The wind howled, the rain pounded in torrents on the shed roof - I had brought the goats warm water and fresh hay before bed but they didn't want me to leave them alone in the storm.
"Just tell us one bedtime story," begged Emerson. "Then we'll be able to sleep, won't we, Elliot?" (Ellie, huddled shaking and forlorn in the corner of the shed, gave no answer - but how could I turn away from those pleading eyes? I settled down behind a bale of straw and patted the hay next to me. Quickly I had two semi-damp goats on my lap. I knew just the tale for them...
"Did I ever tell you boys the story of Uncle Pete and the snowmobile? No? Well, I think you'll like this one." (And you may listen in! After all, if you read this blog, I know you can't be too squeamish...)
It was twenty-some years ago, when Mike and I had just started dating. Everyone was gathered at his family's farmhouse for the evening, including his newlywed older sister and her husband (that's Uncle Pete!) There was excitement in the air as the flurries started to fall - the first snow of the season. Soon the fields were covered in an inch of white, then two or three, and Uncle Pete couldn't wait any longer. His father-in-law's snowmobile was just calling to be ridden. So Uncle Pete put on his coat, borrowed Grandpa's brand new snow boots and went outside. It was wonderful! The Artic-Cat flew down the driveway, across the fields - and then as he sped behind the barn he saw it - the most wonderful thing ever -
"Better than apples?" Yes, Emerson, better than apples. Better than apples and grain together, even...
What Uncle Pete spied behind the chicken house was a giant snowdrift, four feet high maybe, all white and shimmery and looking like the best thing ever to ride the snowmobile up and over and fly off the other side - and so that's what he did, well, tried to do...Uncle Pete drove around the barn again to gain more speed and floored the accelerator as he approached the snowdrift - whuummph! Partway up the mammoth drift the Artic-Cat just stopped, then slowly, very slowly, began sinking down into what was now very clearly not a mound of hard-packed snow but rather something soft and mushy and even a little bit warm...
"What's that, Emerson? How could there be a giant snowdrift when it had only started snowing a few hours before? Well, that's exactly what Uncle Pete was realizing about now..."
And as the odor wafted upwards as he sank deeper and deeper, that's when he remembered that yesterday had been the dreaded day (a twice-yearly chore) Mike and his brothers had cleaned out the chicken house, and the squishy substance now engulfing Granpa's snowmobile (and Uncle Pete in his brand new boots) was the snow-covered manure from 85,000 chickens for the last 22 weeks. Gagging and retching, Uncle Pete climbed out of the pile, but it took all the brothers helping to extricate the Artic-Cat. Even now, I can hardly think of anything worse!
"I can think of something worse than that," piped up Emerson sleepily. "What if you had 85,000 goats and you only cleaned up after them every 22 weeks?"
Well, yes, that would be worse.
Goodnight, boys!
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