The Goat in the Mirror
This was one of Mama’s favorite pictures of me sitting on my great-grandma Pearl’s dresser. She saw her daughter. I have always seen a little girl who used to be me.
Looking closer I see . . .
- The lace of a handkerchief peeking out from a drawer.
- And the time – 7:22 or so.
- Shoes scuffed on the bottoms by a little girl who preferred moving to sitting.
- A barrette holding blond hair in place.
- A little girl looking at someone she knows.
Today, looking even closer, I wondered what I had in my hands. Then I looked at my reflection in the mirror and saw a goat planter that now sits in my cupboard. That detail is my favorite. Mama enjoyed telling the story about Grandma Pearl’s real goat.
He was a gift from her son Floyd. Mama said he saw the real goat in the alley behind a Greek restaurant and couldn’t bear the thought of the animal becoming the meat ingredient in a recipe, so he bought it and brought it home to his mother.
She named it Billy. He was kind to her but one day decided to butt my six-foot four-inch grandfather (Pearl’s son in law) behind his knees. When Grandpa Ed went down, Billy baaed as if satisfied with his efforts. Grandpa kept his eye on Billy from then on.
After Grandma Pearl left here for Heaven, Mama gave me the little goat I’m holding in this photo. It was wrapped in an old and yellowed newspaper. I don’t remember anyone telling me why she wanted me to have the goat, but I remember being glad she wanted it to be mine. Her goat sat in my bookcase with my Nancy Drew mysteries and Little House on the Prairie books and has moved with me many times.
I loved the goat planter before because it was hers. Today I love it a little more because it feels like Grandma Pearl considered it ours.
What a difference a goat in the mirror can make sixty or so years after a moment was saved. A moment now treasured.
Until Next Time,