From the Bench
CARL SANDBURG, GOATS, AND A HARRIED SPOUSE
I had been sitting at my computer terminal in the palatial
office of "neganews.com" too long this past week. (The palatial
office consists of a badly-cluttered guest bedroom, visited often by a badly-irritated
wife, asking, "Are you going to stay on that thing all night?")
So I decided Saturday morning to take a day off and go somewhere. "Somewhere" turned out to be right nice. Flat Rock, North Carolina, up the road about two hours via one of the prettier drives in this part of the country.
Flat Rock was the final homeplace of the writer, Carl Sandberg, and this was our third attempt to visit his farm. The first attempt was aborted by illness, the second, by rain. This time, we made it.
Just across the South Carolina line, we took highway 11, which is called the Cherokee Foothills Scenic Highway. I’m not sure which is more scenic, the foothills or the names of all the places you go through, or near, as you head north.
Walhalla, Tomassee, and Salem are right on the route. If you detour north, you will hit Rocky Bottom and Caesar’s Head. To the south are Nine Times, Pumpkintown, and Tigerville. Traveler’s Rest is not far off.
Just reading a map of South Carolina is a joy.
The scenery is fantastic, but foraging for lunch, once you pass Walhalla, is a bit dicey. We ended up at a place that combined a relative and a woman’s name, but I can’t quite remember it. Maybe I forgot it on purpose, so we’ll just call it "Cousin Lulu’s".
All I can say is that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Cousin Lulu won’t see us again.
Carl Sandberg, who is remembered best as the seminal biographer of Lincoln, spent the last twenty or so years of his life in Flat Rock. He won the Pulitzer Prize not only for his Lincoln biographies, but also for his poetry, the only writer to win in two categories.
The guided tour of the house, while interesting, was not nearly so fascinating as the visit to the goat barn.
Sandberg’s wife started raising goats when she was fifty-two. (So never think it’s too late to start a new career.) Mrs. Sandberg took to goat raising so enthusiastically that soon their five acres in Michigan was overrun.
This, and the cold Michigan winters, which were beginning to tell on the Sandbergs, sent them south in search of warmer winters and more-goatable land. According to our guide, Sandberg took one look at the place called "Connemara", and said, "This is it."
Apparently Mrs. Sandberg and the goats agreed, for within a few years she had accumulated a herd of two hundred. She taught herself genetics, carefully bred and developed some world champions, and was in demand as a lecturer.
They keep only fifteen or so of the pedigree goats now. My wife complained about the smell of the goat barn. I assured her that it was not nearly so bad as what we would be subjected to between now and election. She didn’t buy the reasoning, and went outside.
A perfectly charming and bright-eyed lady named Karen told me more about goats than I thought I would ever like to know. Gestation period: 150 days. Number of young: sometimes one, but usually two. Odor: Goats get a bad rap.
I agree, although the large nanny I was petting tried to urinate on me. Karen had failed to mention this characteristic of goats, which she belatedly listed as a bigger hazard than getting kicked. Happily, my reflexes were quick enough to avoid disaster, otherwise, it would have been a long walk home.
When I came out, I was telling my wife what a charming lady Karen was. Her dry response: "Apparently she likes goats, even old ones."
I’m beginning to think forty-three years with the same woman is a bit much.
Her insults continued. "That man I was talking to said you LOOK like Carl Sandberg," she snickered.
I was not flattered. If you have ever seen pictures of the elderly writer, you understand.
"The least you could have said was that I WRITE like him, too," I suggested.
No response.
It was getting late when we got home. I had started this column, but quit around midnight, since we get up early to drive eighty-five miles to church on Sunday morning.
I was still contemplating an ending for the column as I crawled in bed. From under the pillow, my wife was grumbling about my late hours.
"Didn’t you hear the guide say that Carl Sandberg wrote until five in the morning?," I asked.
From under the pillow: "You’re no Carl Sandberg."
Let’s see, now, what is that about three strikes and you’re out?
So I decided Saturday morning to take a day off and go somewhere. "Somewhere" turned out to be right nice. Flat Rock, North Carolina, up the road about two hours via one of the prettier drives in this part of the country.
Flat Rock was the final homeplace of the writer, Carl Sandberg, and this was our third attempt to visit his farm. The first attempt was aborted by illness, the second, by rain. This time, we made it.
Just across the South Carolina line, we took highway 11, which is called the Cherokee Foothills Scenic Highway. I’m not sure which is more scenic, the foothills or the names of all the places you go through, or near, as you head north.
Walhalla, Tomassee, and Salem are right on the route. If you detour north, you will hit Rocky Bottom and Caesar’s Head. To the south are Nine Times, Pumpkintown, and Tigerville. Traveler’s Rest is not far off.
Just reading a map of South Carolina is a joy.
The scenery is fantastic, but foraging for lunch, once you pass Walhalla, is a bit dicey. We ended up at a place that combined a relative and a woman’s name, but I can’t quite remember it. Maybe I forgot it on purpose, so we’ll just call it "Cousin Lulu’s".
All I can say is that it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Cousin Lulu won’t see us again.
Carl Sandberg, who is remembered best as the seminal biographer of Lincoln, spent the last twenty or so years of his life in Flat Rock. He won the Pulitzer Prize not only for his Lincoln biographies, but also for his poetry, the only writer to win in two categories.
The guided tour of the house, while interesting, was not nearly so fascinating as the visit to the goat barn.
Sandberg’s wife started raising goats when she was fifty-two. (So never think it’s too late to start a new career.) Mrs. Sandberg took to goat raising so enthusiastically that soon their five acres in Michigan was overrun.
This, and the cold Michigan winters, which were beginning to tell on the Sandbergs, sent them south in search of warmer winters and more-goatable land. According to our guide, Sandberg took one look at the place called "Connemara", and said, "This is it."
Apparently Mrs. Sandberg and the goats agreed, for within a few years she had accumulated a herd of two hundred. She taught herself genetics, carefully bred and developed some world champions, and was in demand as a lecturer.
They keep only fifteen or so of the pedigree goats now. My wife complained about the smell of the goat barn. I assured her that it was not nearly so bad as what we would be subjected to between now and election. She didn’t buy the reasoning, and went outside.
A perfectly charming and bright-eyed lady named Karen told me more about goats than I thought I would ever like to know. Gestation period: 150 days. Number of young: sometimes one, but usually two. Odor: Goats get a bad rap.
I agree, although the large nanny I was petting tried to urinate on me. Karen had failed to mention this characteristic of goats, which she belatedly listed as a bigger hazard than getting kicked. Happily, my reflexes were quick enough to avoid disaster, otherwise, it would have been a long walk home.
When I came out, I was telling my wife what a charming lady Karen was. Her dry response: "Apparently she likes goats, even old ones."
I’m beginning to think forty-three years with the same woman is a bit much.
Her insults continued. "That man I was talking to said you LOOK like Carl Sandberg," she snickered.
I was not flattered. If you have ever seen pictures of the elderly writer, you understand.
"The least you could have said was that I WRITE like him, too," I suggested.
No response.
It was getting late when we got home. I had started this column, but quit around midnight, since we get up early to drive eighty-five miles to church on Sunday morning.
I was still contemplating an ending for the column as I crawled in bed. From under the pillow, my wife was grumbling about my late hours.
"Didn’t you hear the guide say that Carl Sandberg wrote until five in the morning?," I asked.
From under the pillow: "You’re no Carl Sandberg."
Let’s see, now, what is that about three strikes and you’re out?