#remembering how when the bluebonnets were out there were a couple of places where

[whilomm]

theres something in the way that for a few short weeks every year we let the roads grow wild as the bluebonnets and all the other flowers take over and we take pictures of them and celebrate them but as soon as the bluebonnets die the lawnmowers come back and suddenly we're back to flat barren grass because the stuff that grows whwn the bluebonnets arent there is just ugly weeds who wants ugly weeds? no one duh. so bring out the lawnmowers bring out the tractors spend however much time money and manpower reducing the sides of every texas highway to a clean little lawn

[quissum-ego]

A Look At Whip It (2009) Through A Trans Lens

** A preliminary note: throughout this post, I will be referring to Bliss with he/they pronouns, both out of respect for Elliot Page, as well as the fact that it feels right for the character. You’ll see why. Thank you for understanding! (:

I rarely make my own posts on Tumblr, but this feels important enough  to deviate from that streak a little bit, since I think this is something more people should be talking about. Now, as some of you may know, Whip It is a 2009 comedy-drama film directed by Drew Barrymore. The film is an adaptation of the 2007 novel Derby Girl (a.k.a Whip It) by Shauna Cross. Both the film and the novel follow the life of Bliss Cavendar, a Texas teen pursuing their newfound roller derby dream behind the backs of their parents. While I am by no means saying the novel or the film intended for Bliss to be trans, as a trans masc person myself, I cannot help but pick up on the similarities. Let’s dive right in with some quotes from Cross’ novel.

There are a couple instances throughout the text where Bliss expresses a dislike for his given name. 

“ [ ... ] Bliss is not gonna cut it (I’ve been telling Brooke that for years.)”

Bliss’ struggle with his mother-given name and his complete awe at the fact that people (specifically the roller derby girls) so freely adapt an alternative name really hit home with me, personally. His feelings towards his birth name mirror the way myself and many of my trans friends feel, and these feelings were especially strong for me when I was around Bliss’ age. It is apparent that he has wanted a different name to better express himself for years, something that his mother looks down upon. 

On a similar note, there are multiple instances where Bliss wonders who he really is, and how he can find and reclaim his own sense of self. 

1. “I suddenly wonder what else I have in me that’s been stunted by too many years of pageant participation.” 

Bliss would have little-to-no chance to explore how he wants to present himself when around his mother, but the world of roller derby slowly begins to open that door. Leading a double life that his parents don’t know about becomes his ticket to exploring aspects of himself that otherwise might have been pushed down.

2. “In an effort to shake off the pink-suit residue and reclaim my personal identity [...]”

Bliss resorts back to what he feels most comfortable in (graphic t-shirts) in an effort to “reclaim [his] personal identity”. Instead of the traditionally feminine ways that his mother has come to expect of him, Bliss finds comfort in his personal identity that is the exact opposite. 

3. “Who are you [...]” “[...] I’ve been wondering that my entire life.” 

Bliss struggles with his identity, and obviously has for as long as he can remember. 

4. “You don’t even know me!”

“Bliss, you’re only sixteen. You don’t even know who you are.”

“I know I’m not Miss Bluebonnet [...] I know that much.” 

Bliss emotionally retorts to the fact that he may not know who he is with the fact that he knows he is not a pageant girl. The identity he has found through roller derby triumphs over the Miss America cage Brooke has tried so hard to secure. He knows who he is, and she can no longer dictate that for him. 

In the final two passages, Bliss’ parents begin to come around to the idea of him playing roller derby (an identity of his that feels like an ongoing metaphor for being LGBT). 

“But you - you’re Babe Ruthless.” 

“[...] she’s not only giving me my skates, but my freedom.” 

In the end, Bliss’ mother accepts that he has come to be “Babe Ruthless”, and in giving him his skates to compete, she is giving him freedom. Brooke has finally accepted that Bliss may not be the person she believed him to be, but she wants him to be happy regardless. 

“Not that Earl would ever say it, but I’ve always had a feeling he would have loved to have had a football-playing son. I think me playing Roller Derby might be the next best thing.” 

Earl would have loved to have a sports-loving son, and Bliss sees his love for roller derby as the next best thing. He is, in his own way, the son Earl never knew he had. 

The film adaptation of Whip It offers many great moments that carry this theme of roller derby being used as a metaphor for Bliss being trans. 

After dying his hair blue before an important pageant in what feels like an act of defiance against his mother, Bliss is saddened to return home from the hair salon with it all washed out. When Earl notices the family coming home, he exclaims, “Dang it, girl, what has gotten into you?” to which Bliss replies with, “Just defective, I guess.” 

Bliss feels defective in the world of beauty pageants because it is so opposing to who he is, and the life he wants to live. All he’s known thus far has been a complete 180 from himself, rendering him to feel out of place. 

When Bliss first sees the derby league out in Austin, he is instantly enamored. His wish to live as freely as they do and express himself away from his mother is what drives him towards wanting to join the league. 

After the game, Bliss expresses that the league are his new heroes. Maggie encourages him to be his own hero, to go out and live freely. 

The film evolves into Bliss leading a double life. His parents believe he is studying with an SAT prep group, while in reality, he is training and playing with the roller derby league. One life where Bliss has to practice for pageants, study, and be who his mother wants him to be, and a second life where “Babe Ruthless” can follow his heart and be himself. The more Bliss embraces his inner Babe Ruthless, the more confident he becomes, both on the track as well as in school, as he finally begins standing up to bullies. 

A key moment in the film comes when Bliss’ parents discover his roller derby promotional poster, and his secret double life becomes a lot less secret. The dialogue throughout the scene feels heavily trans-coded, particularly as Bliss cries out for his mother to “[...] stop shoving [her] psychotic idea of 50′s womanhood down [Bliss’] throat”. Bliss explains how he knows his parents wouldn’t have accepted the life where he feels he is truly himself, and the confrontation ends with them parting ways, and Bliss temporarily running away. 

After reconciling with his parents and agreeing to participate in the pageant, Bliss initially believes his roller derby dreams to be a thing of the past. On the night of the pageant, however, Bliss’ father warms up to the idea, and seeks out Bliss’ teammates. They all arrive at the venue of the pageant to surprise Bliss. 

When Brooke (naturally) disagrees with Earl’s change of heart, he expresses that he “[...] can not taking losing the chance for (our) kid to be happy.” 

His parents make it to the game, and end up coming around to the fact that this is who Bliss is, and perhaps who he has always been. After the match, Bliss meets up with his mother to talk with her. 

She comes to terms with the fact that she can’t change what Bliss is going to do in life, and he expresses that he needs to know she can accept him. She admits that it will be hard, but ultimately she will try, which is all that Bliss truly hoped for. 

The film closes with Bliss’ mother reading his pageant speech and putting away the custom gown (perhaps accepting that this chapter of their lives has closed), Earl putting up a Babe Ruthless sign on the Cavendar’s front lawn in support of their kid, and Bliss sitting atop the Oink Joint, seemingly at peace with this newfound joy in his life. He has found himself, and found what he truly loves doing, and he now knows that he has people in his life who support him through and through. 

All in all, while I am aware this is just one way to interpret the film, I wanted to share my thoughts because this has made his film truly special to me. If you haven’t already, give the film a watch. It is more than worth your time. I’d love to hear your thoughts, if you picked up on any of the same themes as me, or what you thought if this post ended up encouraging you to watch the film.

Thanks for sticking around and reading to the end. You’re the coolest. (~:  

[goldeneyedgirl]

JaliceWeek20 Day 4

Hand in Hand

JaliceWeek20 Day 4: Domestic Bliss

Notes: Another day, another very, very loose interpretation of the theme because I enjoy being contrary. This is kind of a post-script to the Angel/Demon prompt, Afterglow. 1.5 to go! (oh my god, am I actually going to finish every prompt?)

Word Count: 1,554

--

If you had told him back in the Wars that one day he’d be sitting on the porch of an old Victorian in Maine with an actual Angel on his lap, eating a cookie the size of her head and explaining the significance of Dior’s New Look to him from a magazine that he suspects weighs more than she does, well, he would have thought you touched in the head and destroyed you on sight.

Especially if you included the fact that he loved her more than anything in creation - past, present, and future. And she loved him just the same.

But that is exactly how he finds himself on that late summer afternoon.

She looks up at him with a guilty smile. “You don’t care about this at all,” she murmurs, closing her reading material.

He chuckles at her. “Of course I do.”

“No you don’t,” Alice looks down at the magazine, her fingers stroking the cover. “It’s silly.”

“It’s not silly, and I do care, because you do,” he says, covering her hand with his. “I’m glad you’ve found a passion.” Esme has begun teaching her to sew, to draw up simple patterns, and Alice has been a quick study. Even now, the pretty green dress she’s wearing is one that she sewed herself, complete with daisies embroidered on the hem. He remembers the rank grey rag she was wearing the day he found her. She was beautiful then, too, but this dress, this life, it’s all what she deserves.

He is rewarded with a beaming smile. “Tell me about your day,” she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear. It’s been years since he found her, and whilst her hair has grown somewhat, it has never grown longer than her chin, delicate, shiny little waves he loves to stroke.

It’s been several months since he finally accepted the inevitable and kissed her, admitted he loved her, and let her convince him that the only person who decided the worthiness of the man at her side was her, and she had always thought him plenty worthy of her attentions. The family had reacted as expected when their courtship was revealed - Carlisle had been smug but overjoyed for both of them, and Esme’s delight had filled the room. Edward had been mostly disinterested, though Jasper was sympathetic when he felt the boy’s cold loneliness in a house full of couples. Emmett had high-fived Alice - apparently the man had been privy to Alice’s very patient and tolerant pining, whilst Rosalie shook her head but quietly said something to Alice that made her smile.

Their courtship has been slow - Alice’s memories from before he met her are mostly lost; she still has no idea how she came to be in Philadelphia, who or where her family were, anything that came before. She remembers a few little cultural things from angels - a little of the language that she claims are mostly insults and swears, and a couple of songs - but nothing substantial. Which is to say, any possible love affairs are utterly forgotten, and in her mind, he is her first (and only and true) love, and her very first kiss. And whilst he is, frankly, impatient to get to other ‘firsts’, he lets her set their pace.

They have all the time in the world.

He tells her about school; contemporary mathematics remained illusive when the school year officially ended, so twice a week he goes to the high school to catch up on those classes - with Emmett in tow, just in case. The whole thing is an exercise in futility - one class, and he was already caught up, but the act is important. And he tries not to be too dismissive, when Alice remains locked up tight in the house, too inhuman to be allowed at school just yet when she is so desperate to be apart of the world, to be hand-in-hand with him at every moment of the day.

Her wrist catches his eye, and he pauses in his story to inspect it closer. The celestial tattoos that adorn both her arms from wrist to elbow have settled into a silvery-grey colour, and are adorned with a tangle of flowers and stars and symbols. But one thing he noticed, and she already knew, is that they change - fading and twisting and reforming, to tell a new story. There were columbines dotted over both arms when they first met, but now they are all but gone. Today’s addition is another rose - but whilst the other rose on her arm is a blossom in full bloom, this one is the flower and stem complete with thorns, curved around the blooming rose, the iris, and the carnation.

“Another new one?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to it.

“One I am grateful to receive,” she says mysteriously. She’s never offered an explanation or a translation to the markings, despite blatant hints from Carlisle, but she seems to remember, or at least understand. He knows it’s a proper language, or some kind of map - he figures he might be able to decipher it all if he ever gets a proper peek at the rest of the tattoos - he knows of the ones that sit on her along her collarbone, and run down the length of her spine. He’d very much like to get the opportunity to memorise those ones.

She flits inside not long after, ostensibly searching for food - she had shocked them all with her odd feeding habits when they first arrived, going for days with nothing before eating the entire contents of the fridge in six hours. Her obsession with sugar that once lead to Esme being quite shocked to discover her sitting on the kitchen table, drinking from the honey jar. He thinks it’s adorable, the rest of them think its funny - Emmett almost always has a lollipop or candy bar on hand for her.

He watches the sun sink below the horizon, listening to the hum of voices inside the house, and he thinks back through the years. Back to before the Cullens, before Alice, before Philadelphia. To his misery and loneliness and total lack of purpose. That hollow space has long since been filled - with the love that he shares with Alice, the affection and respect that he has for the Cullens, and for the mental peace hunting animals has brought him. But he doesn’t forget where he came from, how long and hard that road was.

There are the familiar light footsteps as Alice returns, her magazine and cookie both missing, but her lips stained with some kind of berry juice. Her tongue darts out to lick it off as she delicately leaps back into her place in his lap with feline grace and certainty.

“You’re out here all alone,” she says, her arms threading around his neck. Night has begun to settle in, and the weather is comfortable - she notices it more than he does, so he’s become intensely aware of the temperature to make sure she doesn’t get too cold or too wet or too warm. She laughs at him, but he can’t help it. Being able to take care of her like that is a gift he will never be worthy of. “Unless you want to be alone?”

The rest of the Cullens are aware of how… mercurial he can be, and are careful not to crowd him without the certainty they will be welcomed. Alice is more attuned to him, his gift carefully looped around her so that they are always aware of the other, of how they are feeling. Jasper will never admit to anyone but himself, when they are curled together and she is sleeping, that it’s a wonderful feeling, to know and have her like that. But that link is enough for her to know, and Alice never resists just asking him what he wants.

“Never,” he swears, pressing a kiss to her cheek that makes her beam - she smells like the warmth of the kitchen, and fresh fruit, and clean cotton and a million different things. Some are human things that should repulse him, but instead he just revels in the memory of Esme’s joy of baking for someone, and Alice’s delight in each cake and cookie and muffin. “There’s not a single moment I can think of that cannot be improved by your presence, darlin’.”

“Sweet-talker,” she grins, but the slight blush on her cheeks tells him the flattery has done its work. It’s true, though; he looks forward to the times in the future when they will be together more often, when he won’t have to leave her behind every day, but instead go hand-in-hand together.

And as she settles back against him, a familiar warm weight tucked against him with her head on his shoulder with faint strands of sleepiness, contentedness and affection drifting to him, he catches a glimpse of the markings on her collarbone, of a Texas bluebonnet woven around a magnolia, and he really cannot fathom how he manage to deserve this fate - to be allowed to be this peaceful, this happy…

This loved.

And so, he sits there and watches the night pass them by, as his angel sleeps on his shoulder. A good night, a good life indeed.

[ecotone99]

[RF] An Absence of Wildflowers

For the first time in her life, Joan rode into her favorite campsite and found no wildflower in sight. She couldn’t remember a time she’d ever looked out the window and didn’t see a Texas Bluebonnet or an Indian Blanket or a Brown-eyed Susan. Yet there was nothing, only a field of green grass and the clear blue lake ruffling in the wind.

The campground was nearly deserted. A few loyal campers remained but were quickly packing their things into their RVs, attempting to beat the incoming storm. Keith drove until he found their reserved spot. He switched off the engine and the two surveyed the area before getting out. They had practically the whole campsite to themselves, save for the family of four about 100 yards down.

Joan stared at them longingly and Keith looked over at her. “You okay?” he asked. His voice was gentle, comforting. He rested his hand on her knee and peered at her with his soft eyes. But Joan kept her focus on the family, the small children riding their scooters back and forth in front of the camper. She couldn’t bear Keith’s sympathy. Not today.

“I’m fine,” she quickly answered. And before he could argue, she opened the passenger door and slipped out of the truck, leaving Keith’s hand to flop down onto the empty seat. Joan started unloading their things from the truck bed, unwilling to look up when Keith slowly walked towards her. She knew he would try to stop her, to talk to her, to calm her down. She waited for his hand to find her shoulder. For his voice to whisper her name in her ear in that loving way that sent chills down her spine. For his worthless attempt to convince her that everything would be alright. She swallowed and urged herself not to lose her temper with him. But to her surprise, he only stood for a moment looking at her, then joined her in unpacking the truck.

After a while, the tension between them was nearly forgotten. They continued unloading in silence while Joan enjoyed flashbacks from the camping gear. Pulling out the stakes and tarp reminded her of her father when he had finally agreed to teach her how to set up a tent. She had messed it up the first time, failing to hammer in the stakes properly and finding the shelter sideways and loose. But he hadn’t let her give up, and after several more tries, she had erected her own tent, perfectly straight, and her father had called her a “true camper.”

She unpacked their pots and pans and remembered how her mother made the most savory chili on their small camping stove. She’d mix in the ingredients one-by-one as Joan stared at the pot in awe. When it was finally ready, she would shovel each scoop into her hungry belly. And she’d always laugh when her father dipped his mouth into the bowl to show off a chili-covered mustache.

But somehow, the items were different now. The stakes were curved and more rusty than she remembered. The pot was grimy with flakes covering the bottom. And the campsite itself didn’t seem as magical as it once had been when she and her father fished from the dock 20 feet below. Now it was just a dirty plot of concrete, used countless times, scattered with the remnants of families before them.

It didn’t take long before all their gear had been unloaded and set up. Keith had been a camping virgin the first time she took him while they were still dating. He hadn’t known how to build a fire or tie a proper knot until Joan had expertly taught him from her years of experience with her family. And after their five years together, he had finally gotten the hang of it, setting up camp almost as skillfully as she did.

It became a common thing for the two of them to go camping together. Every long weekend or holiday, the couple would pack their things and drive down to the little park and enjoy a few nights out in the wilderness. It wasn’t until their third trip, noticing Joan’s uncontainable joy, that Keith had asked her why she loved camping so much.

“It reminds me of family,” she said. “Of hiking with my dad in the forest and singing campfire songs with my mom. You just connect with people out here. You remember what’s important in life.”

After that, Keith started to hold Joan a little closer on their trips, and from his almost unseen side smile, she could tell that he was starting to feel it too.

But there were no smiles to be seen that night while the two roasted their hotdogs over the blazing fire. Each sat opposite each other, distant and out of reach, with Joan lost in thought, nearly burning her dog to a crisp.

There she was. Just four years old and struggling to roast her hotdog without dropping it into the fire. Seeing her trouble, her father had sat down behind her, pulled her onto his lap and held her hands around the stick, relieving her of the unbearable weight. They had sat there listening to the fire crackle and watching the sparks shoot into the night sky. She thought there was nothing more delicious in the world until her mother pulled out a large bag of Jumbo Marshmallows.

She and her father sat patiently as they roasted her first marshmallow. Suddenly, it caught fire. It was completely covered in flames, turning black inside the yellow inferno. “Daddy, it’s on fire!” she’d shouted. But her panic was short-lived. He blew out the marshmallow with all his might, leaving it free of flames but slightly charred. “Oh no! It’s ruined.” Her bottom lip stuck out and she crossed her arms in disappointment.

But her father stood up and placed it between some graham crackers and chocolate. “No, Joan.” He knelt down and handed it to her on a small plate. “It’s perfect.”

Returning to reality, she realized her hotdog was well overdone. She sighed and slid it into a bun. It was no problem. That was how she liked them anyway.

The silence was broken after she took her first bite of the ketchup covered delicacy. “Keith, do you have the marshmallows?”

He stopped chewing. His eyes went wide. “Shit, I completely forgot.”

Joan felt her heart sink. “But…how can we camp without marshmallows? We have to have them, Keith!” She could hear the hysteria in her voice but found it hard to mask.

“Sweetheart, it’s okay. We don’t need them.” He spoke carefully, like he was trying to calm a wild animal.

“Yes, we do! It’s not camping if we don’t roast marshmallows by the fire!” She knew she was being unreasonable, but she couldn’t help it. Marshmallows had always been a part of the camping experience, and if they didn’t have them, then they were practically hobos.

Keith sighed and brushed his hand through his hair. Joan could tell he was trying to stay calm. One of them had to be. “I can go grab some from the nearest store, I guess.” He stood from his lawn chair.

Joan looked at the burnt hotdog in her hand. The charred skin had flaked off onto the plate and the bun was mixing with the ketchup, turning to mush. “Wait.” She dumped the remnants into the fire. “You’re right. We don’t need them.”

“Are you sure?” His voice was still so soft, like a warm blanket he tightly wrapped around her. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah. I’ll be okay.” She had lost her appetite anyway.

~

The rest of the evening passed in an uneasy silence. Joan wished it could’ve been one of those peaceful silences, the ones where they both held each other close and enjoyed the sounds of the campfire, when she rested her head on his shoulder and couldn’t think of a warmer place to be.

But agonizing thoughts raced through her mind, dragging her through endless torment. She stared at the fire, waiting for some kind of reprieve that never came. Behind the light of the flames, she thought she saw a wildflower, a bright blue glow, just a few feet beyond their plot. But at second glance, she saw that it was only a piece of plastic stuck to a blade of grass.

By far, her favorite camping activity was picking wildflowers. She’d spend hours finding the prettiest ones then brought them over to her mother who would bundle them up and place them in a special vase used as a centerpiece for their camp table.

Since she started camping with Keith, she would bring the vase herself, scour the area for the most beautiful flowers she could find, and arrange them for the table. It was a tradition she wanted to keep alive, for herself and whoever came after.

When the fire started to die down, Keith finally stood up and made his way to the tent. Joan quickly followed, unwilling to face her thoughts alone, and slid into the sleeping bag beside him. Her eyes were heavy, but she knew the voices in her head were too loud for sleep. She closed them anyway, praying for some kind of merciful hand to wipe her mind clean.

Before long, Keith turned over and pulled her body towards his. She kept her eyes closed, hoping he would assume she was asleep and leave her alone. But they shot open at the sensations from his lips rolling up and down her neck. She sighed as his hand slid down her bare stomach and inner thigh.

“Keith, not tonight.” She tried to pull away, but he only moved her closer, wrapping his leg around hers as his lips began to nibble at her ear. “Babe, no.”

He silenced her, taking her lips captive with his own, kissing her both gently and deeply. She wanted to give in, to let him fill her broken heart with his unconditional love. But it would be no use. Her heart was frozen. She pushed him away. “I can’t.”

He stopped and opened his eyes. They weren’t the selfless, caring eyes she was used to, but panicked and hurting. They looked as if they were begging her to understand. “Joan, please. There’s still a chance.”

She was speechless. Anything she said would only tear him apart, snip the last string of hope that he’d somehow managed to hold onto. She couldn’t stand to see him like that, much too close for comfort to the way she felt inside. She pulled his face back down to meet hers and let him take her fiercely under his arms. And as he desperately pulled her shirt over her head, she closed her eyes again and tried to hear his breath over the deafening screams of her soul.

~

She had been right about her insomnia. Keith had moved back over to his side of the tent and fallen fast asleep hours before, and she had been staring at the ceiling, thankful for the droplets of rain falling on the tarp that happened to distract her every now and then. She guessed it must have been at least 2:00 AM, and she hadn’t slept a wink.

She sat upright, careful not to wake up her snoring husband. She slowly unzipped her sleeping bag and slipped out of the tent. The rain had lightened up, and she decided to walk over to the lake. There was nothing better for her to do anyway.

After a few minutes, she walked by the camper with the small family. On the street lay the scooters the children were riding when she and Keith had seen them the day before. She walked over and picked one up. It was pink with silver tassels, rainbow stickers scattered across the front and a name etched into the handles: Erica.

She smiled and placed it in a dry spot under a tree, thinking about how beautiful Erica must look riding her little scooter. She turned and continued her walk as the torturous memories started to replay.

It had been six days since the appointment. Six days since she and Keith had visited the doctor who ripped her apart. Six days since their dreams had been crushed like lone ants on the sidewalk.

It’s a very rare condition...Only happens to a handful of women…Possible but unlikely…You’ll probably never be able to have children.

She hadn’t said anything. She’d kept her mouth shut as his words turned into the broken records that now played in her head over and over again. Keith had fought tooth and nail for a better answer, stammering, threatening, begging. But she hadn’t heard any of it. The new words in her mind were much too loud.

They’d been trying for years. Each pregnancy test that came up negative brought her a little lower to the ground, but Keith was unwilling to give up. Months went by with more and more disappointment, and by the time they’d made the doctor’s appointment, Joan felt like she was looking up from the floor.

It was something they’d both wanted for so long, a little baby to call their own. She’d wanted a girl and Keith wanted a boy, but Joan knew that deep down, her husband wanted a daughter to spoil. And now every hope they had was gone, burned to the ground and blown away like ashes. And it was all her fault. Well, not technically her fault, but she was the one with the problem. She was the one who took away his dreams of dressing up with his little princess or playing catch with his future all-star.

Joan had finally made it to the water’s edge and gazed quietly at the stillness. She found a dry patch of land and sat. The rain seemed to have stopped for a second, making the water look more like a solid crystal. She took a deep breath and sighed, hugging her knees to her chest. She thought about jumping in, wondering if the shock of the freezing water would free her mind.

Instead, she decided to skip some stones. “Remember to throw it sideways.” She saw her father’s arm swinging out towards the water, tossing a rock that bounced four times.

“Like a frisbee!” she’d said. Her father laughed and nodded. Joan had thrown it as hard as she could, never getting a bounce. She’d finally skipped it three times when her father had taken her hand in his own and perfectly casted the stone onto the smooth water.

She’d mastered the skill now. Easily getting in four, five, six skips. She reached for another and, realizing she was all out, pulled her legs back into her chest and rested her chin on her knees. She should probably get back to the tent. Keith could have woken up and been worried about her. She moved her hands to the ground and right as she started to rise, she heard a faint whimper.

She stopped, turning her head towards the brush, wondering if she’d finally gone crazy. After a moment, she heard a similar whine, louder this time. Walking over towards the bushes, she moved them carefully to the side, frightened at what she might find.

She moved a few branches out of the way, and suddenly she saw it: a small bunny laying on the dirt, cut open and bleeding. Her stomach dropped. Its small belly was slashed open, spilling its contents onto the ground. It must have been attacked, but for some reason, it was still here, left to die.

Joan’s panic was uncontrollable. This bunny, this small innocent creature, could not die. It wasn’t right or fair. She took the two sides of its open wound and desperately tried to pull them together. The bunny writhed in pain, pulling away but unable to stand. Blood covered Joan’s hands, and although she did everything she could to push it away, in came the worst memory of them all.

She was sitting on the bathroom floor, the tiles covered in a thick sheet of blood. The pain in her abdomen throbbed as she ejected more and more blood and tissue. She had tried to hold it in, to push it back with her shaking hands. But nothing could stop it from pouring out.

Keith had been at work, but she screamed for him anyway, begging him to save their miracle that was dripping from her fingertips. And little did they know that the bleeding would mark the end of their once-in-a-million chance. That they would never get one again.

The rabbit squirmed under her touch, each attempt at saving it resulting in more pain and blood. The tears in Joan’s eyes started to blur her vision. “No, no, no! You can’t die! You can’t!” The whimpers turned to horrific moans, and after the bunny let out a bloodcurdling shriek, she finally let go.

She couldn’t stand its cries anymore. She couldn’t take the pain in her heart or the agony she knew the rabbit was feeling. (but she had to stop its pain) There was no point trying to save what was already long gone. She turned away, sobbing as she found the biggest rock she could find. Turning her eyes the other way, she hammered the rock down onto the bunny. She crushed it, pound after pound, until the whines finally ceased, her violent weeping the only sound in the forest.

She dropped the weapon, unwilling to view the damage she’d done, and looking where she found the rock, she saw a single wildflower, smushed flat into the earth. Her bloody hands rose to meet her face once again, staining her cheeks along with the tears that never stopped.

​

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[alexsanchezbressler-blog]

Reports from South Texas, 1995-1999 (fiction)

1. Facing east toward her door of peeled white paint, Gladys genuflects the air an arm’s length in front of her with an eight-inch kitchen knife. She is cutting clouds.

It’ll be fat rain today, she mouths.

She wears a simple night gown, purple silk with a pink hibiscus print. The slippers on her feet used to be white. Her hair used to be black. Her face is long from wearing heavy skin, and the ridge of her brow casts a soft shadow over sunken eyes and gated eyelids. When she hears the gentle topple of a plastic cup coming from the back of her home, her right ear flicks back half a centimeter, and she knows in her bones that someone has broken into her house. She waits on the living room couch in silence, a broom to her left, the eight-inch knife to her right. Her body sits mute, save for the lonely scuffle of slippers on wood.   “I know that you’re back there. Come out now.” The hollow cluck of the fallen cup remains the only sound from the back of the house. Gladys pictures it now: a stranger, forty, one scar on the peak of his right eyebrow. No gun, only rings. He wears work boots and there’s paint on the jeans his father used to own. He will push her around if he must. But this is not the figure that walks into Gladys’ living room, silent and barefoot on the linoleum floor. This is Eric, only a boy. He has chocolate on his face and will now be led back home to his mother. ¡Víborito! — 2. Ray Gomez would like a loan on his homework. He’ll study later, with interest. — 3. Cardenas’ Grocer on the corner of Culebra and Bandera. That’s where Maria has been sent to pick up novelty shirts for her father’s side of the family. “Maria, why don’t you get them something to remember this place by, huh? Something original”—Maria’s mother, Patty, says that last word in Spanish, filling it with air rather than the hard clunk of a “g.” It is the first time Maria has heard her mother speak Spanish in months. “Get them the shirt with the lime-green print and the black background. I used to wear those suckers for days.” In the corner of the house, Maria’s niece Carmen is picking up small porcelain rabbits and placing them on the floor. Everyone lets Carmen do her own thing—she has a bit of a speech impediment, and she often has trouble communicating what she needs to say. It’s easier, what with both sides of the family converging in the two-room family home, to leave Carmen be with her bunnies. “Yea. They were loco for me at Cardenas’,” and Maria bites her lip one sinew too hard trying not to pity her mother. The walk to Cardenas’ is hot, so Maria makes a game of trying to read billboards through the heat waves rising from the pavement. She crouches on her knees to get the right angle. Bill Miller Barbeque. Maybe she’ll buy a wet brownie and some sweaty tea. Mario’s Bakery. Or perhaps she’ll snag an empanada. She knows the town well enough, but it’s been a while since she’d walked around the West Side. The whole family is in town for her grandmother’s funeral—including her father’s very Jewish relatives. They are fine people. They will go to the Riverwalk and sit with the other tourists, each holding a menu larger than a map of the United States. They’ll see the Alamo. They’ll learn that the Alamo didn’t always have the signature façade you see on stamps and brochures, that it was only added when someone figured out how to make money from all the death that happened there. They’ll see the Tower of the Americas after the wake for Maria’s grandmother. All the while Maria will explain to them why, yes, she is aware that the job market for English majors is rough in this economy, that, yes, she has heard about Teach for America. Maria buys three T-shirts of thin cotton. She thinks about how she has grown up half-Jewish, herself. She knows the prayers: Barukh ata Adonai…and so on. Every holiday season was spent with a multi-colored Christmas tree in the corner and a menorah by the window. Maria enjoys spending time with the Jewish side of her family, in their element of the D.C. suburbs. But as she makes her way back from Cardenas’, Maria peers at a Fallas Paredes discount clothing store and St. Jude’s Cathedral. This is not Bethesda.

When Maria arrives back at the house, the whole family is lined up ready to take a photo. “Ay Maria! We didn’t forget you. We were just setting up, that’s all.” The family glistens like fish in a barrel.   Maria walks over to stand by her sister. She leans over and whispers through a couple inches of black curl: well at least Mom’s having a good time. Maria’s sister nudges her with her hip, all while holding Carmen who has been saying jeez jeez jeez on repeat for the past five minutes. “It’s cheese, honey. Chuh. Chuh.” “So, Patty, tell me. What was it like growing up here?” This from Daphne, who wears a new hat with an embroidered logo of the Texas state flag and a slogan that reads, Everything’s Bigger in Texas. “It was fine. I used to have these little dolls, like these knock-off American Girls. I’d go out back and play nurse with them, and I’d get these huge roofing nails, maybe three inches long. They were left over from when my Dad first built this place. Anyway, I’d have these dolls, and I’d say, ‘Allllllll better,’ and I’d stick ‘em in the arm with one of those nails, just like a Tetanus shot. Ha! We made our own fun.” “That must have been so hard, Patty.” “What?”

Maria makes time to see the backyard. When she was alive, Maria’s grandmother was a meticulous gardener, and she’d curated a gallery of bluebonnets and sunflowers, tomatoes and pears. These days it is wilderness. Maria has to keep her feet moving, rather than risk having fire ants coat her calf. The blue metal swing-set that Maria and her mother both grew up on is now rusted and hidden beneath a sheath of vines and leaf litter. A mop lays strewn in the middle of the cacophony, and when Maria picks it up, it remains stiff in the same flayed position it had on the ground, frozen in time and stale microfiber.   From the corner of the yard a rooster emerges, reminiscent of a velociraptor amidst all the weeds. Maria remembers stories about her grandmother and the neighbors. Like that one time when her grandmother saved a kid from the fighting cocks next door. They say he was bleeding and on the ground, a massive beak tearing at his arms, blood and feathers springing forth like dust from that dirty kid in the Charlie Brown series. They say Maria’s grandmother leapt over the fence and ripped the boy from the cage, that she stared down the cock, and with an air of finality she glared at the animal: No. Me. Toques. Maybe this rooster is the progeny of those original fighters. Maybe this one is related to the brute that almost took out that kid. Maybe not. Maria stares at the animal for a moment, and with a swift yank of the arm, she whips herself into a straight posture, and salutes. “No me toques, little chicken!”

Back inside the house, Maria could have sliced the air with a kitchen knife. All her tíos have congregated in the back room, flipping through old family photos. Patty and Carmen, who still holds a porcelain bunny, remain with three or four members of family-cum-tourists, as Maria’s father has gone out to buy ice. “Jeewwws. Jeewwwss.” Maria bites her tongue, stifling a laugh. Patty stops explaining what a telenovela is midsentence. She whips around to see Carmen standing with a small pout on her lower lip, as she repeats her soft incantation: “Jewwwsss. Jeewws!” “Carmen! Stop that right now. Right. Now.” Conversation resumes. Maria sits down by the window unit and listens in. “So when did you first learn English?” Daphne digs her toes into the foam of her flip flops as she waits for a response. Patty takes a sip of Snapple iced tea. “Well I grew up with it.” “Yes, but how is what I’m asking.” “Jeewwwss. Jeeeewwwwws!” “Uh. I don’t know, I just kind of talked to people?” “They didn’t have ESL at your school?” “I didn’t need ESL.” “Mama, Jews. Please, Jews.” “That must have been so hard, Patty.” “What was so hard! I spoke English!” “JEWS!” Everyone looks at Carmen then, as she stomps on the ground in her bare feet. Patty is on the verge of giving her some Benadryl to fall asleep quick. Daphne cocks an eyebrow, wondering what kind of education this kid is getting. Maria sits near the cool air, watching as a tear falls down Carmen’s face. And Maria says, “Honey, do you want your chanclas?” Carmen melts in relief. And Patty translates: “Oh. SHOES!”

— 4. Gary lives on Calle Valencia. It is a short strip lined with squat houses and metal fences that, when shaken, sound like tin jingle bells. On this street people drive at a slow crawl, rolling the pace at which a cigarette eats itself. The stray dogs demand such attentiveness. And yet, there are those who insist on driving in haste down Valencia, causing mothers to grip and pull their children toward their hip. Once, Gary was out by the chain-link, looking to grab the mail. He wore a green bathrobe with purple socks on the street textured like a concrete Pollock. He left small bits of cotton fray in his wake: breadcrumbs on a familiar route. As Gary grabbed the mail, a tan Chevy and a faded red pickup the shade of a rooster’s beak drove past—hood to hood—as one driver zoomed backwards and the other nudged him along. From above, you’d see something vaguely homoerotic about the whole scene: two front license plates, kissing, unabashed and speeding forty down Valencia, all while the cotton puff of Gary’s hair swiveled and judged as he gripped the daily mail. Today, a dog leaps onto a fence, shattering the chain-link with a moan.   — 5. They say la matanza, the slaughterhouse, steals the sense of smell. But it didn’t take one cent more than that from Ramón.

Ramón lies on a twin bed, ninety-six and sporting a full head of gray hair. His room is an anachronism: a vintage spring bed framed by a chrome IV drip, chipped paint lit up by the small green and red blips from his family’s phone chargers. Even his breathing, which is thickened by a swollen tongue, sounds ancient against the sharp tin beep, beep, beep of his heart monitor. “A Sunkist, please. Will someone please get me a Sunkist.” Ramón is old enough now that his words begin to lose their definition when he speaks—will hun-wun get me uh zun-kids—blending together like the last ninety-five years of his life. His grandson, Danny, flits into the room like a squirrel, holding a small orange soda in a glass bottle. Danny places the Sunkist on Ramón’s dresser next to a full cup of cold coffee without making eye contact. At the last moment, Danny turns, catching the yellowed porcelain of Ramón’s sclera, and he runs out the room with only a few slips from his slick crew socks. Ramón settles into his bed, keen to the clips of sound that flood his last room.

“You should spend more time with your grandfather, Danny.” “Ok, Mom. Okay—he scares me, though.” “He’s just old, he won’t bite. I promise. Listen. When he had his stint in the Navy, he was a chef. When he came back home, he kept cooking for the whole family, he was so used to it by then. We’d all be sitting in the living room and he’d walk in—you know how lanky he is, he’s a tall guy—with a tray of twenty biscuits. And he’d also make this toast with meat and gravy on it. Called it SOS. You know what SOS stands for?” “Save Our Ship, right?” “Nope. Shit On a Shingle. Or so he tells us.”

Ramón never quite falls asleep. He is thinking. He thinks about the last time he saw his friends, and how they remain so perfect in his memory (Billy’s curl of hair falling on his left eyebrow, Miguel’s beer belly growing rounder by the year). He remembers the white plaster of their work uniforms, the puff of double-sweaters layered underneath. The clear plastic masks that covered their faces from the splay of cattle blood. The cattle blood. The relentless pff, pff, pff of air bullets, stunning the animals into unconscious spastic kicks. The large drains that pocked the floor of la matanza. He remembers the knuckle punches they gave each other at the end of the day, small tokens of intimacy sterilized by the thick of industrial rubber gloves.

“I know that you are hiding there.” Danny freezes up on the other side of the wall of Ramón’s bedroom—how did he know I was hiding here? Ramón licks his cracked lips, waiting to see if his grandson will come in the room. He does not. I hid once, thinks Ramón. Yes, I hid from her. Ramón glances at the bed across the room, empty now for three years. He shuts his eyes, searching for the truth of their first encounter… …Break time, twilight, la matanza. They are standing under the orange halogen that isolates the break porch from the dark night. Miguel slips a flask from the pocket of his innermost sweater and shakes it in front of Ramón’s face with a cheeky grin and wide eyes. Ten minutes chatting pass. From the edge of the clearing, beneath a flurry of pecan trees, Ramón is the first to spot her. A woman. Ramón taps Miguel’s arm with the back of his hand, gesturing toward her with the flask. The woman begins to walk toward the porch, hips swaying, eyes locked in as if they were tied with taut fishing line to the boys on break. When Ramón squints, he swears that she is looking straight at him, but with his eyes unadjusted to the night he cannot tell for sure. The woman’s legs begin to shuffle, closer, closer to one another. She does not fall to her knees: she melts. Her arms collapse to her side—what in hell, mutters Miguel, who begins to trip back toward la matanza—and the woman’s skin takes on a scaly gleam. Her body attenuates, and she slithers, the diamond of her head and the ruby of her eyes still locked on Ramón; she is staring at Ramón. Una víbora, por Díos. Miguel is gone. Ramón is stock-still, frozen in the white plastic muffle of his sterile uniform. That is, until the woman sticks out a forked tongue, long and body-pink, sharp. She becomes an eight-foot green viper. Ramón runs and hides inside the chrome warehouse of la matanza.

But this is only his memory now. In walks Danny with a tray of street tacos bordered by three quartered limes. Ramón remembers a time when he could smell food in the house. He remembers when all he could smell was the scent of cattle hide. He remembers when he could only feel the pull of air on the walls of his nose. But the tacos taste fine enough.

“Danny, do you know how your grandpa and grandma met?” “No, Mom, I don’t.” “Well, my Mom loved to tell this story, so here it is. Apparently, she was watering flowers out by her front yard, over at her old home near the slaughterhouse. You remember I showed it to you? She’s minding her own business and up comes your grandfather. He stands by her flowers, staring real close at this butterfly—a monarch, I think. “Naturally, Mom asks, ‘Can I help you?’ “And your grandfather, so smooth, keeps looking at the butterfly. He says, ‘I bet these butterflies traveled thousands of miles, just to smell your flowers.’ And Mom tells him, actually, they’re drinking the nectar. That they’re hungry, so they have these long tongues that unfurl to drink up the flower. And Dad looks at her right in the eye, and they fall in love right there.” “Seems a little weird to me.” “Yea, well, it was the ‘50s.”

The clicks and beeps of Ramón’s machines become frantic. Ramón is silent, but his eyes remain wide as he stares at the spin of his faded white fan. Danny and his mother are by his side. Tears, tears, prayers, and candles. The callouses of Ramón’s hands are rough on Danny’s palm. The whirs of machine begin to fade. His last breath in: a hard rush of air through the nose. His last breath out: a small mutter, a prayer, and a greeting. Mi víbora, mi víbora, mi amor. —

[notthe9-blog]

The Piano

My grandmother owned a white baby grand piano that had yellowed grossly after years of sitting in her smoke filled living room.  There were little dents and dings in the legs and on the back side where you could see where it had been painted before: the same green as my auntie’s BMW, a dingy red, and black.  I always marveled at the fact that even one person thought to paint a piano, nonetheless 4 different people. Granny had little cherubs all over her house and had found these little gold cherub decals with various swirls and frills that she adorned to the soundboard above the keys. They are now brassy-brown, flaky silhouettes. 

Granny was always very proud of her piano. She toted that it was the same one that Engelbert Humperdinck had, and that there were only 4 or 5 of them in the world.  As a child, I could have cared less who he was, but the comical name always stuck with me. Granny never learned to read sheet music, but she could play complex 4 part harmonies by ear: once I asked her to play “The Star Spangled Banner” which she slung out in full voicings.  I didn’t realize then how complex that song actually is, and it still baffles me that after 2 years of ear training in college I couldn’t possibly just sit down and play all of those secondary dominant chords by ear.  It amazes me. She taught me how to play, and at least how to identify the notes on the staff, before she gave me a children’s book of Christmas tunes. I played them mostly by ear, I’d have to go in and write down every single note.  

--

Granny’s piano came from the Bluebonnet Hotel, which used to be the tallest building in my town, but they tore it down with a wrecking ball in the 70′s or 80′s (then the tallest building was the hospital across the street, but that was torn down about 10 years ago too). Granny’s house was just right up the hill from downtown, so it was a straight shot down Washington Street to the hotel.

She read an add in the paper one day that they were selling the piano for $100 (which I suppose was a lot more money then, but still pretty cheap for a baby grand piano).  Her husband was at work, but she wanted it pretty badly, so she rang down to the hotel and informed them her husband was buying it for her and to have it delivered in the evening and he would give them the check upon delivery.  She had just had white carpet put throughout the whole house, so she threatened them with their lives to wipe their feet before the movers tracked mud in the house.

She didn’t tell her husband at all, and sure enough, the movers came in the evening to deliver the piano and my grandfather was baffled why they were delivering a piano they claimed he purchased when he had no recollection of having bought a piano (one would certainly remember).  He caught on that it was an “act now, ask for forgiveness later” gesture from his wife and went ahead and bought it and had it brought in.

I always loved that story, it made them sound like such a cute couple and made my grandmother sound like such a cute, mischievous housewife. The hotel was torn down, and a one-story bank with a big parking lot was built in its place, but the pavilion overlooking the river is still there.  The piano is my pavilion: my grandmother came to hate me, and I learned that her husband had a mistress, and everything came tumbling down in the rubble, but I inherited her piano and the imagery stays the same.

--

I couldn’t remember where to put my hands, so we put little gold stickers with the names of all the keys all the way down the piano (which I now realize is a crime against art to have put stickers on ivory keys).  I learned to play chords, and eventually when I joined band I learned how to read music, and it all came sort of easily to me.  If it weren’t for her and the piano, I don’t think I would be who I am today. 

[josephkitchen0]

Poisonous Plants for Goats

Goats are expert foragers but they can’t eat everything. Recognizing poisonous plants for goats avoids disaster. Kat Drovdahl answers reader questions regarding poisonous plants for goats.

Are Oak Tree Leaves Poisonous to Goats?

There are approximately 80 species of oak trees. We are going to be focusing on three general groupings of them: Quercus alba or white oak; Quercus velutina, which is black oak; Quercus kelloggii, which is California black oak; and red oak which is Quercus rubra in the northern states, and Q. falcata in the southern states.

The red and black oaks can be identified by very sharp pointed tips on their leaves. The white oaks have rounded tips as you will note by the photos of both leaf types. White oak leaves will turn bronze, yellow and brown in the fall. Red oak leaves will turn red, and black oak leaves can be red, yellow or brown with dark grey to black bark. Areas can have a mix of several types of oaks. I found two locations in my yard and orchard where I have seedlings of both types (whites and California blacks) growing within 10 feet of each other.

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White oaks (sporting rounded leaves) are the most common oak used for medicinal herb purposes, but all types of oaks can be used, but black and red oaks tend to cause problems if overdosed at lower amounts than white oaks. Now having said that, consider that amounts used for medicinal purposes are much, much smaller than a hungry goat can eat in one outing, especially if it isn’t regularly fed and well fed.

A regular herb dose of white oak (the inner bark dried and aged for a year) would be about ½ of a tablespoon for a 100-to-200 pound goat. Green leaves, external or unaged inner bark, young twigs, oak galls, and green acorns will have higher amounts of tannins in them. It is these tannins that can be overdosed. These parts can be made into an infusion (herbal tea) and used EXTERNALLY if needed to wash wounds or sores as well as to help clean out pus or infected wounds.

The astringency of the tannins will help the tissue to pull itself together tighter, which helps to squeeze out pus as well as being somewhat antiseptic. It will also help the body to “close” injuries a bit more and help the body to stop some bleeding from wounds. I would caution about using green or young plants or young parts internally, as they are just too tough on the system.

Aged white oak inner bark can help the body deal with some diarrheas, help soothe the GI tract, add calcium with supportive minerals to the diet, as well as being a gentle tonic to the body in regular doses. It can also help the body remove pinworms, help the body deal with venom and help stop bleeding.

Livestock, including goats, can and do overeat leaves, twigs and acorns. Keep this in mind when raising goats for milk. At the very least you can expect your dairy goat to reduce milk production, which is probably not what you want. This can happen if leaves blow into their pasture or a branch breaks and gives them sudden access to a moderate amount of leaves.

It’s also common for leaves to find their way into water buckets and tanks, which will make an astringent tea and reduce water palatability which reduces water intake and thus milk production. The tannins in the oaks also reduce milk production so you can have a double whammy going on here. Too much tea, too strong of tea or consuming too many of the green or young tree/young growth parts can result in GI tract problems including irregular bowels and colic (pain and/or bloating), no milk production, lethargy and enterotoxemia.

High amounts of tannins can also be tough on the renal (kidney) system. Although the fall colored leaves or ripe acorns cause fewer problems, animals that eat large quantities of them can still run into issues. Also consider that oak trees seem to be a haven for ticks and make it difficult for pasture grasses to grow well due to the tannins that oak trees put in the soil around their roots. This in itself is a good reason to decrease the number of oaks or even eliminate them in your goat area.

At our farm our herd has some exposure to oak. We find that in the fall, our young goats race around the far pasture two or three times per day to try to scarf up any new leaves or acorns that have fallen to the ground before the mature does get to them. It’s quite a sight but shows me that they relish these treats.

To avoid any problems, here are some things we do on our farm and perhaps some of them are feasible for you. We don’t have oak trees in our pasture or paddock areas, but our neighbors have a few mature white oak trees that hang over part over our fences. My husband and I took the tractor around our fence perimeter a few years ago and sawed off some of the branches that hung over our fence so that there aren’t any within reach of the goats. This limits or eliminates their access to the young growth and green leaves.

The other benefit is that we now don’t have to worry about low branches grabbing us when we are riding our horses. We also make sure our goats have had about an hour to eat their nice quality alfalfa hay before we turn them out to the larger pasture. This ensures that they are getting what I want them to eat for good milk production and that they are much less likely to overeat on their treats as they move around with hay filled rumens.

They are also only accessing the fall leaves and acorns that drop, not the green or young parts that cause greater problems. Since there are only about five trees that have branches overhanging our fence, we don’t get a large drop per day and we have about 15 goats to share in those goodies. If you have several trees in your pasture or just a couple of goats, then they still may eat more than would be good for them.

I also make sure that they are back into their paddock at least four hours before milking so that we don’t get oak flavored milk. Because our wind usually comes through our neighbor’s oak area before it gets to our place, we do have to check our water tanks and buckets for oak leaves and dump and refill if we get leaves in them.

So… oaks are not poisonous plants for goats, but they can cause toxicity in moderate to large amounts of white oaks, and in lesser amounts with black or red oaks, so it is best to limit your goats and other livestock’s exposure to them if possible. Also remember that moderate amounts usually will have a negative impact on milk quantity and flavor.

Are Poison Ivy and Sticker Plants Harmful to Goats That are Eating Them?

Yes and no. The vast majority of goats and other livestock such as horses can eat poison ivy without any harmful effects to them. However, if a person touches their hair with the ivy oils on, they may get a reaction from it. Nor should one ever burn theses as the ouls then become airborne and will cause a rash in the lungs, which can cause serious respiratory issues.

Goats also can successfully eat some plants with stickers. How they consume plants like star thistle and blackberry is still a mystery to me, but they can and do, much to the delight of their owners trying to eliminate such plants from pastures.

One still must be diligent to watch for mechanical damage caused from such plants, such as damage to the udder, eyes, skin, or mouth though most of that happens from plants that have dried out, which should be removed before goats gain access to the live growing plants.

Our own personal experience has shown us that foxtails (barbed seed heads in some grasses) cause much more grief. We’ve removed many from goat eye area tissues over the years. We are thankful to have left those, and their risk of eye infections in goats, behind in Oregon!

Water hemlock (Conium maculatum) flowers

I’ve Seen Conflicting Information on if a Goat Can Eat Water or Poison Hemlock. Can They?

Yes and no. We are talking about two of the most toxic plants in North America here. While a healthy goat may be able to ingest a little of either of these plants and not have an outwardly visible effect to us, we need to be careful. My very well fed, alternative-raised and cleansed, healthy goats would nibble on the very tips of these plants when we lived in Oregon. Not eat them or indulge in them, but only occasionally sample them.

My goats had rumens and GI tracts that were operating at high efficiency and were already full on their morning’s hay before they went out grazing and sampling.

If a goat is not metabolizing well, is ill or stressed, aged, a kid with an underdeveloped rumen, has GI deficiencies or is hungry and eats more than a little, I would expect some problems or worse. This plant will start paralyzing the body internally first by shutting down the nervous system. If I noticed any goat at any level of shutdown, my first course of action would be to get cayenne tincture down them immediately to try to wake up the nervous system. Then I’d put them on a cleansing herb blend to help their body break down and move the toxins out of their organs, tissues, and bloodstream.

Yew tree (Taxus cuspidata).

What are Other Poisonous Plants for Goats do I Need to Watch Out For?

There is a very long list of plants that are poisonous to goats, as well as other livestock, available online. Some of the more common ones include several that are common in landscaping, depending on where you live. Oleander, mountain laurel, rhododendrum, azaelia, lily of the valley, larkspur, delphinium, foxglove, some lupines (bluebonnet), braken or brake fern, many mushrooms, groundsel, tansy, and yew.

Yew is so toxic that usually the victim is found dead with the first or second mouthful still in their mouth. Prunus species trees and shrubs are cyanogenic when leaves are in any stage of wilt. Right now, fresh leaves and leaves completely dead do not have the cyanogenic compounds flowing through them which are responsible for suffocating their victim as the oxygen in the bloodstream is tied up.

Prunas species include all of the tree/shrub fruits containing pits such as cherry (fruiting, ornamental, choke), plums/prunes, apricots, nectarines, peaches, and the like; including wild versions of the above.

The largest chance of exposure often is in the fall when leaves start blowing off the trees and into pens of greedy goats, who readily consume them.

Keep a lookout for these poisonous plants for goats on your homestead. May your beloved caprines be healthy and well!

Katherine Drovdahl authors Kat’s Caprine Corner of Goat Journal, focusing on the holistic side of caring for goats. Do you have a goat health question? Email them to goatjournal@gmail.com and they may be used in our next print issue.

Poisonous Plants for Goats was originally posted by All About Chickens