Goat Diary: What Happens When A Retired Couple In Their 70s Set Out To Change 200 Acres Of Texas Hill Country Scrub Cedar To A Goat Ranch

By June Reedy

A rollicking look at the bucolic life the author never expected to have. The work, heartache, troubles, laughter, and joy all have their place here.

• Language: English
• Publisher: URLink Print & Media, LLC
• Release date: Jun 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781684862139

June Reedy

June Reedy retired New Year's Eve, 1985, as vice president of a multi-billion dollar insurance and financial company. In her years of retirement she has served on several business, government, and non-profit boards, specialized in portrait photography, worked a goat and cattle ranch, and continues to meddle in the lives of Tom's and her six children and their families. At 93, she continues to delight in the antics of the Village people she lives with and loves.The "Geezer Diary" is her second book. The "Goat Diary," published in 2011, was quickly popular and is still selling in paperback and e-book.

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Title Page

Goat Diary

Copyright © 2022 by June Reedy. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the author except as provided by USA copyright law.

The opinions expressed by the author are not necessarily those of URLink Print and Media.

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Published in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022910926

ISBN 978-1-68486-212-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68486-213-9 (Digital)

06.06.22

The Gang at Morning Hill Ranch

I dedicate this book to my husband, Tom Reedy,

who retired from the United States Marine Corps

as a Colonel, and from

a leading financial institution

as an Information Technology Executive.

What possessed him to embark on a third career as a

Goat rancher, I have no idea.

Life with him is an unending adventure.

Contents

Introduction

Foreword

Characters

Chapter 1: Not Even a Chicken

Chapter 2: There Were Only Butterflies

Chapter 3: The Rancher’s Wife

Chapter 4: Lakehills–Not Really A Town

Chapter 5: Finally, Some Goats

Chapter 6: Great Pyrenees Guard Dogs

Chapter 7: The Poop Was on Fire

Chapter 8: Babies are Dropping Out of the Trees

Chapter 9: Never Dropkick a Squirrel

Chapter 10: This Little Goat Went to Market

Chapter 11: Critters

Chapter 12: Cinnamon Kidnaps Twins

Chapter 13: One Paper Napkin per Customer per Meal

Chapter 14: Ground Beef

Chapter 15: Beauregard, What have you done?

Chapter 16: And Now

Acknowledgements

Introduction

This is the tale of a retired couple in their seventies who, without the slightest knowledge or experience, decided to become Texas goat ranchers.

My dear friend, Ginny Goldsberry, was the catalyst for this book. I began sending Ginny daily letters about our adventures as novice ranchers to entertain her as she recovered from a serious illness. After a while, I began e-mailing excerpts to family and friends, labeling them Goat Diary.

We started ranching in 2002, but the diary didn’t begin until May of 2006. I have added a few early fragments and background narratives to sketch in those missing years.

Texas Hill Country folks are often ridiculed. This book carries on that tacky tradition. I document and exaggerate their quirks and eccentricities, but hope what comes through are their warm hearts, sly humor, sharp intelligence, and wisdom that comes from living close to the land. These dear folks represent all that is best about Texas. That they took us city folk into their homes and hearts speaks more about them than us.

I am deeply indebted to the goats, llamas, cattle, and guard dogs in these pages. They have endured, with patience and dignity, our fumbling attempts at animal husbandry.

Foreword

June Reedy’s Goat Diary is a memoir that takes an inexplicable approach to storytelling and to publishing. This collection of diary entries is a reality show in narrative form, a blog without responses, and a tweet unlimited in words.

The writer experienced every possible human emotion during the diary’s timeframe. In my opinion as one of the reviewers, this lent itself to leaving the daily entries unedited. It is hoped that by doing this, the reader will also experience these emotions. Enjoy these rollicking adventures.

Roberto Pachecano

Member, Sigma Tau Delta

International English Honor Society

Characters

Ranchers:

Tom and June Reedy

Our Offspring:

Mike and Chris and children:

Dan, Kristen, Lacey, and Nick

Bruce and Silvia and children:

Steven, Laura., and Jaclyn

Dawn and Al and children:

Stacey, Jennifer, Tom, and Crystal

Diane and Chip and children:

Dylan and Amanda

Matthew and Catherine and children:

Elizabeth, Shannon, Erin, Rebeccah , and Brian

Tim and Amy

Ranch Helpers: Hank and Ann Bachmann, Robert, Kim, Paul Pena, and guests who thought they were just coming to dinner.

Countless Hill Country Folks: Friends old and new whose last names are omitted to protect the innocent, or whose first names have been changed to protect me.

Guard Dogs: Ralph I, Ralph II, Alice, Rain I, Star, Skye,

Rain II, and Rain III

Cats: Julie, house pet, and barn cats: Paris Hilton, Matilda, Spook, and Fluff

Llamas: Flora, Baby, Lola, Pepper, and Mouse

Goats of Special Note: Flower, Powder, One-0-Two, Cinnamon, Pants,

Half&Half, Ping, Pong, Stella, Frannie, Billy Goat

Gruff, and Beauregard.

Baby Goats: Puff, Coco, Mimi, Lil’ Orphan Annie, Wobbles,

Chance, April, Slippers, Nutmeg, April, Pip,

Lucky, Spot, Buster and Lazarus.

Twins: Sugar & Spice, Lucky & Not-so-Lucky,

Blossom & Bud, Pete & Repete, Teddy & Freddy,

Hansel & Gretel and Lonesome & Dove.

CHAPTER ONE

Not Even a Chicken

Mother warned, Don’t let him make you live in the country! Oh, Mother, it will just be a weekend get-away place. We won’t be moving there."

Tom had just bought ninety-two acres of brush cedar and oak trees in the Texas Hill Country. His dream was to create a small ranch and raise some goats. This life altering adventure started one evening at the dinner table in our condominium in the heart of downtown San Antonio when Tom said he would like to buy some land in the country.

My life was perfect just as it was. I finally had the urban home I had wished for since the age of fifteen. I remember walking down Houston Street and telling my best friend, Someday I am going to live right here, above one of these stores. After years of business travel to New York, Chicago, San Francisco, etc., my dream never faltered. City living was vibrant, stimulating and exciting.

When I hit sixty-five and was still living in the big house in the suburbs, it struck me that time was running out. I still longed for downtown. Tom was against the idea, quite happy with his workshop in the basement, golf at the country club, and tired of the countless moves as a Marine Corps officer. I talked and reasoned and begged. He didn’t budge. I cried. He melted.

We compromised. I could rent a little apartment downtown, but we would keep the house. I joyously set out to find my dream place in the center of San Antonio. Tom ignored the whole endeavor. I met with the most knowledgeable downtown realtor, and was surprised to find there were no apartments ready to rent.

The realtor and I looked for weeks and weeks. Although I was willing to convert office space into an apartment, there was always some problem. The first promising find was the second floor of the ancient Maverick Building on Houston Street, one-half block from the Alamo. We had an architect draw up plans for an apartment and almost agreed on the lease when the building was repossessed and the deal fell through.

Another try to find viable space was in the Dullnig Building across from the famous old Joske’s Department Store. Again plans were sketched out, but the owners consisted of countless family heirs who couldn’t agree on anything, much less a long lease for us.

After months of false starts, I found the perfect place. It had been a public relations office in the Book Building on the San Antonio River Walk. Negotiations for a ten-year renewable lease took six months, and resulted in a fifty-page document with all the worst elements of both a residential and a commercial lease. By this time I was desperate, so I signed the awful document. While negotiations dragged on between the owner’s agent and mine, I drew up a floor plan to transform the four huge rooms into a living room, dining room, bedroom, and library. There was space for a tiny kitchen, a lovely bath, and a huge fourteen-foot high closet containing a double row of full-length clothes rods, a laundry and an office.

With the deal finally locked up, we found the perfect contractor, Tommy Adams. He was familiar with city codes and ordinances, and the intricate guidelines for historic building renovation. His crew gutted the office back to the original walls and built my dream home on time and on budget. Tommy brilliantly solved the many problems that always hang up renovation projects. I will never forget how funny it was to see my bathtub carried across Houston Street and crammed into the tiny elevator to reach the second floor.

All through the building process Tom ignored what was going on, keeping his suburban life in full swing, especially his golf. When moving day arrived, he agreed to spend the night with me in the vacant apartment because city regulations only permit moving during the early morning, before business hours.

As soon as the furniture was in place, Tom had a change of heart. He sat in an open window and looked out on the tree-shaded view of San Antonio. The place was spectacular. It had 12’x12’ arched windows overlooking the River Walk, breath-taking views of the city and magical nightlights. Tom abandoned the suburbs.

We sold our house to our daughter, Dawn, and her husband, Al, and immersed ourselves in City Life. We found we had from one to four hours a day, formerly spent in the car, to live as Europeans do. We connected with more neighbors in the first few weeks than we had in fifteen years in the suburbs. There is a vibrant community of downtown residents, tucked away in and among the commercial buildings.

With the never-ending need for volunteers in the city’s operations, we were soon busy with boards and governing committees, deeply involved in a busy and exciting city life. We could lock the front door and travel anywhere in the world. No pets, and no yard, not even any pot plants. Mail would accumulate behind the slot in our front door. Even the postman wouldn’t know we were gone.

But, after only two years in our lovely apartment, the Book Building was sold. The new owners took one look at our space and decided it would be perfect for their law offices. Although our lease guaranteed another eight years, as much as we longed to stay, we sadly knew that staying would be contentious. After some ugly negotiations, we got back the funds we had invested in renovation.

We announced our homelessness at a big neighborhood party given by Marge and Charles Kilpatrick. Tom Wright, a major developer in the revitalization of downtown San Antonio, asked, Do you want to buy my place? I had seen it during one of the Downtown Home Tours. I was immediately interested. Tom and I walked home with him after the party, looked his place over, thought about it overnight, and shook hands on the deal over lunch the next day.

The space was just a block away from the River Walk and two blocks from the Alamo. It was not only in the very epicenter of the city, but also larger and more desirable than the place we were leaving. The building was built in the late 1800s to be used for the production of a German-language newspaper. It had fourteen-foot high ceilings, long-leaf pine wood floors, and twelve-foot casement windows. Tom Wright had completely restored the entire building a few years earlier. There were two bedrooms, a small office, three full baths, and a terrace adjacent to the kitchen overlooking an interior landscaped patio. With a wood-burning fireplace, the great room was over a thousand square feet.

Again, like our first lease, the legal work took months to negotiate. Since Mr. Wright owned the building, we had to set up a condominium association so we could purchase only the second floor. He retained the first floor and the basement, but we insisted on the right of first refusal should he ever sell the rest of the building. A few years later, we were able to exercise that right, and purchased the entire building. My dream had expanded beyond my wildest imagination.

That was my happy, carefree life for over for seven years. Then Tom said he would like to buy a little land in the country.

Our Building in Downtown San Antonio

The search for ranch land took months. We drove the Hill Country, an area that begins northwest of San Antonio. Rolling hills extend for hundreds of miles across that part of Texas, but we were searching for acreage no more than an hour’s drive from downtown. We looked at places around Fredericksburg, Kerrville, and other small towns. Each time that we found a small ranch that looked fine to me, Tom would disagree.

After many of these searches, Tom made a list of his requirements. He wanted a hill, a creek, and pastures. Oh! He didn’t want to buy a ranch. He wanted to create one. With the specifics finally clear, the search changed. Realtors were getting sick of us.

During a Christmas party, our daughter, Dawn, mentioned our search to a friend. He said, I know exactly the place. It is on the highest hill near Medina Lake. The property has a small creek and acres of cedar and oak trees. It was exactly the right place. After one quick look we bought it in January of 2002.

With confidence born of ignorance, we called these few acres a ranch. After much family discussion, in which we discarded Basura Blanco Acres, we named it Morning Hill Ranch. That is a name with special significance for us. Our first home was at 722 Morning Hill Road. It was on the concrete foundation of that unfinished house that we were married.

Since 2003, we have cleared the land, built the house, and have been breeding, raising and selling goats. Cattle were added in the last few years. Tom is the happiest he has ever been.

Neither of us had ever lived in the country or raised any farm animals, not even a chicken. Tom and I started this unexpected and rather major life-change in our seventies. We are still at it, in our eighties.

We rarely spend the night downtown. In this new life it is hard to remember our long ago executive careers. While I love the ranch, the rancher, the animals, the Hill Country, and especially the wonderful folks who live here, I am still a City Girl at heart. This may explain my wry and sometimes warped view of the goings-on chronicled in this Goat Diary.

CHAPTER TWO

There Were Only Butterflies

We closed the deal at the Bandera County Court House and took possession of 92 acres of thickly wooded cedar trees surrounded by falling-down barbed wire fences, or as it is pronounced out here - Bob War. As we walked across the land, fighting our way through the brambles and underbrush and stumbling over rocks and uneven ground, the only living creatures we saw were butterflies.

Our new land was covered with Hill Country cedar trees, a variety of Juniper. The branches and roots prevent rainwater from reaching more desirable vegetation, and soak up ground water at an alarming rate. The thick branches crowd out native oaks, other trees, and the much needed grass. Cedars are useful only as cut fence posts and must be cleared to make usable pastures.

The first urgent ranch purchase was a heavy duty Ford truck. It was not new, so it spent considerable time in the repair shop to come up to Tom’s standards.

We drove out from town almost every day and set forth to clear the cedar, starting with the hilltop. Aided by our kids on weekends, we chained-sawed, dragged and burned until we could see the Medina River, the lake and the surrounding hills. What a glorious location for a house!

Family Helpers Clearing Cedar

At the rate we were clearing, Tom calculated that the land would be ready for goats in about three generations of Reedys. We hired Paul Wilson and his giant bulldozer and Lynn Hawley and his dump truck. After several months, they had built a road into the property and up more than a hundred feet to the hilltop. Excavating soil for road and foundation landfill resulted in a big hole down below. It became a sizeable stock pond.

The dirt road was barely adequate for the well diggers’ equipment to lumber up the hill. It took two heart-stopping tries before the drill was in place. Part way down, the drill passed through a cave. At 660 feet, we hit water. Since the rig was on site, Tom had the crew dig another well for livestock on the flat down below. That one is less than 400 feet deep.

The septic tank was next. With only a few inches of soil above solid rock, it proved to be a challenge. An area of soft native clay, called caliche, was found halfway down the hill. After several false starts, a barely suitable drain field was located and approved by the County.

We could start building our house only when the well was dug, the septic tank was approved, and the torturous road up the hill was drivable. The flat space on the hilltop was just large enough for the foundation and a circular drive for cars to turn around. This restricted the design of the house. It is a two-story, 2,200 square foot, metal-roofed frame structure. Wrap-around porches surround both floors of the rectangular building.

The great room, kitchen, and half bath are upstairs to take advantage of the magnificent 360-degree view. Downstairs are five bedrooms and three baths. To eliminate halls, each bedroom has a door outside to the porch. The two back bedrooms can only be accessed from the porch. In fact, the carpenters asked if we were building a Bed and Breakfast. To save bathroom space, the four guest bedrooms each have a washbasin, built to resemble a dresser. This allows the placement of a small bathroom with only a shower and commode between each group of two bedrooms.

All the floors, even the closets, are tile. We chose tile as close to the color of dirt we could find. The whole house is plain, comfortable and wash-and-wear functional. All those guestrooms are for visits from our large family and out-of-state friends.

Our 82-year-old local builder did not flinch when we handed him this odd plan. He happily signed a cost-plus agreement. We were pleased with all the building crews except the painters. No more goofy, inept, undependable group of guys ever set foot on our property. They painted one whole end of the house with the expensive trim paint before we stopped them. Much of their work had to be redone. One of them parked his truck on the hill road. It rolled off and was totaled. Months later, we found that all the outside doors had only the primer coat. It peeled off exposing the bare wood. The ranch house was finished on schedule and 100% over budget. Each time we choose more expensive materials and appliances, the contractor smiled and added his 15%.

The Ranch House

We were standing among the studs of our unfinished house when a car wound its way up our rough road. It was Bob and Barbara Brischetto, friends from Tom’s volunteer days at Habit for Humanity. Bob had recognized Tom through binoculars from his house way across Lake Medina, and came to invite us to lunch. It was our first taste of legendary Hill Country hospitality.

Moving into our ranch house was unusual. We were keeping our downtown condo, so nothing came from there. Outfitting the empty ranch house meant starting over again. It was like being newlyweds, but without the bridal showers. A specialty store in Houston was the source for a lot of the upstairs furniture. Most worked out well except the long dining room table; the extensions at each end soon sagged.

For months I searched used furniture stores for rocking chairs. I could just see family members rocking away, enjoying the view, on our breezy porches. Reality set in when those breezes blew the chairs upside down and scattered them around the porches. The volunteer fire department inherited the rockers for their charity auction, and we bought heavy metal tables and chairs. Another mistake was ceiling fans on all four corners of the upstairs porch. Before we could turn them on, most of the blades and even the light globes blew off.

No sooner had the ink dried on the closing papers than Tom began buying adjoining land. First it was nine acres on the frontage road, then thirty more acres with another lovely hill almost as high as the first one. Tom took me to look at fifty acres abutting the back of our property. It had a road opening onto Farm-to-Market Road 1283. He wanted to buy this long-neglected, junk-filled, cedar-clogged horror of a property with no redeeming features. I said, "Absolutely not!’

Not long after that, the fifty acres came on the market again at a lower price. He bought it, specifying that every bit of junk (and there were literally tons of it) be removed before closing. It had a rotted-out, ancient, doublewide trailer home under a rusty tin shed. The underpinnings were gone; it could not be moved. But the best feature of the property was a charming little cottage with a full-length front porch, tile floors and upscale appliances in the kitchen and laundry room.

The Cabin on the Fifty-Acre Pasture

Tom then bought eleven more brush filled acres. These were adjacent to the new hill, and he was considering buying twenty more. I threatened to move back to town if he did not stop. That worked. Other than five more acres on Park Road 37, which would extend our creek to the road, we agreed that, with almost two hundred acres, we had enough land.

It was soon clear that Paul and Lynn, with bulldozer and truck, were never going to clear the land in our lifetime. So we hired the Cedar Eater. This is