Girl From Goat Pasture Road

Before his death at the age of 38, North Carolina author, Thomas Wolfe, penned his classic novel, “You Can’t Go Home Again”. I wonder if he fully realized the irony of such a statement. As I child, I wanted nothing more than to “get away” from my home. As an adult, I have had the opportunity to travel, only to learn that you can never really leave home. Your past is always with you. Artist Mary Engelbreit, the “Norman Rockwell” of our times, understands this concept perfectly. She has illustrated a series of nostalgic drawings called, “Wherever you go, there you are.” In no way does my childhood growing up in rural Davidson County resemble Mary’s quaint images, yet I completely identify with her words. No matter where I go in life, there I am… “The Girl from Goat Pasture Road.”

I grew up on a dirt road with the honest-to- God’s name, “Goat Pasture Road.” Wikipedia defines a goat as “a hardy short haired, horned mammal, with a bearded male”. Although some of my former neighbors and relatives may have fit that description, I never recall a single goat, sheep or ram residing there!

I was a “surprise” baby born to older parents … my siblings were 12 and 15, when I was born. Few families and even fewer children lived nearby, so I was often lonely. I constantly wished my parents would adopt a younger sister for me. This never happened! Some of my earliest playmates were invisible to everyone but me! They had exotic sounding names… Fa-la, Palay, and Francine. I often shared an extra helping of dessert with Fa-La, and Palay liked to ride bikes. Francine was a bit of a “sissy” for me, but the four of us had a great time playing on Goat Pasture Road.

Summertime would often find me riding the tractor with my brother or hanging out with my grandma. One hot summer day, I accompanied grandma to the cotton patch. She spent the morning hoeing in a sun bonnet and cotton dress, as I entertained myself under the shade of a lone tree nearby. Later, I told my mother, “Me no like picking cot-ton!”, and truly I did not. I know this incident planted a seed in my mind. I had no idea what the future would be like for me; however I certainly hoped and prayed there would not be a HOE in my future!

Our family farm extended through the woods and fields to the shady banks of the muddy Yadkin River. Often in the summertime, my family would head out to the river with tomato sandwiches, freshly dug worms, and our fishing poles, to fish for bream and catfish. My mother was terrified of drowning in the swift currents of the Yadkin. To keep me from falling in, she would use a rope and tie me to a tree like an animal. No one EVER bothered to report the event to Child Protective Services… things like that were a regular event on Goat Pasture Road.

At age 4, I decided to leave Goat Pasture Road with my favorite cousin, Mitchell Barnes. He and his accomplice, I mean brother, were fondly termed by my father, those damned “Barnes Boys” .They were constantly into some kind of mischief. To this day, it is hard to believe they escaped harm and lived long enough to become fine fathers and productive citizens. One day, Mitchell and I decided to play house. We got into my father’s car, a 1956 Ford and headed to the hospital to get a baby sister- the one my parents still refused to adopt. My father saw two little towheads bobbing around in the front seat as the car rolled silently past the kitchen window towards a gulley. Thankfully, Dad stopped the car just before we crashed!

Over the years, I continued to plot my escape. As a teenager, I could finally drive away from the farm, getting a part time job in “town”. Working as a waitress and sales clerk, I thought I had escaped my past, but I was wrong! Because there was no street address printed on my personal check, only a rural route, the cashier would ask about my road name. When I replied, “Goat Pasture Road”, the cashier would “crack up” laughing, so I started lying about the road name. It started very innocently with names like “Young Road”, our family name, but I later adopted names that sounded more grandiose, like White Oak Drive and Green Meadow Estates.

My early attempts to leave Goat Pasture Road were thwarted, but education was truly my way out. It expanded my view of the world and brought fabulous opportunities. Growing up in the isolation of such a rural environment, made me an “original”, and helped instill in me creativity, independence, and a good work ethic. It certainly fueled my desire to learn about the world beyond Goat Pasture Road. Currently, my husband, Perry, son Brennen, and I share our home with 3 dogs, 2 cats and Zeke, the talking parrot. I regret the bird somehow acquired my southern accent! I occasionally use a hoe, but I never pick cotton on our one acre lot! And by the way, we do not own any goats!

I LOVE to travel! The quirkiness of characters and events are the same, all over the world. No matter where I go, I encounter bits of Goat Pasture Road in the unique experiences and in the faces of friendly, eccentric strangers. A few summers ago, my husband and I enjoyed a long vacation in Europe. While visiting the Greek island of Crete, I learned that the word “Crete” comes from the word “Cri-Cri”, meaning goat. Here, I discovered a Mediterranean twin to the Confederate south! I found loud swaggering characters, as proud of their independence as their firearms! In northern Italy, I shared goat cheese and a train trip with a friendly, but unusual lady named Jody. Despite our language barriers, I think she was the Italian equivalent of an unmarried lady living at home with her mother and a lot of cats. Of course, I gave her my address- I was so proud to say “Kepley- Craver” instead of Goat Pasture Road! I expect Jody to show up on my door step any day now… Our vacation ended with a hiking trip near the Matterhorn. The lush, green landscape was reminiscent of the alpine meadow scene at the beginning of The Sound of Music. I WAS Julie Andrews. The “fields were alive” but not with the Sound of Music. Near the end of my hike, I was chased, not by the Nazi, but by a herd of wild mountain goats! No matter where I go… there I am… followed closely by goats!

Years ago, my relatives succeeded in having Goat Pasture Road changed to a more dignified name. You will no longer find it listed on any of the area maps or signposts. The road has been paved, and new homes have appeared where there used to be farmland.

The early Hebrews believed that by placing their transgressions on a goat, the scapegoat, they would be cleansed of their sins. Personally, I am not sure if goats are my curse or my salvation! No matter where I go, Goat Pasture Road is part of ME. I can no longer deny where I am from, anymore than I can deny my love for sweet tea, the word “ya’ll” and big hair! Physically, I am never that far from Goat Pasture Road; however I am thankful my MIND has experienced life beyond its boundaries.

Wherever you go, there you are…Wherever I GO; I will always be… the “Girl from Goat Pasture Road.”