A Brief History

How did I get where I am, you might ask. It may have been in the DNA, or inspired by looking deep into a deep, galvanized, oval watering trough containing dozens of tiny, adorable web-footed creatures.

My estranged mother and father had geese (and bantham chickens, pigs, and goats), long before I was being read mother goose stories. The seven Toulouse geese in their flock were robust gray birds foraging between the pine and the cedar in the Pacific Northwest. After two wonderful years, they all befell a terrible fate during an ice storm, with no survivors. (Granny Goose says, "It felt like the Titanic." I said, "No it didn't," and she said, "Yes it did, you weren't there. Ask your father.")

Papa Pato (pato = duck, in Spanish) recalls nostalgically, "I came home one eve to witness all 7 of my geese mad as hell honking, flapping their wings and chasing the meter man down our hillside lawn.  Another time the gander stood out in the road and stared down cars blocking the road - they have more balls than brains - as they are totally defenseless.  And they are born pissed and hissing at everyone - except their mamas." 

Additionally, I think it had something to do with the book, Farm City, by Novella Carpenter. As her forays into animal husbandry in Oakland, left me yearning for my own farm.

 














I am still on the hunt for newspaper article of my great-great grandmother Arabella, who lived in Galesburg, IL, and raised prized buff Orpingtons. My mother found a photo of her standing in front of the hundred or so chickens she had with an article attached about the eggs she sold.

Jane with two of the Amercaucanas at 2 weeks old.