Spring 2009

Learning How To Say No
Author: Jim Forster

Being a parent means you have to learn to say “no” to your children. Of course there are a lot of reasons for saying “no”. And there are many ways to say “no”. But it is something the experts teach you in Parenting 101. Well, I wonder where we went wrong. We’ve got four boys, now all adults, sort of. How did we get this far without learning this basic parenting skill? Grass Hill Alpacas was started in 2006 on farmland that has been in the family for over 100 years. It had not been actively farmed for more than 40 years. One day in the spring of 2005 David, our eldest, came to me and said, “Dad. This land is an asset that is going to waste. We really need to do something with it.” “Yes, son. I know. What do you have in mind?” “Well, I think we should start farming the land.” Here’s where the warning bells started going off. Nancy, my wife, certainly heard them. But I missed them. “I agree. But I’m insisting on three guidelines.” I told him. “First, I’m not doing it alone. Second, there has to be some sort of reasonable expectation of making money. And finally.....I’m not milking anything!” Over the next few months he did his homework and announced that alpacas were the future of the family farm. We spent the rest of 2005 clearing brush, putting up fences, and building barns. That fall Dave visited farms near his home in western PA (more bells) and bought our first alpacas which were to be delivered the following spring. Everything was going according to plan...we were improving the land and meeting my three guidelines. We were so excited when those first animals arrived. I slept in the hayloft the first night to be sure that the indigenous population of coyotes didn’t devour the neighborhood newcomers. Over the next few weeks the whole family was checking in with the alpacas every day. Dave even announced that he was applying for a transfer to a new position in NY, only 3 ½ hours away, so that he could be home more often to help. All was as it should be. Then winter came. Water became an issue. We now had to haul it in buckets from the house. And the snow came.. and came.. and came....The gates didn’t open anymore. The alpacas wouldn’t leave the barn. It was dark and cold and there were a hundred excuses why the boys couldn’t help. And David was out there in NY and, well, there were a lot of things a young man could do with his weekends other than come home and do farm chores. The hardest part about farming in New England is the winter. The nicest thing about farming in New England is that winter does end and spring happens. Life surged back onto the farm, and with it came the boys, all of them, with their friends. We built a new barn and put in new pastures...fun work. Life on the farm was as it should be. One day Dave called me and, during the course of the conversation, reminded me just how hard we had worked clearing brush. He pointed out how much it had grown back. “Dad, what we really need are goats.” (more bells) Now I did say no. Most emphatically, I might add. But he persisted and was quite persuasive, pointing out how they would help keep the land clear, eat all the poison ivy (“Remember, Dad, how you ended up in the hospital with that nasty case of poison ivy?”) and that ultimately we could sell the meat. How much more work would a couple of goats be? In May he called me to say he was picking up the goats that weekend. I asked him what he was going to do about a shelter. He said they didn’t need much and that he would put something up that weekend. “What do I have to do to take care of them?” “Not much, Dad. Give them a little grain once a day...and maybe a little hay. They’ll eat mostly brush.” “Anything else?” “Well, for the first week or so it would be beneficial to bottle feed them." “What! How old are these goats?” (the bells! the bells!) “They’re weanlings, Dad. You don’t have to do it. They’ll survive just fine without it. Well, one of them really should be bottle fed. She’s younger than the other two.” “Wait a minute....two plus one equals three. You told me we were getting two goats. We’re getting three?” “Oh yeah. I got an extra one.” That weekend the goats arrived. They were tiny and oh so very cute. Everyone came to see them, to pet them, to feed them. Just adorable. “So, Dave. In case somebody asks, what kind of goats are these?” “Nubians, Dad.” “Nubians? Wait a minute. I don’t know much about goats but I think Nubians are....dairy goats....not meat goats. Am I right?” (violation: rule # 3) “Yes, Dad. But you don’t have to milk them unless you breed them. They won’t be ready to breed for at least a year.” (bells....deafening bells) “Never! Do you hear me? We’re not milking anything, remember?” “Okay, Dad. Okay. Relax. Geez.” That Sunday afternoon he returned to NY leaving me with his concept for a shelter for his baby goats. Conceptually, they would be dry when the thunderstorm came. But in reality, I was madly trying to assemble a 10’ x 20’ canopy in the dark, in the rain, as the wind howled and the lightning snapped overhead. Then Monday came and I went down to do chores on my way to work, as is my routine. My time of peace alone with the animals. The goats met me at the gate, knowing that I came bearing milk. Three goats, three bottles.....two hands. It wasn’t working. Goats everywhere. Stop, wait your turn. No, don’t jump up. These are my office clothes....stop....arrgghh! Well, we adapted. And after 6 weeks (catch that?) the goats didn’t need bottles anymore. The barn got finished, cria were born, breedings got done. Dave moved to CT, only two hours away. And winter came and 2007 ended with me and the animals enjoying hours of peace alone together. And then this spring, I get another telephone call. “Dad. You know what we need?” “No, Dave. What do we need?” I respond wearily. “Guinea hens.” “And why do we need guinea hens?” “They live to eat slugs and ticks.” I said no. Honest, I did. I argued that I didn’t have time to build a shelter or take care of more animals. I argued about them pooping on the alpacas and ruining fleece. I argued that the neighbors (my mother-in-law) would object to the Jurassic Park-like squawking. He said he’d take care of the shelter...that they would roost there and not over the alpacas...and that she was hard of hearing anyway. Finally I said I didn’t have time to learn how to care for another species. “Dad, it’s not going to take you any longer to throw them some feed when you’re taking care of the rest of the animals? And I hate to think what would happen to the farm if you got Lyme Disease.” (he’s such a sensitive, caring son) Well, the guineas arrived and lived in our basement for a week. Then he took them to CT with him to live in his apartment (I can only imagine). Generous of him? A hint of a new-found sense of responsibility? Hardly, because later that week a box arrived at the post office with thirty (yup, 30!) chicks. Meat birds. We’re raising free-range chickens. First in our basement...then our garage...and finally in a temporary shelter in the field. Just in time for another box to arrive with six hens a-laying. So now we’re a farming family. We’re doing it together. Dave brings home the animals and we take care of them. Yes, we’ve got alpacas. And chickens, and guinea fowl, oh....I forgot to mention the bees, but they flew away...and dairy goats that we’re not milking. But I learned this year that you sometimes have to milk maiden alpacas and bottle feed cria. And a profit? We’re right on schedule, for 2010. So, back to basic parenting. I don’t worry about saying “no” anymore. They don’t bother asking. I guess I could have put my foot down. I could have said no right when Nancy heard those first bells. But then we wouldn’t be restoring the land from the ravages of time and neglect. We wouldn’t have beautiful alpacas that meet us at the gate looking for a nose nuzzle. We wouldn’t have goats bounding to meet us, rear legs ahead of front ones, ears flapping, just to have their backs scratched. We wouldn’t have met the people in the alpaca community that have become our closest friends. We wouldn’t have the times together as a family when we worked side-by-side to build a farm. And we wouldn’t have those quiet times at the end of the day, as the sun settles in the west, when we sit and reflect on what we’ve accomplished and dream of all that is to come. I didn’t say no. And it was the best thing I ever did as a parent.

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