The Pasture of My Life

The Pasture of My Life(Gus Robison) The Pasture of My Life
(A descriptive essay that creates a verbal image of my well-cared for pasture at home.)
By Gus Robison

There is no other thing, no other place, no other activity that makes me feel most like myself, a farmer, than the pasture. If someone were to stumble upon my pasture by accident and decided to explore it, he or she would have a very peculiar experience. Let’s take a closer look at my domain.

On first glance, the pasture gives too many details to be even called first glance. The nose identifies how the pasture reeks of the many smells of the earth: the unbearable manure, the fragrant grass, the hay, which soon will ignite hay fever. Better stop sniffing! The eyes catch many different sights. There are many white sheds, but what do they contain? Bright green grass appears to cover every square inch of the pasture ground. The pasture could be called a forest for its numerous trees scattered across the land. The predominant, yet puzzling feature, is a giant fence splitting the pasture into two, like an axe splintering wood into pieces. What is being separated? While straining to hear over the hum of passing trucks, the ears are able to sleuth out many noises. Goats are bleating constantly, chickens are clucking without end, horses are whinnying occasionally, and cows are lethargically, deeply, incessantly mooing. What are any of these animals saying?

Upon closer examination, the pasture and its buildings are not what they seem. A shed contains an odd contraption that sits in the corner on a bench, accessible by ladder, stretching across the entire shed. The front of the shed has hay strewn across it, and at the edges of the hay is a fence, so it seems to block off the entrance. What could this be for? Two more visible sheds appear to be for housing animals, for they have comfortable-looking hay floors and dog beds as clean as a new copper penny.

Hiding in a thick tree line sealed off by a tall fence is a peculiar little pen. The pen has some sort of coop, complete with an egg pen and a small playground, containing many intricate wooden swings, ladders, and inexplicably, baby toys. There is a plastic feeder for water, and a metal one containing cylindrical, brown, grainy-looking food.

The ground is covered in a thick layer of dirt, sawdust, and corn kernels. The rest of the pen has two dirty, stinky, brown dog-beds. In the middle of the pen is a little gray playhouse, certainly abandoned, for it has spider webs, dirt, and dust covering every square inch. The last noticeable detail is that the pen contains many shiny metal feeders, some containing fluffy yellow hay, others containing crystal-clear water.

Tucked behind one of the sheds is a suspicious-looking fenced off area. Metal gray rods encircle yet another white shed. Are they locking something up? Within its confine is an unexpected sight: a tiny red and black coop, and two of its residents. Two smaller chickens, one black and yellow, and one brown and white, are roaming their miniscule kingdom. The young chickens’ delicate feathers are soft to the touch. Beside them is an even smaller, weaker, black chicken in a small blue cage only slightly larger than its resident. It is crowded with sawdust, a small red, plastic water feeder, and a metal food trough.

Finally, tucked between a few tress in the back corner of the pasture, is a little brown wood cabin. Climbing the stairs to the door, an inflatable chair comes into view. Inside, the smell and taste of dust becomes overwhelming, so it must have been forgotten. The cabin contains two bunk beds closely packed together like sardines in a can. The cabin has a scratchy wooden floor, eaten away by age, neglect, and termites. A lamp hangs on a hook, overlooking the two bean bags below it like a sentry. Outside the door, the sight of a massive pile of firewood packed together, fuel for the fire pit that reeks of char and marshmallows, comes into view. This cabin must be a camping cabin!

The last thing to notice in the pasture is the many plump goats on each side of the fence. The colorful goats have many different designs: mono-color, stripes, or even different spots in brown, yellow, black, and even red; horns, no horns, tall goats, small goats, large floppy ears, small, microscopic, almost unnoticeable ears. Some have ear tags, but why? The goats have shaggy, smooth, fluffy, or even soft coats. There are so many different goats! Patting the goats causes their fur to release dust, and it tastes like gravel and mud, so spit it out! Being the hungry pigs they are, they might start eating someone’s clothes, even yours, so stay away from them!

The sights seen on the exploration of my pasture, which incited questions for others, all have a unique meaning to me. First, the layout of the pasture has a purpose. The fence that splits the pasture is actually a divider between the big goats and the small goats, so the little goats don’t have to fight for their dinner.

The many peculiar sheds are scattered around to evenly spread out certain tasks. Some sheds hold food chests, others are for shelter. The shed with the interesting device is actually a nursing pen for new mothers and newborn kids, so they can eat and live peacefully.

The machine is actually a milking station. It unfolds, creating another bench and stanchion. The goat’s head slips through the keyhole and she is coaxed into standing still to be milked without escaping.

The isolated area, which is near the nursing pen, is, coincidentally, an isolation pen for sick goats. The shed connected to it holds goat and chicken feed. The roaming chickens are Rogue and Phoenix, and the caged one, Storm, is actually hurt and needs to stay alone to be safe from the other chickens for a few days.

The coop in the hidden pen is a chicken coop, with small water dispensers and feeders for the younger chickens.

Another meaningful feature of my pasture is the abnormal pets that roam it. The freely roaming chickens are named Rachael, Janice, Phoebe, and Monica. The goats are Ethel, Ricky, Lucy (she gave birth to a kid recently named Jackson), Dawn, Dusk, Donut, Momma, Dot, Clyde, and Bonnie, and each has a personality ranging from spoiled princess, to herd queen, to extremely shy. The ear tags are market tags. What are the goats saying? I can’t answer that. Only a farmer would know. A farmer spends time with the goats. A farmer shows the goat what is friend and what is foe. A farmer is a sort of “Goat-whisperer.” Only a true farmer spends enough time with the animals to understand what the animals are saying. That is why I can’t say what a goat is saying to someone who isn’t a farmer – because only a farmer would understand.

Overall, the pasture is more than just some piece of land. The pasture is a place I built with my own two hands to deliver animals, nourish animals, and frolic with animals, so I know what it’s like to raise animals. I’m always there to support it. I’m still improving it, and it always has room for improvement. How do I know? I can’t tell anyone that. Yet again, only a farmer would know. A farmer knows when his land, his work, needs to be fixed, or when his friends, his animals, need more nourishment. The pasture is a place that’s unique to me: a barn animal raising, hay kicking, hard-working person, a farmer named Gus.