the house.
I fished an old bath towel out of the laundry, then the three of us plunked down on the family room floor in front of the woodstove. I went to work with the towel, and along the way determined that unfortunately both of the kids were males. We really didn’t need any more little bucks. But here we were.
Both were warming up and drying off nicely when our eldest daughter came downstairs. I gave a quick explanation of the situation, and described the mother goat. Our daughter, who is the family goat expert, frowned and said it sounded like the doe with an injured udder. We’ve never been able to get any milk out of this goat, and had been intending to butcher her. Fortunately for her, we had too many other things going on last fall.
While my daughter made her way to the barn to confirm the mother goat’s identity, I rummaged through the basement chest freezer and found several little bottles of goat colostrum. (We saved it last year from a doe which produced much more than her one kid needed; you never know when having this stuff on hand can be a life saver.) I got the bottles thawing in a hot water bath on the wood stove. Once the colostrum had warmed up, both kids eagerly slurped it down. I ran back to the basement for more.
Of course, the kids couldn’t stay in the house – but, with temperatures hovering around zero or low single digits all day, neither could they go to the barn. The solution: they moved to a crate in my office building. It’s nice and warm, already home to two dogs and a cat, and having them close by allows me to monitor them as I work. And the old vinyl floors clean up much more easily than the family room carpet.
I let both kids out of the crate for a bit, and the alpha dog (pictured above) delivered thorough tongue-baths which finished cleaning the last of the afterbirth. After they’d gotten some good rest, I fed them again and changed the towel in the bottom of the crate.
Eventually they got to the point where they wanted to get out and explore. Like all newborn kids, they had trouble getting to their feet on their own at first. I helped them to stand, but did everything I could to encourage them to learn how to do it themselves. Hours later, they were still shaky on their feet – but getting the hang of it. I put them on the carpet because it gives a little more traction than the vinyl. Loads of entertainment ensued.
And so the day continued. Evening has come, and both kids are doing extremely well. They ended up sucking down all of our stored colostrum, forcing me to switch to powdered milk replacer (I ran to Tractor Supply around midday and picked some up). Ideally we would’ve fed colostrum the entire first day, but I’m glad we got as much of it into them as we did. We’re definitely going to seize every opportunity to replenish that supply later, as kidding proceeds and mother goats produce more than is immediately needed. We were sure glad we had some on hand this morning.
What’s next? As I said, we don’t need any more little bucks. Milk replacer to raise them all the way to weaning time simply isn’t cost-effective. As soon as we’re positive that they’re off to a solid start, we will try to sell them – most likely to a family looking for a 4H project.
I’m glad we found them and got them inside so quickly this morning; it really was a brutal day for a delivery, and I don’t think they would’ve lasted more than a few hours out there. I sure hope they end up being a wonderful addition to some other family’s farm.
I was at the gym this morning, briskly walking a treadmill while listening to a favorite daily podcast about markets and investing. About ten or fifteen minutes into my workout, a man using an elliptical machine directly in front of me literally dropped dead. I didn’t see him collapse, but the guys on treadmills on either side of me immediately started pointing (which drew my attention). The victim looked to be in his 50s, and seemed really fit (like a distance runner or something). He’d fallen into an awkward position and wasn’t moving at all.
I thought maybe he’d just fainted or something, but then some other gym members pulled him out flat onto the floor and began performing CPR. This was really serious.
I jumped from the treadmill and ran to the front desk to alert staff. A gym member announced she was calling 911. A gym staffer came running with a defibrillator and began hooking it up to the victim. Other members were pulling machines out of the way to give more room to work. I tried getting back on the treadmill, as I figured there was nothing else I could do, but almost immediately thought better of it. I shut the treadmill down and joined some gym members who were kneeling in prayer in the aisles.
Paramedics eventually arrived, and soon were a blur of equipment and instruments. They got the automatic chest compression machine going, and it was still going as they wheeled the man out out. I never saw him make the slightest movement. His eyes remained wide open and glassy. Really scary. I can’t imagine he survived.
I never did get on the treadmill again, or even finish the podcast. I was so shaken, I packed up and drove home in silence. Everything about markets and investing now seemed completely unimportant.
None of us can foresee just how suddenly or unexpectedly our exit from this life may come upon us. Accordingly, a perpetual watchword of the Knights of Columbus is Tempus Fugit, Memento Mori — or, Time Flies, Remember Death.
I’m sure I’ll remember the events of this morning for a very long time.
And please, in your charity, say a prayer for this man’s family and for the happy repose of his soul.
Pretty much every farm has at least one barn cat. We’ve had several over the years, and I’m honestly not quite sure how many we have right now. They’re a motley bunch of mixed breeds, and most came from some other farm’s litter of barn cats.
That changed late last spring. We began noticing a long-haired, light-colored cat on the property. It was a loner, and didn’t attempt to socialize with our barn cats. It acted extremely skittish, taking flight to the garage and hiding whenever one of us even began to approach. It would take cover behind tools or supplies, or would climb out of reach to the rafters. I was amazed at the nooks and crannies it could vanish into.
The kids and I began comparing notes from the glimpses we’d gotten of the cat, which we dubbed “Garage Kitty” or “G.K.”. It didn’t seem at all like a typical barn cat, and didn’t even seem like the kind of cat you’d find anywhere on a typical farm. For starters, G.K. was very beautiful and most likely purebred. From the flattened facial features, we guessed it to be a Persian or Himalayan – and we supposed it had cost a lot of money. It was the sort of cat you’d expect to find in a New York City apartment — not on a farm in rural Michigan. Yet we couldn’t see a collar, tags, or any other evidence of ownership.
We speculated that perhaps the cat had belonged to an elderly lady, and none of her kids had wanted it when she passed away, so they’d dumped it in the country hoping it would find a home (sadly, a lot of animals get abandoned in the country like this). But why would this obvious indoor pet want nothing to do with humans?
One particular small human took it upon himself to change things. One of the then-eleven-year-old’s chores was (and still is) to give some food to the barn cats each evening, and to stand guard so the chickens don’t steal it. (Barn cats do catch a lot of mice, but not enough to survive on; they need some supplemental food, which we provide in the form of the cheapest stuff from Tractor Supply.) He began leaving a dish of cat food at the entrance to the garage as well, and then walking away. Once he reached a distance G.K. judged safe, the fur-ball would come creeping out to get a meal. We would watch from the porch, but if anyone made a noise (or tried to approach the garage), G.K. would skedaddle back into the shadows.
As time passed, the 11 y.o. was able to remain closer and closer to the garage as G.K. came out to eat. Eventually, he was able to stand right next to it as the cat ate. One evening last fall, he burst excitedly into my office and announced, “I petted Garage Kitty!” He explained that while G.K. was eating, he got down next to it and the cat actually allowed him to touch it while it ate. It wasn’t long before he could pick the cat up and hold it after it finished eating. He was fast becoming G.K.’s favorite human, and was growing quite fond of this feral cat he’d managed to tame.
But I had to remind him: Garage Kitty was very likely somebody’s pet which had somehow gotten lost. It would shock me if an exotic cat like this didn’t have a microchip with the owner’s information. Now that we could catch and hold G.K., we really should take the cat to the vet and have it scanned.
But when? I figured we had one bite at the apple. If we were to confine the cat in a carrier and then couldn’t get to the vet anytime soon, G.K. wouldn’t trust us to pick him up again. Getting in to our local vet had become very hit or miss. Everything had gone to appointment-only, and they often wouldn’t answer the phone or return calls. Many times, I would drive by and wouldn’t see any staff through the window. When we got a new puppy last year, they even told us flat out they were too backed up to schedule an appointment. We had to take Puppy to a vet in a different town – and their hours weren’t always predictable, either.
The weather soon turned very cold, and we started worrying about the cat. We considered bringing it into the house, but for various reasons Mrs. Yeoman Farmer doesn’t like house pets. The animals live in my office building – which, with two dogs and a cat already in it was getting a bit full. And we didn’t know how the current cat would react to having a rival. Still, given how cold it was getting outside, we figured we didn’t have much of a choice. Shortly before Christmas, Garage Kitty became Office Kitty (but was still referred to by all of us as G.K.).
The other office-dwellers were surprisingly nonplussed by the new addition — though Cat Number One did grow increasingly perturbed as time passed and it became clear G.K. wasn’t leaving. G.K. kept to himself, much as he had in the garage itself, spending a lot of time deep under my desk. When I wasn’t around, his favorite hangout was my office chair – but he would vanish under the desk as soon as I approached. I seldom got to hold him.
The picture above (taken shortly after we brought him inside) doesn’t do justice to how incredibly beautiful this cat is. You can’t see his eyes, but when he opens them wide they’re a stunning shade of china blue. Sometime after this picture was taken, the kids began brushing him – and he loved it. It was the first time we heard him purr. I wish I’d gotten a picture of him with his hair all brushed out.
But watching how much he loved being brushed only deepened my sense that this was somebody’s beloved pet. Somebody had probably brushed him a lot. I told the kids we really had to get the cat to a vet for a scan – which we would do when Puppy had her next appointment, in late February. The Kid in particular begged me to reconsider; couldn’t we just keep G.K.? I pointed out to him how awful we would feel if one of our pets had gotten lost, and how happy we would be if somebody found that pet and returned him to us. Wouldn’t you want someone else to return our dog or cat to us if they could?
I also reminded him of an old Brady Bunch episode (yes, we watch a lot of classic TV) in which the kids find a wallet stuffed with a huge amount of cash. Mike insists they must turn it over to the police and wait to see if someone claims it. They’re on pins and needles, hoping nobody claims it, and dreaming about what they could buy with all that money. But someone does claim it. After picking it up at the police station, he stops by the Brady house to thank the kids. He’s a kindly old man who’d been scrimping and saving for many years to take his wife on a vacation, had lost the wallet while traveling, and was grateful beyond words to have it back. The kids realize that turning in the wallet really was the right thing to do.
My own son reluctantly agreed that yeah, we needed to see if we could find G.K.’s owner. But he still hoped we wouldn’t be able to. And in that we were of one mind. G.K. was pretty quirky and not very affectionate, and I’m not a cat person, but he was growing on me.
Puppy had her vet appointment last Friday. We couldn’t find our cat carrier, so we loaded G.K. into a cardboard box. He would have escaped from it easily, so I had The Kid come along to keep the box closed. Also, I figured that if the cat somehow got loose outside the vet’s office, The Kid had a better chance than anyone else of catching him. I think The Kid also appreciated being able to spend some additional time with “his” cat.
At the vet’s office, I didn’t dare open the box until we were safely inside a closed room. I’d never seen one of these scanners before – it was like one of those security wands that are used as metal detectors. The vet tech got an immediate hit on a microchip, between G.K.’s shoulder blades. The screen lit up with a long identification number, which they gave us along with a phone number to the service the chip was registered with.
Back home and looking at this piece of paper, I sat at my desk with a heavy heart. But I knew I had to make the call. The woman who answered entered the ID number into a computer, and came back with the cat’s name: Yoshi. (Just as exotic as I figured.) Interestingly, however, she said the cat had NOT been reported to them as missing. She took my contact information, and said they would attempt to reach out to Yoshi’s owner. I should expect to hear from the owner directly, or from the service.
Once I got off the phone, I decided to try something. G.K.’s back was turned and he was walking away from my desk. I called out, “Yoshi!” He immediately stopped, turned, and looked right at me.
Hours passed, and we started to get our hopes up about the “elderly lady’s cat dumped in the country” theory. The Kid and I drove to our parish, to work at the first Fish Fry of the season, cautiously optimistic.
Back in the car and getting ready to drive home, I found a text message asking me to call right away about the cat. I did, and the young man who answered sounded like he was over the moon with gratitude. He explained that Yoshi was his girlfriend’s cat. He lived out in the country himself, not far from us, but the girlfriend lived about an hour away. She had brought Yoshi with her once when she came to visit last spring, and the cat had somehow gotten out of the house. She’d had Yoshi for seven or eight years, loved him to death, and had been distraught ever since losing him. He added that Yoshi was a high-end exotic cat that’d cost $3,000, and had never been let outside in his life.
“THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS?!” I repeated. “Are you KIDDING me?”
I explained to him that I was driving home, but he should plan on coming by our place at 8pm. I then told him the whole saga of Garage Kitty, and why it was just now that we’d managed to get the cat scanned for a microchip.
When I got off the phone, I filled The Kid in on the news – including how much Garage Kitty had cost. His tongue-tied reaction was priceless: “THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS? Is that even … an allowable … number for a cat to cost?”
I chuckled and explained that yes, many purebred cats and dogs can easily cost that much – or more. It’s a completely foreign concept to us, because all our pets are mixed-breeds from the Humane Society. As one of our other kids observed later: “Garage Kitty cost more than all the other pets we’ve ever had – combined.”
Once we got home, The Kid spent every minute before 8pm holding and petting Garage Kitty. He knew giving the cat back was the right thing, but admitted he still wished we could keep him. I told him I totally understood, and that I wished we could keep Garage Kitty, too.
The young man and his girlfriend arrived at 8pm sharp, and I was out in the driveway to meet them. She leapt from his pickup truck and hurried toward me, her voice quivering with emotion. The Kid brought the cat outside, handed him off, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone so happy. She clutched Yoshi close, saying his name over and over and how much she’d missed him and how he should’ve have run away and …
I knew we’d done the right thing. The Kid did, too.
My only regret was not finding a way to have gotten the cat scanned sooner.
We are in the thick of goat kidding season, with a dozen or so having arrived recently. Fortunately, they waited until the worst of the arctic blast had unlocked us from its grip. Most of the kids hit the ground and got on their feet quickly, and are now romping around the barn like it’s a giant goat nursery.
A friend asks:
Wow, great to hear about the goat kids! So what kind of work do the humans have to do when a goat gives birth?
The quick answer is: Usually nothing. Roughly 90% of the time, a goat (or sheep, for that matter – pretty much all of this also applies to the ovine world) gives birth without incident. She usually surprises us by delivering when no one is around. We come out to the barn to do chores, and she is licking a kid dry – often while its twin is tottering around, figuring out how to get a first meal. When we do catch a goat in the middle of labor, we simply leave her alone and check back in a few hours to see if there are any problems. Usually, we find her with a kid or pair of kids.
The few times our intervention is needed, it’s almost always because of the kid’s presentation in the birth canal. A smooth delivery starts with both of the fetal kid’s front hooves tucked under its chin (and not pulled back toward its body). The hooves come out first, followed closely by the nose and then the rest of the head. From there, the remainder of the kid tends to slide out easily.
The most common problem is for a head to come out get and stuck because one or both front hooves failed to come out first. The two legs pointed forward, hooves leading the way, creates a streamlined wedge. By contrast, with one or both front legs drawn back, the shoulder is too large to come through the birth canal easily. In these cases, our job is to don a pair of latex gloves, find the missing hoof or hooves, and fish that hoof (or hooves) out under the kid’s chin. In some cases, I’ve had to push the head back inside the mother first; with the head filling the birth canal, I couldn’t get my hand inside to find the hooves.
At this point, the mother goat is often tired from a long stuck labor. Once I get the head/hoof package into the birth canal, I usually save her additional effort and simply pull the kid the rest of the way out.
A week ago, we had a less common (and more challenging) issue. We’d gone to bed Saturday night with an older goat in labor, and Sunday morning there was still no sign of anything except the initial bloody discharge. While Homeschooled Farm Girl held the goat steady in a standing position, I put on some gloves and tried to get a feel for the situation. A hoof. Good. I pulled it out, and went fishing for the other one; fortunately, it wasn’t far away. Somehow, I got a good enough grip to pull it out with the first one. Now I ran into a problem: I couldn’t find a head, and the mother goat was getting exasperated with my search.
I strongly suspected we had a breach presentation, and that these were hind hooves I’d found. There was no way I’d be able to turn the kid around inside the uterus – especially because there was probably a twin in there as well. Besides, the mother goat was exhausted. We needed the kid(s) out quickly, before we lost one of our best milkers.
With the goat voicing her strenuous objections, I worked the two legs farther and farther out of her – and then gave a long, steady tug. At last the rest of the kid emerged, and I pulled it free. Not surprisingly, it appeared to have expired sometime the night before; sad, but I was relieved that we’d been able to remove it and save Mom. I now turned my attention back to her, to see if there might be a twin. Indeed, I spotted two more hooves that’d been pulled out with the first kid. These were much smaller. I pulled on them, and the remains of a tiny fetal kid slid right out. It appeared to have reached no more than two or three months gestation (five months is full term).
The mother goat spent the rest of the day inside, resting up. She wasn’t terribly interested in eating, and wasn’t giving much milk, which got us worried. I drenched her with apple cider vinegar, and gave her a shot of B-complex. Mrs. Yeoman Farmer came up with a mix of homeopathic remedies as well.
After a few days, to our great relief, Mother Goat was doing much better. The Yeoman Farm Children have been milking her a couple of times a day, getting about a quart altogether. After several weeks of having to rely on powdered goat milk for the family’s yogurt supply, this fresh milk has been a wonderful blessing. Once we start selling off goat kids (which are currently taking for themselves all the milk the other does are producing), we will hopefully have enough not only for yogurt but cheese as well.
Next up: the sheep. Lambs should start dropping in a few weeks. Here’s hoping for lots of smooth and uneventful deliveries!
I recently hit the road for the latest installment of the “Presidents at Rest” tour (the beginnings of which I detailed in a recent post). I needed to go to Washington, DC for business, and decided to make it a road trip this time. After being cooped up for the better part of the year, I was craving the opportunity to get out and see the country at my own pace. I’m a “planner,” so enjoyed figuring out how to make a big loop maximizing the number of presidential burial sites (and more). By the time I’d finished, it seemed almost like a “patriotic pilgrimage.”
Jump in, fasten your seat belt, and enjoy the Great Presidential Circle Tour!
James GarfieldWilliam McKinley
In my initial plans, I thought I could hit James Garfield (in Cleveland), swing down to McKinley (in Canton), and then over to James Buchanan (in Pennsylvania). Then I realized I had a problem: sunset in Lancaster would be at 4:40PM. I could reach that cemetery in time, but it would require giving only cursory attention to the two presidents in Ohio. I didn’t want to rush either one, so I ended up bypassing Garfield in favor of McKinley for a couple of reasons: (1) the McKinley memorial has a museum attached to it (Garfield’s does not), and (2) the Garfield memorial is among the grandest in the country, and has recently undergone a magnificent facelift / restoration, but the interior will not re-open until next March. I figured it made most sense to save Garfield for a springtime Saturday day trip, when I could take the family and really enjoy the memorial in its fullness. And, in the meantime, take some time with the McKinley museum so I could learn more about him.
I hit the road before dawn, and reached Canton shortly after the McKinley museum opened. First, however, I wanted to pay my respects to the President himself. To say that the tomb was easy to find would be an understatement. I knew it was pretty big, but was unprepared for what I found when I arrived.
Unfortunately, the tomb itself is sealed up for the winter. The exterior was still accessible, however, so I climbed the steps (dodging the locals who were using them as a workout site) to get a better look. I circled all the way around it, admiring the view of the surrounding area, and then made my way to the museum. I turned out to be their first customer of the day, and had the entire place pretty much to myself!
The one surprise about the museum was how relatively little was dedicated to William McKinley himself. The great bulk of the exhibit space was about Stark County, Ohio. I ended up learning a lot not only about McKinley, but also about what life was like for the pioneers who settled the area (including some of my own ancestors, who migrated from Pennsylvania to the neighboring county in the 1830s). There was even an entire walk-through, interactive small town Main Street. The more time I spent exploring it, the more I wished the kids could’ve shared the experience. When I told Mrs. Yeoman Farmer about it, she agreed it would be a fun family road trip for sometime next year (and we could also visit the Pro Football Hall of Fame, which I didn’t have time to even drive past this time).
James Buchanan
Yes, he falls at or near [thank you, Andrew Johnson!] the bottom of virtually every historian’s ranking of U.S. Presidents. Yes, he fiddled while the Union burned down and civil war erupted. But James Buchanan did hold the office, and I still wanted to pay my respects. So I put Canton in my rear view mirror, set out across the rolling rural landscape of eastern Ohio, and enjoyed the many miles of quiet back roads that led to the Turnpike. Then it was easy sailing all the way to Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
I wound my way through town, and made the final approach to Woodward Hill Cemetery with about a half-hour to spare before sunset. Driving down Chesapeake Street, I suddenly came upon an inconspicuous side gate with a tiny sign reading “Enter Here / Tomb of U.S. President / James Buchanan.” Had I blinked, I would’ve gone right past it. I’m just glad I didn’t cause an accident after slamming on the brakes.
Once inside the historic cemetery, the tomb itself was not easy to find. Directional signage was … sparse. I took more than a couple of wrong turns. (On the plus side, getting lost allowed me to see quite a few more really cool old burial plots than I’d been expecting to see!) I did have a general idea as to the location of Buchanan’s tomb within the cemetery, however, so managed to work my way in that direction. A pole flying the American Flag confirmed I was getting close. And then, there it was — in all the minimalist glory befitting the Buchanan presidency. This is the view from the curb:
A Quick Detour to Chester County, Pennsylvania
In recent weeks, I uncovered one of the “holy grails” of genealogical research: an ancestor who served in the Revolutionary War. My 5x great-grandfather, Hezekiah Davies, enlisted at the very beginning of the conflict and saw action as a lieutenant in Colonel Montgomery’s Chester County Battalion of the “Flying Camp.” He participated in the battle of Long Island, joined the retreat to Manhattan, and was taken prisoner when Fort Washington fell to the British on November 16, 1776. Once paroled, he married a young woman on Long Island, and eventually settled back in his native Chester County, PA. He and his wife, and the son through whom I descend, are buried at Great Valley Presbyterian cemetery in Malvern. Given how close this trip was taking me to the area, I simply had to add it to my itinerary.
I arrived at the cemetery early Thursday morning. Fortunately, I knew the Hezekiah Davies plot was “north of the church,” and it was clearly marked. I was able to find it without too much trouble.
His son’s burial plot, by contrast, was much harder to find because the headstone was so faded. It took a fair amount of searching, but I did eventually locate it in the same general section of the cemetery (about 50 yards away).
I spent the rest of the morning at the Chester County Historical Society library, learning more about this branch of my family tree. In preparing my application for the Sons of the American Revolution, I already had solid documentary evidence for all the lineage links from Hezekiah’s son (Nathanial) down to me. But I was aware of only one document listing Hezekiah’s children (and dates of their births): an old application to the Daughters of the American Revolution. It most likely came from someone’s family Bible, because I could find zero outside corroboration of it. SAR would accept that DAR application’s list as proof of lineage, but I was hoping to back it up with something more.
With the help of the CCHS librarian, I hit pay dirt: a probate document, buried deep in the Chester County archives, filed at the time of Hezekiah’s death. It listed the names of his surviving children — and all of those names matched the DAR list! As further proof, I found a newspaper legal notice Nathanial had posted regarding his father’s estate. I also uncovered some newspaper clippings, and magazine stories, that didn’t add to the documentary evidence but were nonetheless interesting to read.
With a huge smile, I turned the car south. And realized I had just enough time that afternoon for a quality visit to the home and burial place of Hezekiah Davies’ commander-in-chief.
George Washington
I’d visited Mount Vernon a couple of times in the past, and even took a tour of the mansion a few years ago, but couldn’t remember having visited George Washington’s final resting place. Once I’d bought my ticket and cleared the visitor center, the family tomb was my first destination.
After waiting for the crowd to dissipate, and paying my respects, I asked the attending docent what that blue flag on the right signified. She explained that it was George Washington’s personal flag. A personal flag! How cool is that?
Sunny skies and comfortable temperatures made it a perfect afternoon to stroll the grounds of Mount Vernon unhurriedly. By the time the gates closed for the day, I’d managed to see virtually every exhibit outside the mansion. I then enjoyed a quiet drive up the George Washington Parkway to the District, where I spent the evening at a long-time client’s Christmas party / dinner (the original purpose of the trip). After this long year of isolation, it was wonderful to reconnect with colleagues face-to-face.
James Monroe and John Tyler
The next morning, I crossed the Rappahannock River and cruised all the way to Richmond on I-95. I think I had “The Night they Drove Old Dixie Down” in my head pretty much all day. And for good reason: navigating the streets of the Confederate capital, the whole feel of the place gave this lifelong northerner the sense of being in a very different cultural milieu. That sense was “turned up to eleven” once I actually drove through the gates of Hollywood Cemetery. I couldn’t help slowing the car to a crawl, rolling down the windows, and gaping at all the historic tombs (many of them carved into hillsides). And then I spotted a Confederate States of America insignia on a gravestone. Then another. And another. Until I lost count.
I knew James Monroe and John Tyler were both interred on “Presidents Circle.” On the map I’d consulted before the trip, that section had looked like it would easy to find. But now that I was actually here, winding among trees and hillsides, I quickly realized I was lost – and my phone’s GPS was of no help. I flagged down a groundskeeper, and asked if he could point me toward Presidents Circle. I felt incredibly self-conscious, like I had a giant neon sign on my head flashing the word YANKEE. The groundskeeper soon put me at ease, though, with his super-friendly demeanor. His directions got me started in the right direction, but all the curves and hillsides again threw me off. Somehow I eventually spotted this pedestrian path leading to my goal, so I ditched the car and continued on foot.
And it was indeed a perfect morning to stroll through an historic cemetery: sunny, quiet, and with a comfortable temperature. Soon enough, I reached Presidents Circle itself.
James Monroe’s tomb sits right in the heart of the Circle — and is easily the most beautiful of all the burial sites I’ve visited. I’d read something about it before the trip, but the words (and even the pictures) didn’t really do the monument justice. The granite sarcophagus with Monroe’s remains is set inside an elaborate cast iron structure called “The Birdcage,” which apparently got a significant makeover in 2016.
And speaking of Jefferson Davis … it turns out he’s interred at Hollywood Cemetery as well. Given that I was already there, I was curious to see how the Confederate States of America laid its own president to rest. It turned out to be a five minute or so drive away; thanks to another very friendly groundskeeper pointing me in the right direction, I was able to find it fairly easily. The site had a spectacular view of the James River, which I admired before taking a look at the monument itself. I’m not going to include a picture of it in this post, but it was actually fairly simple: a life-size statue of Davis, standing atop a pedestal, with the graves of Jefferson and Varina Davis in front of it.
James Madison
Most of the drive from Richmond to James Madison’s Montpelier was incredibly scenic, especially once I left I-64 and started up US-15. Think “country gentry” rolling terrain and horse farms with white rail fences. But here’s some advice if you go: map the route beforehand, sticking to main highways, and ignore Google Maps navigation if it tells you to turn onto Route 639 (AKA “Chicken Mountain Road”). The pavement ended after about a mile, and it was soon so narrow that I had no way to turn the car around. I was quickly deep in the woods, descending a steep dirt one-lane path, praying that I not plunge into a ravine. For whatever reason, Google was taking me around to the BACK, staff-only, gate. Once there, it proudly announced that I had arrived.
Yeah, thanks for that. Now, how do I get in?
Eventually I was able to work my way around to the main entrance, using guesswork and intuition to figure out which country roads to follow.
I paid my entry fee, and learned that the next showing of a series of short films about Madison would be at noon. That allowed plenty of time to explore the property. My first stop was of course the family cemetery, fenced in at the end of a long winding path. The large obelisk marks the President’s grave; the smaller one is for his wife, Dolly.
Montpelier covers thousands of acres, including miles of forest walking paths. I didn’t have time for that much exploring, but did enjoy the long walk up to the mansion from the cemetery. I took a look at the handful of outdoor exhibits surrounding it that were open (the slave cabins in particular), but all in all the experience was a bit disappointing. Because of Covid, nearly every indoor exhibit was closed. I did make it back for the showing of the informational films about Madison, and especially enjoyed the one about his genius in designing the U.S. Constitution. It managed to present a “weighty” subject in a way that was simple, understandable, and also very entertaining.
I then jumped in the car, bypassed Chicken Mountain Road, and hurried south to Charlottesville.
Thomas Jefferson
I had wanted to visit Jefferson’s Monticello for many years, and was glad I’d reserved the bulk of the afternoon to explore it. After grabbing a quick lunch at the cafe, a shuttle bus whisked me from the visitor center up to the mansion grounds. Tourist traffic happened to be light that day, so there was very little waiting in line for anything.
A docent met me just outside the mansion’s front porch, and gave a brief orientation about Jefferson and how the mansion came to be built. She then led me to the main entrance hall, filled with historical objects as it would’ve been in Jefferson’s time. A pair of docents gave a quick overview of these objects, and the general design of the foyer itself. I then peppered them with questions, which they seemed to enjoy getting the chance to answer. From there I strolled naturally from room to room, making a grand circle of the first floor, asking more questions of the docents stationed at various places. My only disappointment was that the second floor was not open on this particular day.
Once outside, I took my time simply walking around and soaking in all of the Monticello grounds and displays.
As you might expect, I made sure to visit the extensive garden plots that are still maintained in Jeffersonian fashion. (At the gift shop, you can even buy seeds harvested from the heirloom plants grown there on the grounds. Guess what Mrs. Yeoman Farmer is getting for Christmas this year!) Should I ever have the opportunity to return to Monticello with the family, I’d like to go during the summer and get a guided tour of these gardens.
Once I’d seen pretty much everything, I started down the long footpath leading back to the visitor center. Jefferson’s family cemetery is along that route, so I of course stopped to pay my respects to the man who inspired this Yeoman Farmer.
The path continued through a pleasant set of woods, which I enjoyed having to myself as I hiked back to the visitor center. Once there, I ended up spending a lot more time (and money!) in the gift shop than initially planned. The selection of items (not just the usual books, t-shirts, and coffee cups — they even had preserves made from fruit grown on the property) was outstanding. The more I browsed, the more wonderful Christmas gift ideas presented themselves to me. The sun was sinking into the Blue Ridge Mountains by the time I turned the car toward home.
Warren G. Harding
I’m still not sure how I managed to stay awake all the way to Columbus, Ohio. From there, it was an easy jaunt to the little town of Marion the next morning — my final stop along the great Presidential Circle Tour. The Harding Memorial is right along the highway that goes through the heart of Marion, so it was impossible to miss. And it was even more amazing that I’d imagined.
If you look closely, you can see an iron fence preventing visitors from entering the interior of the memorial. That’s where President and Mrs. Harding are actually interred. I got this picture by holding the camera through the fence.
As an historical note: Harding Tomb was the last of the elaborate presidential memorials. Starting with Calvin Coolidge, final resting places became more restrained, and tended to be incorporated into the grounds of a presidential library (JFK’s grave at Arlington being the exception).
As I left Marion behind, and continued north toward home, I had some quiet time to reflect on the incredible variety of memorials I’d seen among the fourteen presidents visited so far. Some are relatively simple public cemetery plots (Tyler, Buchanan, Benjamin Harrison, Taft), some are stately tombs or private plots on the grounds of a presidential home or library (Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Hayes, Ford), some are spectacular (McKinley, Harding), and still others are truly one of a kind (Monroe, Wilson, JFK). Not to mention that they are in all kinds of cities and towns and even rural areas. When I hit on this idea to visit presidential burial sites, I had no idea as to the extent of this variety. I’ve also thoroughly enjoyed learning more about the men who’ve held this office, the places in the country that shaped their lives, and the obvious pride that so many of those towns still take in having been home to a U.S. president.
On the one hand, it’s hard to believe I’ve already visited more than one-third of the burial sites. On the other hand … I’m happy there are still so many more I get to experience!
I’ve been a lifelong student of American history, and from my youth especially interested in the men who have served as our Presidents. Sometime in grade school, I set out to memorize the whole list — and then got into a competition with a friend as who who could rattle off that entire list the fastest. We would take turns giving it our best shot (“Washingtonadamsjeffersonmadisonmonroeadamsjackson…”), judged by another kid with a stopwatch. This must’ve been before 1981, because the end of the list was “…johnsonnixonfordCARTER!” (followed by several seconds of gasping for breath).
I would read everything our school library had about each of the Presidents, and gradually learned to use the lengths of their terms as handy subdivisions of national history. I spent countless hours poring over an ancient copy of “The White House Cookbook,” salvaged from my grandmother’s collection, trying to figure out how to make some of those recepies using modern ingredients and kitchen equipment. And, yes, the made-for-TV movie “Backstairs at the White House” was among my favorites.
I don’t know where my parents found this book, but I read it and re-read it more times than I could count. It still has a privileged place on my shelf.
As the years passed, and political science became a professional pursuit, I eventually grew immersed in the dynamics of campaigns, elections, and voting behavior. But about a year ago, I realized I’d lost my sense of the flesh-and-blood men who’d held the office of the presidency. I still remembered all their names. I remembered how their dates of office related to each other, and to the great events of history. But the men themselves? It felt a little like I’d lost touch with some childhood friends.
How to change that? I supposed I could spend more time browsing the internet and reading about each President. I could keep my eyes open for History Channel documentaries, such as the outstanding three-part series they aired about U.S. Grant. But I still wanted to do something more. A little different. A little more personal.
I decided to visit the final resting places of each of the 39 deceased men who have served as our Presidents. Whenever possible, I would spend some time with whatever visitor center, museum, or library that accompanied the presidential burial site. But, at minimum, I would make sure I read something and refreshed my memories of the man’s life. And, whenever possible, I would take a kid (or kids, or the whole family) with me. I didn’t set a time limit on getting to everyone on the list, other than “as quickly as is practical, given everything else in life.”
In future blog posts, I plan to say something about each new visit along the Presidents at Rest Tour. In the current post, allow me to give a quick review of the “old friends” I’ve managed to reconnect with so far.
William Howard Taft
The tour started about a year ago, when I was in the Washington, DC area on business. And I began with the easiest: those interred at Arlington National Cemetery. I visited Taft first, for the simple reason that he was nearest the entrance. All visitors to Arlington must enter through the visitor center building; a quick look at the map there told me Taft wasn’t far away. Interestingly, he’s not buried in the section with Supreme Court justices, even though he was far happier on the Court than he was as President. He’s over in a section to the right of the main road that comes into the cemetery. His grave is a little off one of the side roads, but the way is well marked with signs. It’s among the simplest of all the presidential graves I’ve seen so far.
John F. Kennedy
The JFK burial site, with the eternal flame, is of course among the most famous and most-visited places at Arlington. I had seen it back in 1985, during a family vacation, and found it quite moving – but it had been crowded with summer tourists, many of whom had been gawking and taking pictures. Now, in December, the place had a much different feel. It was quieter. More solemn. One thing I was struck by, which I hadn’t noticed in 1985, was the dramatic view looking back across the Potomac at the city of Washington. I also couldn’t help noticing the addition of additional family members who had passed away in later years, most notably Jackie Onassis and Senator Ted Kennedy. There is also now a marker honoring the eldest brother, Joseph Kennedy, Jr., though his remains were never recovered.
I had several hours free that afternoon, so took my time simply walking all over the cemetery. I tried to get off the beaten paths as much as I could, and look at the grave markers of all the ordinary and extraordinary people who are buried there. Each marker told a story. What an amazing immersion in history that was. I highly recommend spending time just wandering around Arlington on foot, going wherever your instincts lead you, especially on a quiet afternoon when the crowds of tourists are at home. You’ll find history literally everywhere you look.
Gerald R. Ford
I was born in 1969, so Gerald Ford is the first president I really remember (though I do vaguely recall asking my mother what this whole “Watergate” thing was that I kept hearing everybody talking about). What’s more, the Ford Presidential Library and Museum is in Grand Rapids, less than two hours from our farm. I decided this would make an excellent excursion for Presidents Day weekend. Our oldest daughter, who is as much a fanatical student of history as I am, accompanied me. We also took her youngest brother (age ten).
The Ford museum is extremely well done. It’s a nice, modern building and the exhibits are laid out beautifully. You naturally walk through it from room to room, covering the different major periods of his life (and then his presidency). The ten-year-old had a blast posing next to the statue of Ford as a Boy Scout, sitting in the president’s chair in the replica cabinet room, and walking through the replica Oval Office.
For me, the presidential years were a super fun trip down memory lane. As bad as the seventies were, economically and culturally, they still shine for me with the innocence of youth. And fortunately, both kids had seen enough Brady Bunch episodes so as not to be stunned at the hair and clothing styles!
President and Mrs. Ford are interred outside, in a special section of the grounds. Before heading home, we stopped by and paid our respects.
Woodrow Wilson
Woodrow Wilson’s tomb is inside the National Cathedral in Washington, DC. The cathedral is a functioning Episcopalian church, but also a major tourist destination. However, because it is so far from any Metro stop, I’d never managed to see it on previous trips. I finally got my opportunity while in town for business on the first weekend of March. I had a good chunk of a Sunday afternoon open, and – as a bonus – Sunday is the one day when the cathedral has free admission. I took the Metro to the Woodley Park Zoo station, and then made the long hike up the hill past impressive private homes, embassies, and sprawling private schools. One nice thing about the shear size of the cathedral itself is that it’s impossible to miss. The only problem for me was figuring out which door I was supposed to use when I arrived. I eventually figured it out, and then a helpful staffer pointed me toward President Wilson’s resting place. It’s toward the front of the nave, on the right side as you face the sanctuary.
And this is a close-up of the top of his tomb:
I spent about an hour strolling around the interior of the cathedral. In addition to the beautiful artwork and stained-glass windows, there are quite a few other noteworthy people interred there. All the while, a boys’ choir was rehearsing in the large area behind the altar. The stunning acoustics had me surround by their angelic voices everywhere I went.
Of course, the whole world turned upside down and closed up within a few short weeks of my visit. Looking back, what’s most remarkable is how thoroughly normal everything was at that time – and how remote the idea that this would be the last trip I’d be able to take for many months.
Benjamin Harrison
I’ll reserve more extensive commentary about the pandemic for a separate post, but for now suffice it to say that nearly every event we typically participate in each year, including bike races, ended up cancelling. One exception was a small 12-Hour race in downstate Illinois, which my oldest daughter and I eagerly hit the road to attend. We decided to drive via Indianapolis, so as to pay our respects to America’s “Hoosier President.”
Benjamin Harrison is interred at Crown Hill Cemetery, which is a beautiful – and enormous – place. We made the mistake of arriving after the office had closed for the day, because we really should have stopped in there and gotten a map. Undaunted, we decided to give it our best shot with the daylight remaining. There’s only one entrance gate, and from there I guess I navigated by instinct toward the oldest section. Fortunately, we eventually found directional signs which took us to our destination.
The Harrison plot is a short walk from the nearest cemetery roadway. It features a large memorial marker, which looks like a tomb, but the president and his family are actually buried just in front of that marker. The sun was setting behind the marker, making for really poor lighting conditions, but I managed to get this photo of the site:
And this is a close-up shot of the text on the marker itself:
Like Arlington, Crown Hill is a fascinating cemetery which a person could easily spend an afternoon (or more) exploring. Also, the Benjamin Harrison mansion and presidential center is a few miles up the road. We unfortunately didn’t have enough time for either (and the presidential center was just getting re-opened with limited hours following Covid), but we’re definitely planning to do both of them the next time we visit Indianapolis.
Rutherford B. Hayes
Our most recent presidential election outcome has certainly generated some controversy and disputes. So … what better time to remember one of the most fiercely disputed presidential election outcomes in American history? This past weekend, my two intrepid historians and I hit the road for Freemont, Ohio, to learn more about the life and times of Rutherford B. Hayes.
What’s funny is that while the election did serve as a catalyst for our visit, and I made sure to discuss the 1876 controversy (and its impact on the end of Reconstruction) with the now-eleven-year-old before we went — once we arrived, we ended up focusing almost exclusively on the Hayes family rather than the attendant political controversies. And I guess that was really the point of the whole “Presidents at Rest” tour anyway.
The Hayes presidential center is on the 25-acre site of his family’s estate, Spiegel Grove. The two main buildings are a visitor center / museum, and then the 31-room mansion. (The buildings are only open a few days per week, so plan your visit carefully.) Tours of the museum are self-guided, and the exhibits didn’t “flow” for me as naturally as they did at, say, the Ford museum. The layout of the building is also a bit odd, with some exhibits in the basement (which has an overall fairly rough feel to it) and others upstairs on the main floor (which had a more polished feel). There were certainly a great many interesting displays, both upstairs and down, and we got a lot out of them. The eleven-year-old especially enjoyed the collection of antique weapons (including an executioner’s sword from the Philippines!).
But the hour-long guided tour of the mansion was easily the highlight of our visit. It’s set up much as it would’ve been when the Hayes family lived there, all the way down to some of the smallest details. The guide was extremely knowledgeable, and left me with a much better sense of who Rutherford B. Hayes was as a man (and what his life was like).
We also very much enjoyed exploring the 25-acre grounds. After all that time in the car, and walking carefully around the various exhibits, I know the eleven-year-old in particular relished the chance to burn off some steam. Of course, we made sure to stop by the tomb and pay our respects to President and Mrs. Hayes before heading home.
The Road Ahead
What are the plans from here? I’ve been enjoying studying the list of various burial locations, situating them on a map, and then thinking about ways to incorporate one or more of them into other trips. Reagan and Nixon are going to have to wait for California to reopen, but I’ve long been trying to find an opportunity to get out there and visit family and friends around Los Angeles. Eisenhower’s burial site may end up being the toughest to get to, because Abiline, Kansas is so far from any other place I would have a reason to go.
Sometime before the end of the year, I hope to visit the Washington, DC area again for business. This time, I’m planning to make a road trip of it, and pay my respects to a few of the 33 remaining “friends” along the way. If all goes well, I may even be able to visit Jefferson’s Monticello on the drive home. There is no other presidential site that this yeoman farmer has wanted to visit more than that one!
What’s the biggest, most consequential, bad decision you’ve made? How did the process of facing its consequences change you? A wonderful new young adult novel, For Eden’s Sake, takes us inside the lives of one young man and one young woman who must figure out what they’re going to do in the wake of an enormous mistake that neither of them even saw coming. It’s a well-written, well-paced story with compelling characters who I grew to care very much about.
It’s also an amazingly quick read; once I got a couple of chapters into the story, I found it very difficult to stop. I started it one afternoon, while taking a break for lunch. That evening, I picked it up again with the intention of reading just a little more while I built up time on the DVR for a television program. Within minutes, I’d forgotten the TV program entirely. I didn’t put the book down again until I finished it.
The story alternates between two first-person narrators, which helps provide a more complete perspective on the depths of their dilemma. The young man, Isaac, is a recent college graduate who’s working at his first professional job and learning to make his way in the world. He’s a solid, well-formed Catholic kid from a loving, middle-class family; he grew up in the country, on a ranch, not far from the city where he’s now working. The young woman, Rebecca, is a college student and has had a very different life; her mother died when she was quite young, a tragedy her father dealt with by immersing himself in work and amassing a small fortune. Rebecca experiences him as distant, cold, and always on the verge of completely cutting her out of his life.
The key bad decision, which serves as the premise for the rest of the story, is a one-night stand between the two central characters; it takes place immediately before the novel itself begins, and we learn of it through flashbacks (with no graphic details). The two had never even met previously, and probably wouldn’t have crossed paths had both not happened to be in the same restaurant. The act was completely out of character for both; alcohol was involved, and both had been caught off guard by how quickly it impaired their judgment.
But decisions are decisions, and still have consequences. Rebecca discovers that she is pregnant, and is certain of only one thing: she wants not to be. She tracks down Isaac, delivers the news, and demands that he help her make the whole thing go away. And he’s certain of only one thing: he must find a different solution.
I won’t give away any of the subsequent plot, other than to reiterate what I said earlier about this being an engrossing story, with compelling characters who I grew to care about very much.
Although the story is about a young man’s deepening relationship with a young woman, this isn’t really a romance novel. I’m tempted to call it an “anti-romance,” because so much of the story is backward from how a traditional novel in that genre would be structured, but that isn’t the best label. It’s certainly a coming-of-age story, but I think it can best be described as a “love story.” Through the mistakes they’ve made, and the crazy situation they have found themselves thrust into, they learn to sacrifice their own wants for the needs of another, and to grow into the more generous persons they need to be.
It’s also tempting to say the story is a “cautionary tale” that teens ought to read as a warning about the consequences of promiscuity. It certainly is a cautionary tale, but one with an ultimately more important message than simply “see how bad your life will be if you do something you’re not supposed to do.” It’s more a tale of discovering what one is capable of doing to address the consequences of an ill-considered life decision that may have hit a person so fast, and that may have been made with so little reflection, that he or she hadn’t even seen it coming. Yes, the story tells Christian teens, Do all you can not to fall, but if you should happen to do so despite your best efforts … dig deep. You’re capable of more than you might think. You can rearrange your life. God can write straight with crooked lines. And, I would add, don’t let your shame keep you from confiding in your parents, and letting them help you as well.
I’d like to conclude with a final thought that I took from the story. I’m not a gambler, and can’t remember the last time I set foot in a casino, but on occasion I enjoy watching the World Series of Poker on television. What always strikes me is the speed with which a pro can look at a newly-dealt hand and immediately decide if it’s worth playing. If not, all the cards go in the discard pile, and he’s out until the next round. That’s no doubt a smart strategy for a professional gambler, who must maximize the value the hands he chooses to play. But what a contrast it is to real life, where some of our greatest growth — and most meaningful experiences — can flow from the struggles to play out a fistful of “cards” that we’re inclined to simply run away from, because they don’t seem to add up to very much. At least not on first inspection. But so many times, that perception can change once we shift those cards around a bit and look at them in a different light. A new strategy can emerge. Perhaps we need to let go of a plan or a desire that we’d held dear. Maybe we need to pick up a new skill, take on a second job, humble ourselves to ask another person for help, or stretch ourselves in some other way.
Regardless, it’s that process of being creative and “finding a way” — rather than immediately tossing everything into the discard pile and walking away — that can bring so much meaning and true satisfaction in life. This piece of wisdom can be difficult for a parent to sit down and explain to a teen who is on the cusp of adulthood. Rather than trying to “explain,” For Eden’s Sake brings this wisdom to life through the actions of relate-able and compelling characters, allowing the reader to experience it along with them.
This past week, as the anniversary of its conclusion rolled around again, you no doubt heard a great deal about the First World War. Most of the commentary and retrospectives focused on the decisive (or not so decisive) battles, and the soldiers who served. But there’s a fascinating other layer to the events of World War I, and one that we seldom hear much about: the medical personnel staffing the field hospitals, many of whom were young volunteers.
Ellen Gable’s excellent new historical romance novel, Ella’s Promise, takes us inside that world. It’s the third and final installment in her “Great War-Great Love” series (here is my review of the first novel in that series). It’s a wonderful story, and an engrossing read. I began reading it at the start of a four hour flight, and couldn’t put it down; I finished it shortly before landing. As soon as I was allowed to use my phone, I dashed off a note to the author telling her how much I enjoyed it.
And this is coming from someone who doesn’t even like romance novels! That’s in part due to this story being so much more than a romance. Yes, boy meets girl. Yes, boy loses girl. And, yes, boy gets girl back. But all of these plot points and developments are tied up with events unfolding in connection with the war, including Allied espionage operations. Ella’s love interest, Garrett, is a Canadian intelligence officer. He’s of German descent, and speaks German fluently, so is a natural for the role. We get to follow him as he infiltrates the enemy ranks, risks getting exposed, and finds himself in a position of great peril.
Ella herself is an American, and had significant medical training before the war. She spends much of the early part of the story frustrated that she isn’t allowed to put these skills to greater use. The way she ultimately “proves herself,” and manages to turn the tables on those who were trying to keep her locked in a lower level role, makes for some truly wonderful reading.
Like Garrett, Ella is also of German descent, and also fluent in the language. Interestingly, her family expressed some qualms about her going to France and working against their mother country. She insists she’s not there to support the war efforts of any particular country, or even of any particular side. She volunteers for one reason only: to help persons who need it, regardless of nationality. She’s determined to stay out of the Allies’ larger strategic operations, refusing even to use her language skills to listen in on (and report back about) the conversations of enemy soldiers in her care. Her challenge is to remain true to herself, while assuring others that she’s not an enemy sympathizer. As the story unfolds, and her relationship with Garrett grows deeper, she is forced to make more difficult decisions about her role, and what she is willing to do to support the Allied effort.
As an avid cyclist, I was fascinated by one smallish detail in the plot: the use of an innovative, folding bicycle captured from the Germans. (Being able to fold it up made it easier for transport on a vehicle.) I’d never heard of these bicycles before, so I enjoyed learning about how they operated and were put to use. I’m hoping I get to see one in a museum someday.
I should mention that Ella’s Promise is a clean and wholesome story. The courtship is chaste, with the characters observing the social conventions of the time about appropriate behavior.
One other thing I should note: although the book is part of a series, it stands on its own as a story. You don’t need to have read the other two novels to appreciate this one (and I haven’t even been able to read the second one yet). Each novel focuses on a different female volunteer, with the “non focus” volunteers playing supporting roles. For example, Ella appeared in Julia’s Gifts, as one of Julia’s friends, but there’s nothing critical about her from that story that you need to know for this one. Likewise, you’ll appreciate Julia’s appearance in the current story more if you’ve read the first novel, but there is nothing from that novel which is essential to the plot of this one.
The bottom line is that Ella’s Promise is a wonderful novel, and I enjoyed it very much. I can’t believe I missed the second book in the series. I’m going to have to go back and rectify that as soon as I can.
The Yeoman Farmer 
