This weekend I went back to the house I grew up in to see my family. As always, it was a heady mix of laughter, gunfire, blood, wild animals, borrowed goats, homeless wood-carvers and unexpected funerals. I’d write about it but I can never quite capture the bizarre awesomeness of visits to my old home so instead I’ll leave you with a picture I took in my parents backyard:
The picture quality is awful because I took it with my phone, and also because I was pretty sure someone was shooting at me at the time. Both of these things are true.
PS. Behind the still is a giant pack of goats. I asked my mom when they got goats and she said they didn’t have goats. When I gestured to the dozens of goats roaming around she said “Oh, your father is just borrowing them”. Because OF COURSE HE IS.
PPS. He’s borrowing them because he doesn’t want to mow the lawn. Not because he’s trying to impress people. No one is ever impressed with borrowed lawn goats.