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My family had a thing about goats.

Yes, goats. Real goats. As in billy goat goats.

My Uncle Gene had a goat whose name was, of all things, Bill. (I think we can all safely say that I got my name from my Uncle Gene but not my creativity.) Now Bill was known to open the back screen door and come on into the house, and Granddaddy was known to lay out his farming clothes before he left for work at the bank every morning. One day Bill came in to get out of the heat of the afternoon and spied Granddaddy’s “dungarees” as Granddaddy’s sister called them, laying on the bed. Bill was either hungry or tired – we’ll never know for sure exactly what motivated him – but either way, he chewed off more than half of both pants leg before he wore himself out and went to sleep in the middle of Granddaddy’s bed.

Granddaddy was not amused.

And Bill was no longer hungry or tired.

Then there was the time my Uncle Bill (that’s him up there in the photo, fishing.) came to show off his new champagne colored Ford Falcon. It had that new car smell and that new car shine. Once everybody had been to ride in the new car, they settled inside the house for a glass of sweet tea. As they talked, there commenced the loudest BAM you ever heard. Then another BAM. And another, and another.

By the time they got outside, Billy Goat Bill had torn the right side of Uncle Bill’s new car to smithereens. Why, passengers had to get in on the driver’s side and crawl over to take a seat in what little passenger space was left cause Billy Goat Bill had done such damage on the door.

The way the story has come down the line is that there he was – Billy Goat Bill – minding his own business when he happened by the shiny new car, saw himself in the reflection, took exception to another billy goat trespassing on his home turf, and launched a full-out attack.

On the car, as it turns out.

Which Billy Goat Bill thought was the stubbornest goat he’d ever come across.

And by the time they tore Billy Boat Bill off of Uncle Bill’s new car, Billy Goat Bill was ready for another nap on Granddaddy’s bed.


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In Our Own Language 4:15

I’m still stitching stories, too.
Nancy (my developmentally disabled sister-in-law) draws.
I (the woman who flat-out loves her) stitch her drawings.



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