Dr StrangeGoat (Or how I learned to love the farm)

I've had a few people ask me about LaRaeDough - specifically, what the hell happened to get me here, but generically, why am I on a goat ranch in Northeastern Utah, when I'm obviously better suited for more urban climes.

Well... to start with, I was born in a small town in Southwestern Utah, so part of it is genetics.  My mother always had a rambling spirit and a firm believe in geographic cures, so we lived pretty much everywhere while I was growing up, but home base was always Grandma and Grandpa's place in Washington, Utah.  Washington, however, is not the Washington of my youth - it's blown up, going from 400 people to close to 20,000 (which is frankly unsustainable).  So, my family all moved north, and Aunt Sherri and Uncle Ron ended up buying a place outside of Whiterocks, Utah (pop. 321 as of the last census), and when the acreage next to them opened up, Mom moved in.  It feels a lot like Washington used to - close knit community, you know everyone, there's a DIY feel...

Gratitude, schmatitude...

Quick recap - I've been living with ULMS (aka Hank the Tumor) for about 7 1/2 years now.  I've finally managed to wrap my head around the fact that I've been given a miracle - this disease that was going to kill me has been stopped in its tracks, somehow. It took me a long while to get here - mostly because when I think miracles, I think in terms of saints.  I ain't no saint. Not that I'm particularly sinful either, but I've never had the kind of reverence associated with (say) Mother Teresa or the blessed Virgin.  That, and receiving a miracle seems to imply a debt - a requirement to proselytize or at least stop swearing quite as openly.