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Every night, right as the sun just begins its descent, these boys head out for their nightly milk pick up.

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It’s become quite the ritual, me taking jars down from the high shelf, Elijah adding lids and wrapping them up safely. And then these two little men head down the dirt road, around the corner, past the cedars, and to the neighbor’s house they go.

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There are often encounters with chickens or cows, and the stories told upon their return are no less valuable to us than the half-gallon of fresh goat milk they come baring. The times that I join them to ward off the cows or take in the evening air are nothing short of hysterical. I like to observe these two quirky men trapped in little boy bodies, you see. The goings on and exchanging of words is the stuff mama dreams are made of.

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And then, of course, there is the milk. Chugged straight from the jar by the strapping young men, and poured into my morning tea, this goat milk tastes just as sweet as cow’s and is oh so delicious. Yes, I think we will keep up this nightly ritual so long as those furry girls are giving.