The Goat and the Old Bachelor

#52ancestors Week 10 (March4-10) 
Prompt: Bachelor Uncle 

The Goat and the Old Bachelor 

By Myra Vanderpool Gormley © 2019 

Forever intertwined in my childhood memory is a goat and an old man — my grandpa’s best friend (the old man, that is). While not an uncle, he was a bachelor, and almost family. 

The goat was called Billy, but the man was called “Bill” or W. C. by adults. However, he was always known to me as “Mr. Carter.” His given names were William Charles, which was the reverse of my Papa’s names — a subject they talked about frequently and found amusing. One of them being W. C. and the other C. W. 

Mr. Carter drove an old banged-up panel truck with lots of dents on the outside and in the inside, well, Billy rode it in often and he nibbled at the interior — eating anything he could put in his mouth. He also left his special odor everywhere. 

Mr. Carter and Billy the Goat lived down the road a piece from my Papa’s Oklahoma farm. The goat went with him about everywhere. So did Papa and me. We were a dynamic and unlikely quartet of two old farmers, a little girl, and a goat. 

We often toured the “bottom lands” — a fertile commercial farm area of what was then Griffin Grocery Company, north of Muskogee, Oklahoma. There the soil was rich from the many spring-time floods of the Arkansas River. Those old farmers, with my assistance, would check out the corn, alfalfa, watermelons, peanuts, soybeans, and cotton — then on to the stockyards we’d go on a fairly frequent schedule in the spring and summertime. 

Mr. Carter, crippled up badly with arthritis, could barely walk, and relied on his wooden cane as he tottered and shuffled about. He had lost two middle fingers on his right hand in a farming accident years ago. I found that fascinating and asked him many questions about the accident, and about when he had come to Indian Territory and why he had stayed (talk about a born nosey journalist).

He and Papa were twin figures, born the same year — Papa in Georgia and Mr. Carter in Iowa. They were both big men always dressed in the Oklahoma uniform — faded blue overalls. I listened to their conversations about the “good old days,” the war, those rotten Communists, politics — local and national — and the high cost of living, and always, about the weather, and how the crops and livestock were doing. 

Mr. Carter had no wife and no family — at least none I ever knew about. I always invited him to our family get-togethers, especially Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter feasts, and later to my country school activities including its annual pie supper and a Christmas program. He always came and seemed pleased to be included. One year at Christmastime he brought me a package of dates. I thought they were the best treat ever — so sweet and gooey. He smiled at my delight in them. 

He and I also shared a great love for my grandmother’s vinegar pies and bread-and-butter pickles. We were sure that she could win the blue ribbon at the Oklahoma State Fair for anything she cooked. When I was about six years old, he subscribed to Jack and Jill magazine for me as a birthday present. I was in heaven. It arrived in the mailbox monthly or bimonthly — I have forgotten which, packed with stories, poems and artwork. A couple of years later he gifted me with my first desk, and then he bestowed a most precious present on me when I was nine — his mother’s piano. On it I learned to play, and it became my most treasured possession. 

Years later, when I was in Germany working for Stars & Stripes newspaper I sent Mr. Carter a Christmas card (something I had always done — my mother taught her children good manners) but that year, for some reason, I also included a long letter telling him about my budding career, travel adventures in Europe, and how much his gifts and friendship had meant to me. I’m so glad I did. Mother reported back later that the old gentleman just beamed when he told her about receiving my letter and card. 

My grandparents were both gone by then and I was aware that I would not have my special friend forever and that he might not be there by the time I returned from Europe. So, in my letter that year I had reminisced about the good times with him, Billy the Goat, and my Papa. And what memories they were — including the time Mr. Carter and Papa got lost at the stockyards and I had to go to the office and turn them in, then wait for someone to go find those old farmers so we could get home in time for supper. You didn’t want to make my grandmother angry by being late. 

It was a tough job looking after those two old men — and Billy the Goat was of no help.