I’m in pajamas, slippers, & a light corduroy jacket, in a downpour with 60 mph gusts. & I’m wielding a chainsaw. No, these are not the opening words to my confession of a killing spree. There are some who might not put it past me, but I continue to maintain that I’m not inclined to such no matter how antisocial I am. Our thoughts do not condemn us.

It’s 10am on a Saturday, my sister is at work. I am reading in bed, my first cup of coffee half gone beside me. To my mind, not yet functional for pretty much anything other than what I am doing. I’d been living on my sister & brother-in-law’s small farm for almost 3 yrs. It’s been a very gradual adjustment from the city living I enjoyed previously. This rural life was growing on me, but there were still aspects I wasn’t used to yet. For instance, every time I went outside during the rainy season, I was walking on mud. Mud is more difficult to traverse than concrete, obviously. This really stands out when you’re slogging through it on a daily basis.

Though raised in the suburbs, I always felt I possessed an urban soul. I loved Nature mostly from afar… or on tv. I enjoyed camping some as a child, but eventually grew to think Nature should be left unmolested by gawkers. One incident being covered with chipmunks was enough to make up my mind that city/town dwellers did not belong in the forest. We do ill-conceived things like feeding the wildlife, or tramp across fields of endangered wildflowers to snap stunning photos. & there’s our trash. You’d think the words ‘Leave No Trace’ would mean more to a culture packed with every CSI show imaginable.

As a young adult I was more of a clothes-horse than my meager budget allowed. I favored vintage menswear, & loaded up on whatever I could afford: men’s dress boots, linen formal shirts, mismatched jacket, vest, & trouser combinations. Given my druthers, my wardrobe would have resembled theater costume choices for these roles: Edwardian dandy, rat pack member, steampunk aviator, Western gunslinger, pirate, etc. Clearly nothing practical enough for life on a farm. With the exception of the red union suit, combat boots, & bowler combo I sported for a time. Don’t ask.

At this juncture my sister had 2 goats. Edgar, tall, black & gray & hornless, was a Nubian. Those are an African breed with adorably long, floppy ears. Otis, mostly white with some black, had long curved horns, was a Nigerian dwarf. Edgar was shy of people & rarely let you pet him. Otis was people-friendly, but all he wanted to do was play, butting you with his horns. He was kind of a bully billy goat. I rarely went inside their large enclosure due to the ‘Ouch!’ factor.

The goats can’t be free-range on the property like the chickens because they will indiscriminately eat all my sister’s plants, some of which are toxic to goats. One time Edgar managed to force open the gate & ran gobbling from plant to plant in the yard while she tried to chase him down. She was yelling things like “No– don’t eat my wisteria! It’s not even established yet,” & “Augh! Not the hostas!”

Again, I was reading in bed with my coffee, when a bomb went off. It shook my tiny house, sounded close. Like on the property close. I threw on the first jacket I saw, not waterproof even though we were being hammered for the last 8 hrs by a storm, & slippers. I was only going out for a quick look. Or so I thought. As soon as I stepped outside I saw what had made the huge BOOM!

There was a mostly-dead maple tree, about 25 ft tall, in the goat area. My BIL had been meaning to take it down, just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. That tree had swallowed the goat barn. The way it fell bisected & crushed the structure. Goats don’t like to be wet. They stay in the barn when it’s raining, with their hay, straw, & mineral blocks which also have to be kept dry. I sped over the mud, opened the gate, & peered around the branches to the interior. Finally I caught a glimpse of Edgar & Otis, bewildered & huddled together in the far corner. They were trapped back there, water streaming in all around them. I raced to get my BIL.

“Did you hear that? A tree fell on the barn & almost smooshed the goats!” I practically scream once through the door. He comes to look, then goes back to get properly attired. I should’ve followed his lead, but I was too worried about the goats. They could be injured & we couldn’t even reach them. I went back to the barn & tried to console them with comforting words. Maybe not the most effective gesture, but it was all I had presently.

Out come the power tools. BIL took the large chainsaw to work at taking apart the trunk, while he gave me a smaller version on the end of an adjustable extension pole. We went at it ferociously, the quicker to relieve weight off the barn & clear away branches that trapped the goats. I was sawing branches directly over my head, rain whipping my face, soaked to the skin, before it dawned I had to keep dancing away when they fell. Also the bark chunks & sawdust in my eyes did not help. I adopted more of an angle in my attacks; I didn’t need to add my probable concussion to the rescue mission. This was a challenge as I’m puny & the pole-saw wasn’t built for my (lack of) musculature.

At it for over an hour before my sister came home bearing giant, heavy tarps. I had texted her with the news & she left work early for the emergency. BIL pulled out the destroyed sections of the barn while I dragged away the cut branches. My sister was finally able to check on her goats, who turned out to be fine if a bit dazed. We were left with 3.5 walls & no roof. Then comes the wrestling of the tarps, with the wind & rain still raging.

We had to secure these flapping tarps else they’d blow away. Straining on ladders we’d gotten them in place. Just draped up there, the rain quickly collected & sagged them, collapsing the makeshift roof. BIL had to get out his portable pump to empty the tarps so they could be pulled taut. I rushed to ferret out my stash of bungee cords (a sentence I never thought I’d write). After a little over 2 hours the barn was protected enough that the goats’ feed & bedding could be switched out for dry. The final adjustments tightening down the tarps my sister had to run interference. Otis kept trying to butt my BIL & me. The goats had resumed their normal behavior. A good thing, but counter-productive.

Something of a farm nightmare for an urban transplant ended up showing me that I wasn’t as woefully ill-prepared for this rural life as I thought. I may not be equipped to tackle any other farm crises, but if animal rescue via dismantling a tree in a storm is required, I’m your go-to. & for those who deem me capable of horror, know this: I now have mad chainsaw skills.