Finally, after all these years, I received a small measure of satisfaction.

Yesterday, we farmed vicariously. Seven farms about an hour south of Des Moines were featured in "the Farm Crawl" sponsored by the Practical Farmers of Iowa and Marion County Farm Bureau. Each farm, located by an extensive network of roadside signs, put their best foot forward for the visitors who flocked from the city for a visit. Apples, pumpkins, goats, poultry, vegetables, pottery and yarn spinning were all on display -- with more than a few for sale. We, for example, brought home some honey complete with comb, and some rhubarb preserves. We tried to bring home some eggs but they were long gone by the time we arrived. Likewise the borscht, but I have mixed thoughts about my disappointment over this missed opportunity.

The strangest experience came at the very beginning, as we were pulling into the goat farm, featuring "Quality Artisanal Goat Cheese". The farm, itself, turned out to be well off the main road, on the other end of a one-lane drive that cars alternated to navigate with the help of a staffer at either end with a walkie-talkie. Misunderstanding the signal, we pulled over to the side of the entrance behind two or three other cars and started to get out and walk. Captain walkie-talkie shouted over that this was merely the pull-off spot, not the parking spot, so at his signal we drove further up the one-lane path where, sure enough, dozens of other cars were already parked. Several helpful youth -- one with the companion walkie-talkie and another on a four-wheeler motioned toward the open field for parking. We obliged, navigating our way along the ruts and into an open space. Once more starting to exit the car, we were yet again brought up short by the loud voice of one of those helpful youth apparently having way too much fun with his afternoon authority, asking us if we could move to yet another parking space.

Who knew it would be this much trouble to park on a farm?

Well, me as it turns out. About 11 years ago, making plans to visit a dog breeder in northern Iowa about a puppy that Lori adamantly didn't want, I called the breeder over her objections and asked about directions. As the conversation was wrapping up, I heard Lori instruct me to "ask about the parking." At least I thought that's what she said. As soon as I posed the question to the farmer on the other end of the telephone call, I was vigorously corrected by my beloved sitting nearby: "I said barking, not parking. You can park anywhere at a farm!"

Except, apparently, at a goat farm where parking turns out to be a highly specialized endeavor. Remembering, yesterday afternoon, that conversation 11 years earlier, my momentary aggravation at the idiocy of the goat farm's parking requirements melted quickly into a vindicated smile. Satisfaction, indeed.

No word yet on the barking of the goats.