Milque

I just now poured myself a glass of milk, took a drink, and was suddenly back at 722 drinking goat's milk. Yes, that's what today's glass of Kirkland milk tasted like, and I wondered if the dairy people ever slip goat's milk in with the cow's milk before sending it to the place where they pasteurize and homogenize it. Probably not.

Not that the milk tasted bad, just that it tasted like our goat's milk.

We had two goats: Cookie, a big, cantankerous alpine, and Carni, a chocolate brown Toggenberg with a gentler temperament. She was small and clearly not the alpha female. Cookie was, and a good milk producer, too, but she may have thought she was a billy, the way she acted like the boss of everything and liked to play ram tough with Paul.

We also had the Davises' two goats at our house, well, in the pen. Cookie ran their lives, too. And, incidentally, four goats make a lot of goat poop, if you'll pardon me. But that is a story in itself and will have to wait to be told.

Our milk was good or not so good, depending on what we fed our goats. We sought and bought the freshest, sweetest hay we could find. Sometimes hay was hard to get, and always it cost more than we thought it should. We could have thrown grass clippings over the fence; no doubt the goats would have eaten it. But we didn't do that, at least not very often. We were selling the milk and drinking it ourselves, so we were careful.

We had a nectarine tree and would give the goats a nectarine now and then, which they seemed to like a lot. We'd watch Cookie chomp the fruit and spit the seed out the side of her mouth. (How else, Carol?) She would bump Carni out of the way when we came with the nectarines, so we had to be quick and sneaky to get a treat to Carni. We didn't give nectarines to the Davises' goats. Why should we? By the way, we bought the goats from Phyllis Friend. She named them. We didn't.

Wayne built a couple of milking stands--he and Terry Davis did--which stayed on our patio. Every day, twice a day, we'd go down and drag those goats up to the patio for milking and try to get them there before they ate the peach tree we were trying to grow at the top of the slope near the patio. Terry didn't seem too concerned about that tree, seemed to think it was okay for his goats to eat it. Before long, we had to take it out, what was left of it.

We'd feed the goats oats with honey, which they loved, while we milked. We couldn't dilly-dally at it. Get the milking done before the oats were gone and hope the goat didn't step in the milk bucket. Then we'd weigh the milk, keep a record of how much our goats gave. I don't know why.

It started out that Wayne and I did most of the milking. I believe our children do not remember it that way. Soon enough they were all involved, and the only one who really wanted to milk was the one who couldn't. Ann. Too little. I think even Alyce milked sometimes. Not sure. But I'm sure of this. They all have their own stories about the goats, milking, drinking the milk, and so on.

We had to buy a new fridge, one without a freezer, so we could keep our gallon jars of milk in it. Goats were expensive, we found.

Sometimes the people who bought our milk just didn't show up, and we would have an awful lot of milk on hand, so to speak. I made cheese and more cheese. I made ice cream a'plenty, and goat's milk, with its richness and high fat content, made wonderful ice cream. But you can't make it every hour, you know.

About the fat. Fat particles in cow's milk are big, and they adhere to the body's mucus membranes and so cause allergies, ear infections, etc. Fat particles in goat's milk are very small and are easily digested. That is why doctors recommend it for babies and children who cannot tolerate cow's milk or who are having chronic ear infections. Which is why people bought our milk.

We took our goats out to Phyllis Friend's and had them bred. I say baby goats are the cutest animals ever. But we had no room for more goats, so we sold the babies, even though we knew the buyers were going to eat them. Don't think about it. Davises kept one of Carni's babies, Martha. Eventually, they built a new house with a goat pen and moved their goats down there.

But the day came when we had to give up the goats. We were not selling enough milk, and, as I said, people sometimes didn't show up, even after they had called to be sure we had their milk. I never understood that. What it meant was we had too much milk and could not afford to keep the goats if we were going to pour the milk down the drain, which we had to do now and then.

I don't remember who bought them. It was the end of what I always considered a good time for our family, one of those times when we all worked together on something. I don't know if they all see it that way. I'm pretty sure Wayne did.

I Took Him With Me, Sort Of

Just back from my 50-year high school reunion. I liked it, seeing the place again, the ocean, the neighborhoods I knew--many changed, many not, but more people there in Santa Monica by far than when I grew up there. Fun to visit with the people I grew up with. We met for dinner Friday night at the end of Santa Monica Pier and for the reunion proper Saturday night at the Marina. Beautiful days and nights, beautiful air, good people.

Big graduating class: about 750 people. We had about 300 there.

At the reunion, I didn't really expect people to mention Wayne, but clearly that was what I wanted. Some did. Some were reticent to, no doubt. I saw Danny O'Mahoney. Oh yes, he remembers Wayne very well. Got reaquainted with Bob and Bruce and Chuck and others I went to school with from kindergarten on.

I vow, every now and then, to keep moving forward, however one does that. I vowed that again at the reunion.

George and Gretta

I sat down beside George Huff yesterday before church to see how he was doing. Last Sunday he said he was doing fine. Yesterday he said he was okay, which, I'd say, is less than fine. I asked him, and wished I hadn't, how it is now living in that house without Gretta. He began to cry and could not speak. I put my arm around him and said, "Oh George, I'm sorry."

He was a few moments recovering, then said, "It'll get better, won't it? You know. You've been there."

I said, "Yes, it will get better, but it might not be tomorrow."

I patted his back and looked up at his daughter, Carolyn, who is still coming to our ward, this time for him instead of Gretta, and who, I am sure, is staying very close to him. She looked at me and frowned in sympathy for her dad.

Something Small

It was January 12, 2007. I lost Wayne’s ring, his wedding ring which I have worn on the middle finger of my right hand since soon after he died.

I had gone to bed early but woke with a start at about 10:45 p.m. and thought to feel my hand for the ring. It was not there. Funny how such a thing can wake you from a sound sleep. I threw back the covers and felt all over the bed, looked on the dresser, on the floor, in the closet, in the pockets of everything I had worn for the last two days. I had no idea when it had slipped off.

I thought it might be in the gloves I had worn to shovel snow. No. Not in the car. Not in the washer. Not in the hampers or the jewelry box. I went to bed again. In the morning I looked again in the gloves and pockets. No. I prayed to find it, but I didn’t have much faith, I’m afraid.

The whole thing made me sad. You know.

Next day I went to Lola’s, to Costco, to Office Max, and came home. The driveway snow had melted by then. I had items in the trunk, so I walked back to get them and saw the ring on the driveway pavement about five feet behind my car. I had driven over it backing out and coming in.

Small thing? Sure, but it felt like a little miracle to me. Could I live without the ring? Sure, but I am glad I don't have to.

Track and Field

In my jewelry box I have a small silver medal.
Engraved on its back:
1958
2nd Place
High
Jump

It's Wayne's from the East Los Angeles track relays of 1958. That was the year before he left on his mission to Uruguay, which means he was on the track team from Santa Monica City College. He had spent a year at BYU and had come home to go to school. I'm not sure why.

I polished up the medal several months ago and wore it on a chain around my neck to church. It's not classy, not real jewelry, but I like it. If you're trying to picture the medal, don't think round.

Wayne had other medals, but this is the one I have. He gave it to me, which was a big deal. You know?

In high school Wayne ran cross-country one season and was on the track team the next. He ran the high hurdles and pole vaulted and did the high jump. He was a good hurdler with his long legs and good form. I don't know if he pole vaulted at the ELA relays, but he was pretty good at it in high school. I have a newspaper clipping with a picture of him sailing over the pole. I always thought it a complicated event: run at just the right speed carrying that long pole in front, plant the pole at just the right instant, then use your muscles and the spring of the pole to get yourself over that bar way up there. And these were the days before the modern fiber glass poles or whatever they're made of now. The pole he used was wood. I think his highest vault was 14 feet.

I used to sit on the brick wall at our school and wait for him. He'd come up after practice, and we would walk home together.

Addendum.
A conversation with Andrew has caused me to say it was likely not 14 feet. Not that high.

Just One of Those Things A Person Remembers

Wayne worked at Everest & Jennings Wheelchair Manufacturing Company before his mission and for a short while after we were married. That's where he knew Lester Madison, Cody's dad. We went to school with Cody, a rough-edged wiry blond kid you couldn't help liking.

Wayne said Lester told him many things as they worked together every day and Lester swore pretty much, but I only know one thing Lester said. He was worried about his daughter and told Wayne she might have to go to the hospital because she had a cisk on her ovulies.

Wow! It's Fifty Years

September I will go down to Santa Monica for my 50-year high school reunion. For that occasion, I am Alyce Brimley, Samohi class of ’58.

I went in 2004 to our 46-year reunion, an unlikely number, but obviously this class likes to get together. Maybe the reunion organizers—Monica, Bob, Donna, Janice, Jim, and others—are afraid too many of our 630+ members will die before we can meet and say, Wow! It’s fifty years.

In 2004 I took my three daughters because I could not handle going alone. Wayne was dead, and we wouldn’t be walking in together. Lola, Alyce, Ann—they were good to go with me, and we visited my Aunt Allie in La Cañada, and we visited Disneyland, Lola’s favorite place. But the death part is what I meant to say something about.

There was a written program, and on it a mention of people in our class who had died. Wayne was not in our class, he was class of ’57, but as my husband his name would appear there. I looked. It didn’t. But Kent Woolley’s did. I knew Kent wasn’t dead. He had visited me in Boise, told me about his heart attack or stroke or whatever it was. Yes, he had been ill, but he wasn’t dead. Someone on the committee thought Wayne was ill and Kent had died. It seems funny, but it's kind of a big mistake, don't you think?

This year I will actually have to go alone. I have reservations for my flight, car, and hotel, but I'm feeling a little apprehensive about it. I suppose I should do some mental imaging, see myself getting there in good order, driving safely up to Marina del Rey, wearing something smashing (it could happen) as I enter a room full of people I used to know, and then see myself feeling okay about being there. It would help if I could be thin by then. Superficial it may be, but I don't want folks to say, "Look what's happened to Alyce since Wayne died."