I received a request from the many little cousins, nephews and nieces of my husband’s family, living in California, to relate incidents from my early childhood. I seemed a little different to them, since I was the only foreign born in a large family of true blue Americans.

The first strange thing I can remember is that I was always hungry, crying bitterly and loudly and driving my poor mother mad. It was 1915, the first world war and Austria had no food, no money since our stock market had crashed.

As usual every country looked to America for help and I vividly remember the canned milk we received. It was very thick and sweet not at all to my liking. I continued screaming. My mother’s milk I totally rejected. No psychiatrist could ever explain it to me.

My beloved father came to the rescue. He took a trip into the country side and came back with a pair of Goats. Problem was solved. He installed them in the back of our house and from then on I was no longer hungry. I loved to play with the animals and I thrived on their milk. I stopped yowling.

Everything went swimmingly until summer came. We owned a small villa in Bad Ischl, where we had our yearly vacation. What to do with the goats? Of course they had to come wherever I went. We went by train and the animals came in a special car.

There is one trip I shall never forget. When the female goat’s milk glands fill up with milk, they become very painful.The animal begins to scream loudly and wants to be relieved. This happened once upon our arrival in Bad Ischl. The platform was crowded and there in the midst of all the bustle and hustle, my mother, in her elegant travel coat, sat on a milking stool, filling the bucket with steaming delicious goat’s milk.

People looked at this rare scene and laughed their heads off. We teased mother with this episode to the rest of her life.

I can’t find any goats around here, but I still love goat cheese.

 

© Gerta Freeman - March 13, 2008