The well traveled road upon which my childhood home is situated, bore witness to me as a boy, that people are always headed somewhere. Night and day it mattered not, determined travelers were constantly making their trek. Their passing vehicles would often give me pause to wonder who they were and where their pilgrimage was taking them. One Christmas, a different kind of traveller made his way through our town and he found his way on the path in front of our home.
His chariot was not splendid, but it mattered not to me as I heard his approach heralded with the clanking of bells and a chorus of whining sounds. The Goat Man set up his encampment within a throw of our front yard. As his goat pulled ramshackle wagon found its resting place, he stepped down dressed in an animal skin coat looking like the shepherds in the dime store manger scene I’d admired at Darling’s 5 and 10. I was sure he would smell like them too. His greying beard came to a point somewhere around his navel and he had obviously missed his Saturday night bath. The twenty two goats infused the chilled December air with his same scent. Bible in hand, I watched as he tacked a sign on one of the tall slender pines next to the road. The sign pronounced to those slowing down to take note of the sight of him and his entourage, PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD! After nailing the placard in place, he stood up on a stump. He then proceeded to open his tattered Bible and as he channeled the words of John The Baptist, he read “Prepare ye the way of the Lord!”
By now onlookers had pulled off the road to form a congregation of curious witnesses. Many in the crowd muttered under their breath like they new who he was. The bleating goats offered their chorus in glad reply to his proclamation, forming his amen corner. His fiery message was not like any Sunday sermon I had ever heard at First Methodist. He offered not only his message to us, but a taste of goat’s milk which made the Welch’s Grape Juice served at the communion rail at my church pale in comparison. Situating myself close to the iron wheel of his wagon, I could see its contents. Looking closely I spied a paperback copy of one of my favorite books, Robinson Crusoe. “Read that book boy?” he quipped. “Yes sir I shyly replied. “ “ I got Crusoe’s itch for wandering . My goats and me want to see all 48 states, and Alaska and Canada. All them places better get ready to meet the Lord. He’s a coming soon and next time it won’t be as as little ole baby. These here goats will recognize him sooner than a lot of these here people in brick houses that go to them tall steeples on Sunday morn. I’m just gonna keep on wandering every where I can til he gets here.” ‘Where you from?” I asked. “Oh all over the place, but Twiggs County is where I hung my hat the longest. But I got to keep moving till He comes back. I had to admit to myself that there was a secret longing in me to join up with his band, to hitch my wagon to his. That night as I pulled up the quilt on my bed, I could see his kerosene lanterns illumining that chilly night through my bedroom window and the goats were bleating a lullaby that soon lulled me to sleep.
The days waned fast and my own wanderings found me in Macon, Georgia as a robed and collar clad preacher. Those days had receded in my memory, although when I ran up on John the Baptist in the Bible, clad in animal skins and living off locust and honey, something would take me back to that December day. I had heard that in 1970 Charles McCartney known as The Goat Man had been attacked by three young men while he slept in his cart. Two of his favorite goats were killed. The Goat Man had retired to Jeffersonville. And then on another waning December afternoon I found myself serving communion to residents and members of Mulberry Street Church at a local nursing home. After praying over the communion elements, I began to move around the circle of wheel chairs serving the gathering one by one, when before I could intone the words ‘The Body…The Blood of Christ” a blue haired messenger whispered to me, “That’s The Goat Man next to me.” And there he was. Shorn of his beard. Goatless. Made respectable in a flannel shirt, yet his dog eared Bible in his lap, I bent toward him. Before I could speak a word his eyes though aged with cataracts looked into mine and as if I were being transported back to that December afternoon of my boyhood , I heard him say “He’s coming back.” And he was right. You see, that December afternoon He had for me.
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
CHRISTMAS WITH THE GOAT MAN
CHRISTMAS WITH THE GOAT MAN
The well traveled road upon which my childhood home is situated, bore witness to me as a boy, that people are always headed somewhere. Night and day it mattered not, determined travelers were constantly making their trek. Their passing vehicles would often give me pause to wonder who they were and where their pilgrimage was taking them. One Christmas, a different kind of traveller made his way through our town and he found his way on the path in front of our home.
His chariot was not splendid, but it mattered not to me as I heard his approach heralded with the clanking of bells and a chorus of whining sounds. The Goat Man set up his encampment within a throw of our front yard. As his goat pulled ramshackle wagon found its resting place, he stepped down dressed in an animal skin coat looking like the shepherds in the dime store manger scene I’d admired at Darling’s 5 and 10. I was sure he would smell like them too. His greying beard came to a point somewhere around his navel and he had obviously missed his Saturday night bath. The twenty two goats infused the chilled December air with his same scent. Bible in hand, I watched as he tacked a sign on one of the tall slender pines next to the road. The sign pronounced to those slowing down to take note of the sight of him and his entourage, PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD! After nailing the placard in place, he stood up on a stump. He then proceeded to open his tattered Bible and as he channeled the words of John The Baptist, he read “Prepare ye the way of the Lord!”
By now onlookers had pulled off the road to form a congregation of curious witnesses. Many in the crowd muttered under their breath like they new who he was. The bleating goats offered their chorus in glad reply to his proclamation, forming his amen corner. His fiery message was not like any Sunday sermon I had ever heard at First Methodist. He offered not only his message to us, but a taste of goat’s milk which made the Welch’s Grape Juice served at the communion rail at my church pale in comparison. Situating myself close to the iron wheel of his wagon, I could see its contents. Looking closely I spied a paperback copy of one of my favorite books, Robinson Crusoe. “Read that book boy?” he quipped. “Yes sir I shyly replied. “ “ I got Crusoe’s itch for wandering . My goats and me want to see all 48 states, and Alaska and Canada. All them places better get ready to meet the Lord. He’s a coming soon and next time it won’t be as as little ole baby. These here goats will recognize him sooner than a lot of these here people in brick houses that go to them tall steeples on Sunday morn. I’m just gonna keep on wandering every where I can til he gets here.” ‘Where you from?” I asked. “Oh all over the place, but Twiggs County is where I hung my hat the longest. But I got to keep moving till He comes back. I had to admit to myself that there was a secret longing in me to join up with his band, to hitch my wagon to his. That night as I pulled up the quilt on my bed, I could see his kerosene lanterns illumining that chilly night through my bedroom window and the goats were bleating a lullaby that soon lulled me to sleep.
The days waned fast and my own wanderings found me in Macon, Georgia as a robed and collar clad preacher. Those days had receded in my memory, although when I ran up on John the Baptist in the Bible, clad in animal skins and living off locust and honey, something would take me back to that December day. I had heard that in 1970 Charles McCartney known as The Goat Man had been attacked by three young men while he slept in his cart. Two of his favorite goats were killed. The Goat Man had retired to Jeffersonville. And then on another waning December afternoon I found myself serving communion to residents and members of Mulberry Street Church at a local nursing home. After praying over the communion elements, I began to move around the circle of wheel chairs serving the gathering one by one, when before I could intone the words ‘The Body…The Blood of Christ” a blue haired messenger whispered to me, “That’s The Goat Man next to me.” And there he was. Shorn of his beard. Goatless. Made respectable in a flannel shirt, yet his dog eared Bible in his lap, I bent toward him. Before I could speak a word his eyes though aged with cataracts looked into mine and as if I were being transported back to that December afternoon of my boyhood , I heard him say “He’s coming back.” And he was right. You see, that December afternoon He had for me.
The well traveled road upon which my childhood home is situated, bore witness to me as a boy, that people are always headed somewhere. Night and day it mattered not, determined travelers were constantly making their trek. Their passing vehicles would often give me pause to wonder who they were and where their pilgrimage was taking them. One Christmas, a different kind of traveller made his way through our town and he found his way on the path in front of our home.
His chariot was not splendid, but it mattered not to me as I heard his approach heralded with the clanking of bells and a chorus of whining sounds. The Goat Man set up his encampment within a throw of our front yard. As his goat pulled ramshackle wagon found its resting place, he stepped down dressed in an animal skin coat looking like the shepherds in the dime store manger scene I’d admired at Darling’s 5 and 10. I was sure he would smell like them too. His greying beard came to a point somewhere around his navel and he had obviously missed his Saturday night bath. The twenty two goats infused the chilled December air with his same scent. Bible in hand, I watched as he tacked a sign on one of the tall slender pines next to the road. The sign pronounced to those slowing down to take note of the sight of him and his entourage, PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD! After nailing the placard in place, he stood up on a stump. He then proceeded to open his tattered Bible and as he channeled the words of John The Baptist, he read “Prepare ye the way of the Lord!”
By now onlookers had pulled off the road to form a congregation of curious witnesses. Many in the crowd muttered under their breath like they new who he was. The bleating goats offered their chorus in glad reply to his proclamation, forming his amen corner. His fiery message was not like any Sunday sermon I had ever heard at First Methodist. He offered not only his message to us, but a taste of goat’s milk which made the Welch’s Grape Juice served at the communion rail at my church pale in comparison. Situating myself close to the iron wheel of his wagon, I could see its contents. Looking closely I spied a paperback copy of one of my favorite books, Robinson Crusoe. “Read that book boy?” he quipped. “Yes sir I shyly replied. “ “ I got Crusoe’s itch for wandering . My goats and me want to see all 48 states, and Alaska and Canada. All them places better get ready to meet the Lord. He’s a coming soon and next time it won’t be as as little ole baby. These here goats will recognize him sooner than a lot of these here people in brick houses that go to them tall steeples on Sunday morn. I’m just gonna keep on wandering every where I can til he gets here.” ‘Where you from?” I asked. “Oh all over the place, but Twiggs County is where I hung my hat the longest. But I got to keep moving till He comes back. I had to admit to myself that there was a secret longing in me to join up with his band, to hitch my wagon to his. That night as I pulled up the quilt on my bed, I could see his kerosene lanterns illumining that chilly night through my bedroom window and the goats were bleating a lullaby that soon lulled me to sleep.
The days waned fast and my own wanderings found me in Macon, Georgia as a robed and collar clad preacher. Those days had receded in my memory, although when I ran up on John the Baptist in the Bible, clad in animal skins and living off locust and honey, something would take me back to that December day. I had heard that in 1970 Charles McCartney known as The Goat Man had been attacked by three young men while he slept in his cart. Two of his favorite goats were killed. The Goat Man had retired to Jeffersonville. And then on another waning December afternoon I found myself serving communion to residents and members of Mulberry Street Church at a local nursing home. After praying over the communion elements, I began to move around the circle of wheel chairs serving the gathering one by one, when before I could intone the words ‘The Body…The Blood of Christ” a blue haired messenger whispered to me, “That’s The Goat Man next to me.” And there he was. Shorn of his beard. Goatless. Made respectable in a flannel shirt, yet his dog eared Bible in his lap, I bent toward him. Before I could speak a word his eyes though aged with cataracts looked into mine and as if I were being transported back to that December afternoon of my boyhood , I heard him say “He’s coming back.” And he was right. You see, that December afternoon He had for me.
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