Page 93 of Backslide
I myself am regretting my choice of jean shorts instead of proper jeans, fingering the fringe and mourning the loss of their lower half as I crank the temperature on the dashboard.
“What’s better than a heated car seat?” I sigh.
“A hot tub,” Noah says.
Then he steals a glance at me with wide eyes like,did I say that out loud?And I can’t do anything but laugh.
I am high on oysters—or, more likely, a sense of abandon. It feels so good to be out of my usual routine, away from schedules and computers, even social demands.
Next, according to Cara’s notes, we are headed to a small goat dairy farm and creamery, where they make their own cheese. I turn on the radio as Noah pulls back onto the winding road. The Dixie Chicks’ “Cowboy Take Me Away” comes blaring through the speakers. Noah pulls a face, but, when I start belting it out and swaying in my seat, he can’t stop the smile from spreading across his face.
“There it is!” I say, and poke him in the dimple.
My mood has improved and maybe his will too.
By the time we get to the farm, the rain has begun again in earnest, so we are immediately shepherded to a nearby barn, standing tall between two pastures.
This is a woman-led operation. So, of course they have thought to have umbrellas on hand. Always prepared.
The wind-stripped barn has a proper red roof and, inside, mile-high ceilings and wooden pens for the animals.
It smells like a barn and it’s lousy with hay. But it takes me about three seconds to forget that and make a beeline for one particular stall, where a warming red light glows. Inside, four baby goats are snuggled together in a corner; others romp and frolic, tails wagging like puppies.
The cuteness is almost unbearable.
“Oh my God!” I yelp, like the cliché I am. “How old are they?”
The answer comes quickly: “They were just born this week.” I glance beside me to find a tall older woman with salt-and-pepper waves, a fleece vest, and a warm grin leaning against the barrier. “Adorable, aren’t they? This stage doesn’t last long. They grow fast.”
Maggie introduces herself to me and Noah as the “steward of this land and head goat,” but I think she is actually the head farmer. She gives us some background on the property, which I don’t hear because one of her farmhands has entered the pen and picked up a black baby goat and is now transferring it into my arms.
It. Is. So. Cute.
“Bah,” I say to it, speaking in its native tongue. I figure it’s still learning to talk and don’t want to confuse it.
I look up to find Noah also cradling a goat, though his is all white. He has a goofy grin on his face.
“Excuse me for one second,” Maggie says, walking a few yards away to chat with another staff member.
“Bah,” I say again to my goat. It seems to understand. “That’s it,” I add. “I’m taking you home.”
“He’ll need a tough name if he’s heading to New York,” Noah says. “To make it on the mean city streets.”
“I already picked it,” I say. “Humbug.”
“Humbug?”
“Yeah, like bah…”
Noah tilts his head, wearing a doubtful look. “That’s not tough.”
“Yes it is! Like, don’t fuck with Humbug!”
“You could say ‘don’t fuck with’ before basically any name and it would sound at least a little tough.”
“I don’t know. ‘Don’t fuck with Noah’ sounds pretty soft.”
He shoots me a dirty look. “That’s fine. I’m in touch with my softer side.”
