Breaking Loose

The gang nudged and maw-ed their way down a narrow ramp onto brittle grass that crackled beneath their hooves. They stood idle, looking around like tourists disembarking a bus. As a recent retiree, I understood the strangeness of adapting to a new environment. My forty-five-year career in high tech had given me a sense of purpose or at least kept me too busy doing to spend time observing. But that was over now and I needed to rethink my purpose. The goats were hired to create a necessary firebreak for our newly purchased property in the Sierra Foothills where the summers are hot and dry. But I didn’t read the fine print. Or maybe there wasn’t any. If there had been a warning, it would have read, “Beware: you have rented a gang of four-legged Houdini’s.”

My professional life had felt like a goat pen of sorts, guard rails on all sides, expectations to stay with the herd, agreeable conduct, pleasant but not transparent. Early in my career, I struggled to find balance between authenticity and complying with corporate norms. Rarely were the two in sync. Unlike a goat’s work, mine was an enigma, but similar to them, mine kept me captive. Maybe I succumbed to Stockholm syndrome or maybe I organically embraced the vagaries of large corporations. Either way, I didn’t start out as a corporate white collar.

I got my first job when I was fifteen as the pots and pans washer in the kitchen of a nursing home near our trailer park in Clancy, Montana. I worked on weekends to make spending money since my widowed mother couldn’t work while undergoing cancer treatments. I’d been raised by farming parents from North Dakota who taught me to do what was necessary and not complain, even if I had reason. My mom’s way of overcoming problems was to push through them like a snowdrift on a Montana highway. Some call that the Norwegian way.

Fifty years later it was my time in life to take stock. From 1974 to 2024, I had worked at twenty companies, held twenty-five job titles, and reported to thirty-six different managers. Now, after five decades of someone else dictating how I spent my time, I was finally free to choose my daily activities. A daunting idea for someone who had relied on the structure of work to give her weekdays focus.

I had doubts.

Was I ready for the rewards of retirement? Hadn’t I always told myself that free time was overrated? Isn’t retirement really just punishment for growing old?

While I hesitated about my laissez-faire future, our Calaveras County neighbors prepared for fire season. Engines whirred unabated as weed whackers made their way up and down the properties bordering ours.

Great stuff but, none of the weed whackers I called had availability.

I had to get clever with fire prevention.

Goat herders in Calaveras County don’t stay with the herd. The property owner is responsible for minding the livestock, checking their water, taking inventory, and sending a group photo to their owner each day.

During the daily roundup, I came to know each beast as an individual. Some had floppy ears like Sophie and some had narrow snouts like Emmitt. Others boasted macho attitudes like Rex who had both horns removed for what I assumed was bad behavior. And then there was the venerable Chuck, the goateed elder of the group, who possessed an air of confidence that was in comedic contrast to his small stature. Their frolicking brought back memories of my youth, zipping around the playground, stealing someone’s cap, waiting on the teeter-totter for a friend to launch me, and laughing profusely when I flew off the end.

It couldn’t have been more than an hour since the last check-in when Rex pushed Sophie through the electric fence. The flimsy posts easily caved, creating an opening for Emmitt, Chuck and the others to hop across. The group ascended towards our vineyard faster than I could yell “Get back here.”

They eventually followed me and the bucket of goat treats back to their pen. The owner promised to pick them up the next day.

I didn’t see who initiated the next escape, but if it wasn’t Rex, it was his nemesis, Emmitt. Fast as an eye blink, they headed towards the deck box that contained the rest of their treats. One of them, probably observant Chuck, had seen me stash the bag.

Photo: Chuck, the esteemed elder of the group.

Rex pounded the deck box with his front hooves while Sophie, Emmitt, and Chuck sprang into the air like fans at a Bruce Springsteen concert. In a way, I hated to spoil their fun. If I hadn’t been concerned with saving the grape vines, I would have fallen to my knees, laughing profusely.

I understood their need for freedom. At a time when I was transitioning from an urbanite back to a country girl, and from being defined by my profession to redefining who I was, I wanted to both stay with the herd and break away. I wanted both camaraderie and independence, kind of like Sophie, the floppy eared temptress who slyly stood apart from the others, waiting for an opportunity to capture a stray oat morsel while the herd focused elsewhere.

In a phone call, their owner advised me to leave the remaining goat treats in the center of their enclosure to keep them occupied until morning when she could fetch them. That worked. I went to bed.

Though goats are intelligent, the attribute that makes them unstoppable is their ability to work together. Like a Foothills community surviving a fire or Montanans surviving winter, whatever lay in their path will be cut and cleared. It’s obvious now that the ravenous escape artists were not compatible with raising grapes, or anything edible.

What I didn’t expect was that, upon their departure, I felt a little piece of my heart leave with them. Even after they had devoured treasured vegetation, I grieved a little to see them board their trailer. Perhaps it was their humorous antics, sweet faces, or boundless energy that charmed me. Or, maybe I saw a little of myself in their insatiable desire for freedom. After all, I was seeking to rekindle the spirit of a younger me by leaving Silicon Valley for the Foothills. The passion for technology that had fed me for so long had dried up like wild grass in summer. I needed something different but I wasn’t yet sure what.

Total freedom isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. To be driven entirely by a quest for more treats isn’t the answer any more than being tied to an old dream. Perhaps in searching between the two extremes I’ll find my happy place, having a pen big enough to frolic but not so big that there are no guard rails. I agree that the reward tastes sweeter when you work for it. Maybe the goats wouldn’t have enjoyed their oat snacks near as much if they didn’t have to knock down a fence to get to them. Maybe I won’t enjoy my reward of endless free time if I don’t accomplish anything before having it.

As I continue my quest for a post-career passion, I have one wish. My hope is that the return to a rural life brings me the unbridled joy I felt while playing tag as a youngster and again when watching goats be goats. Who knows, I may even get to the point where the reward tastes as sweet after a nap as it does after hours of labor. And, if idle time gets to be too much for me, I can find work anywhere in the Foothills as a weed whacker. Or, maybe I'll try publishing a book.

Photo: Rex, Emmitt, Sophie