Everyone must forgive me for being late posting my Monday story, but I had an experience at the farm cornfield maze where I’m telling stories on the weekend that left me emotionally devastated.
In between telling ghost stories about cute little witch girls and dead children trick-or-treating in Depression-era Texas, I wandered around Sweetfields Farm in Mazaryktown, Florida, saying hi to all my animal friends.
Tom Tom the Turkey had his feathers puffed out as usual, gobbling as loud as he could. He knows as long as he puts on a good show, he won’t be the main course at Thanksgiving dinner. Then I said hi to Rosie Moo Moo and asked her when her calf was to be delivered. Imagine how embarrassed I was to find out Rosie wasn’t pregnant at all, but had just put on a few pounds. The pigs were as frisky as ever and ran a good race to gobble up their Cheerios and Lucky Charms. Pamplona, Spain, has the running of the bulls and Mazaryktown, Florida, has the running of the pigs.
I wrapped up my tour by stopping by the goat pen. I hadn’t been standing long there watching the kids play when I felt a definite bump against the back of my knees. I ignored it. Some child accidentally bumped into me as they ran thither and yon. Then it happened again. This time it was hard enough to almost buckle my knees and knock me down.
Looking around, I wondered who the culprit was. I was getting too old for this kind of abuse. No one was there. The third time I felt the bump I fell into the fence. Still, when I looked around, no one was there. I was beginning to get irritated.
Then I heard a little kid bleating. He was mostly white with brown spots. Another kid, about the same size but all white, joined in, making it a bleating chorus. When the third one arrived, they were making quite a racket.
As I observed at them more closely, I realized they weren’t looking at me. Their little goat eyes focused right behind me, where all the butting was coming from. Right at that time, the hardest bumping occurred, and I was getting hot under the collar. Of course I was hot. It was the last weekend in September in Central Florida and not a cloud in the sky. What else would it be but hot? But I was actually becoming annoyed by the goat occurrence.
“What’s going on here?” I mumbled.
Now this is where it got spooky. I could swear the little kids were saying, “Granny Nanny Goat. Granny Nanny Goat.”
But there was no goat behind me, unless (gasp) it were a ghost.
“Am I being butted by the granny nanny goat of these kids? Bump again for yes.”
Sure enough, I felt another bump.
“Granny nanny, granny nanny,” the kids chanted.
“Are you a ghost goat?”
I got bumped again, but this time not as hard.
“Are these your grandkids?”
Another butt to the back of my knees. I was dealing with a granny nanny goat ghost.
“Am I standing in the way of your visit with your grandkids?”
Yet another butt.
“Well, excuse me for living,” I grumbled and turned back to my storytelling tent. I could swear those kids were laughing at me.