Legacy, how we love you

In a small barn in Gagetown near the creek so deep

Lived eight little goats and four little sheep
The smallest one was Legacy

While it was true that she was wee
She had an awesome pedigree
Caprine aristocracy


The softest cashmere was probably hers
But this little goat was covered in burrs
For though she was a princess goat
She never cared much for her coat
And given half a chance would rather
Hang out where the sheep would gather
In amongst the apple trees
And burdocks, coincidally.

So now that it is harvest time
For cashmere she is shocked to find
Her combing is a tiresome grind

There is a tiny compensation
And that is how her daily ration
Has increased in straight proportion
To the time spent in the stanchion.

Cashmere Dreams Part Two

Spring is a ridiculous thing. You can't feel it. You can't smell it. You can't see it. You certainly can't rely on any calendar to tell you that it is here. It plays peekaboo with your senses, convinces you to leave your jacket behind and then sticks an icy hand up your shirt back. it's here nonetheless, and the animals on the farm don't seem to need a thermometer to tell them what's going on. We are putting extra sweaters on under our barn jackets to go out to comb, because, above zero or below, sleet or snow or balmy sun, the goats are losing it big time. Their cashmere that is. It must be in the light, the couple of minutes the earth's movement is tacking on to the beginning and end of each day, because, like a magic boon from our goddess of the pantry, the hens have decided that it is now time to lay as well.

Kashew is the cashmere all-star this year, with a harvest so far that fills a zip lock bag that is about the same size as the carry-on bag I took on my last plane trip. It's a big bag, but we're afraid to weigh it. A volume that would cover a table top might only weigh an ounce or two. It's a kind of cashmere miracle, but it's still hard to get over that discrepancy between volume and weight.

Kashew's success with cashmere production is probably partially due to our new stanchion. Last year we were more or less free combing, and Kashew, sensitive soul that he is, decided that being combed was just too restrictive iof his goat-ly freedom. He'd do almost anything not to be combed. Kilo would be lying across our laps like a contented dog, soaking up all the attention, and even Gabe, the angora goat with the tangled dreads would let us pick away at burrs in his forelock, but Kashew would be hiding under the car or hightailing it for the barn the second he even suspected there were combs about. So we didn't get a lot of his cashmere.

It's a bit of a race, trying to get the undercoat collected before it just floats away on the breeze or becomes so loaded with the overcoat's coarser hair as it sheds out that it's unuseable, but hey, it's a race in the right direction. Longer days, warmer temperatures, more eggs from our underworked and overpaid hens, a good crop of luxurious cashmere - what a life!

Cashmere dreams

Kilo is starting to let go of his coat. Good thing we got the stanchion built. I made a little donation to Fias Co Farm in thanks for the plans they posted on line, which we managed to adapt to the materials we had available, such as a helpful chocolate Lab.


This year, we're going to tackle this cashmere harvesting thing in an organized and methodical way. Yes sirree Bob. Those goats won't know what hit them. Wait - what am I talking about? We are about to set them up on a comfortable, dedicated stand, provide them with a personal serving of healthy and tasty treats, and lavish them with love and attention for a half hour at a time. Peace and love, my brothers. I mean like - wow - do I ever want to be a goat.

Meanwhile, we are plowing through last year's cashmere a microgram at a time, removing the nasty guard hairs that got in there partly because we waited a little too long to collect the last of this precious fibre. Check out the before and after photos of cashmere as we "de-hair" it. You can see the guard hairs in the un-dehaired sample.



What you can't tell from the photo of the finished bag is that, when you put your hand in there, you can't feel anything, just a warm sensation and an immense sense of cosmic well-being.



I'm telling you, forget chicken soup - you need a goat for your soul.