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My parents decided in 2005 that it was time to leave Avalon. My mother's family has owned summer homes down there since the 1890's, and they were living in a house which my grandfather purchased for his parents in 1938. With the real estate market out of control on the island, I listed the house for sale. The asking price was one thousand and 29 times higher than what my grandfather paid for the land.

Once the house went under contract, my mother began looking at houses in earnest, until she found the one she wanted in Rural Pennsylvania. About a year after they had moved, my mother was antsy about the fact that I never came to visit. So I loaded up the Subaru, and trundled across New Jersey, through Philadelphia, up route 309 and the suburbs, west towards Harrisburg, exiting at a smaller State Route heading north. Passing through rolling hills, over one lane bridges and corn as high as the sky, I enter the cool wooded valley that signals I am almost there. Driving up the twisting road I exit the woods, and continue rising higher to the peak of the ridge where the new house is located. The view is spectacular. The house is positioned overlooking a Rockwellesque valley of farms and small hamlets at the base of an ancient glacial deposit stretching across the state.

My mother is thrilled that I have made the trip, and has a whole long weekend of events planned for me. Dinner, drives etc. My father is just happy that I am there, and he wants to show me around as well. He is making friends with the Pennsylvania German folk, and loves the fact that he can speak German whenever he wants, and with everyone he sees.

I awake early the second day to a bleating braying coming from my parents orchard, and a whining yowling yipping coming from the German Shepherd pacing in the yard below my windows. Stumbling to the shower I quickly clean off and wander to the kitchen to see if anyone knows what has the dog so agitated. The dog is now frantically bouncing around in the living room, whining and pacing back and forth, his excitement is quite comical.

I look out the window of my bedroom to see if any of the cars are in the driveway, when I see my parents off in the orchard, so I slip on some shoes and head out into the morning. Walking closer Both of my parents are squatting, legs spread wide making circular motions with thier arms. WTF? I think, this should be interesting. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"SSSSHHHH, don't scare them, 2 of them already fell down the hill into the woods" my mother replies. "What fell down the hill?" I ask. "The goats" she responds, "They're drunk from eating the rotting apples under the trees."

OK , now at this point I think, when did my parents get goats, and where the fuck are they keeping them? Why are the damn goats drunk at 8AM? AND , most importantly, Why is everyone else squatting like a Cambodian woman giving birth in a fields except for me?

As if anticipating the thoughts about to burble from my lips, my mom informs that "They belong to the nice people in the valley. I think they make cheese. You like goat cheese, why don't you go with your father, maybe they will sell you some while I try and get them into the yard. OH shit, there goes another one!" Watching a third drunk, stiff legged goat tumble down the hill and into the scrub, prompts my father into action, and he asks me if I am ready to go down the road.

We jump in his truck and off we go. I have no clue where we are, what direction we are going or how long it is going to take to get there. I know that they "Just live at the bottom of the hill next to the Mennonites that drive, and behind the lady with all the dogs" Thanks Dad, Is that right on the corner of Overthere and Downthestreet?

We pull up at a beautiful old house with multiple barns out back and ring the bell. My dad THINKS this is the house, I am assuming he saw driving Mennonites and said OK we're here! The door gets answered by a handsome man in his mid forties, who says in accented English,"Yes, Can I help you?"

At this point my father says, "Gruß Gott" and launches into a LONG German conversation, which veers from "We just moved here a year ago, to I am amazed at how similar your German is to the German we spoke in Romania where I was born, to I have your drunken goats in my orchard, and my squatting wife is attempting to herd them into the yard"

I finally say, "Dad, my German is terrible anymore, Can we please just speak English?" My father says, "Oh, OK, sure you don't mind do you?" "Oh not at all" replies the Goat Farmer. As we talk we discover that they don't make cheese and the goats are for slaughter only. They sell almost all the meat to Jamaican Jerk Shacks all over the country. My father then starts yammering away in Pennsy Dutch again about what time do you want to pick them up, and there are three in the woods below the house, we may need a tractor.

I say "DAD! Please, it takes me too long to translate Dutchy to German and German to English in my head, can we just speak English?" He defers to the goat farmer one last time, and my father says, "I just figured it would be easier to speak the way you grew up." To which the Goat Farmer replies," Oh you speak French as well? I moved here 25 years ago from Quebec."

Needless to say, feeling incredibly stupid, we beat a hasty exit from the non German speaking, goat slaughtering, non cheese making French Canadian man. He arrived later in the day, retrieved his now marinated and tenderized critters from our property, and pretty much avoided the crazy people at the top of the hill. You know the ones, they live between the peach orchard and the bend in the road, yeah where the Wild Turkeys roost at night.