Photo Essay: A Goat By Any Other Name

Is there any more joyous experience than seeing the face of a goat kid smiling up at you?



I think not.



Goats always seem pretty happy...



...even from behind bars.



I'd already managed visit a couple of goat dairies in Southern California—where I've held a baby in my arms and even hiked with some babies...



...but this was the first time I'd seen a mama goat ready to pop.



Of course, having babies is essential for goats at a dairy like this one in California's Inland Empire, known as Drake Family Farms.



But the babies get first dibs on the mother's milk—and once they're weaned, the milk can go towards making goat cheese.



Drake has been continuously in business and run by six generations of the family since 1880, making its original location near Salt Lake City a Utah Century Farm.



The Southern California location is their second—founded when the founder's great-great-grandson Dan Drake brought a herd of 143 goats over from Utah to Ontario, CA.



"Dr. Dan" (a nickname he earned while working as a local cow veterinarian) has a secret to making the best goat cheese: Keep your goats healthy and happy.



Those are the goats that will make the best milk.



The Drakes actually consider every single one of their goats a pet—and, like dogs, they each have their own names.



And while the goats may be cute and cuddly and each have their own unique personalities, ultimately they've got a job to do.



Unfortunately, while some factories are run like farms, a lot of farms are run like factories. It's hard to disentangle the two. And some of it is just out of necessity. Hence, all the equipment in the milking room, a repurposed cattle barn from the 1940s (located in what's still considered the "dairy district" near the border of Ontario and Chino).



While the cheese is considered both "farmstead"—made on the farm with milk from the farm's animals—and "artisan"—produced by hand in small batches—it's just not possible to milk all those goats by hand, too.



And they've chosen not to go for organic certification, since that means they can never give any of the animals any antibiotics, even if they're really sick and really need them. They do, however, make sure the milk stays very cold.



The current herd at Drake Family Farms' California location consists of a few dozen mature females (does) who are able to produce milk and who come from an award-winning lineage.



There's a small handful of mature males (bucks) there to impregnate the does, but you won't get any milk from those boys—so their usefulness is somewhat limited around the farm.



And when the does get pregnant and have their babies, most of their kids end up getting sold off, to keep the farm's herd more about quality than quantity.

I guess that means that the goats that do get to stay get all the love and attention they need and have plenty of food to eat (which consists of hydroponic barley fodder grass, alfalfa hay, Bermuda grass hay, barley grain, and whatever they can graze off the trees on the property).

But how happy can they be without their babies? Well, if the deliciousness of the cheese is any measure of the spirits of the goats, then they must be pretty darn blissful.

The ashy "Mt. Baldy," a soft blooming mold-ripened cheese, is pretty amazing. And all of the flavored varieties of chèvre are good enough to turn around even the staunchest of goat cheese haters.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Hiking with Baby Goats
Photo Essay: Making Soaps with Goats

Photo Essay: Stepping Through a Portal of Peace

What happens to us when we die? No one really knows for sure.

When we "transition," do we shed this mortal coil while our soul lives on—either here, or in the ether?

Is there an afterlife? An eternal life? Another life?

Do we become restless and homeless, lingering around our favorite spots or trying to enact some kind of retribution for how we ultimately fell?

To be honest, I hope none of it is true. I really hope everything just stops when we die. I'm exhausted.

But I suspect that's not the case, considering how haunted my life has been.

Whatever happens in those final moments after our ultimate demise, there's only one thing we can really hope for—and that's peace.



It's fitting, then, that a mausoleum should be called El Portal de la Paz—that is, the Gateway or Doorway of Peace. Whether dying is, in essence, stepping through a portal from this world to the next or this world to no world, let it be, at least, a peaceful transition.



This mausoleum (the second at the largest cemetery in the U.S., Rose Hills) was intentionally built in the 1930s to look like one of the Spanish missions that dotted the California coast.



Sure, "Mission Revival" was an architectural craze at the time (thanks, in part, to the Panama-California Exposition), but it serves a real purpose here.



No matter where you're interred—in the ground or in a drawer in the wall—you're not alone.



You're not "locked in," per se—as you would be in a more traditional mausoleum without that open courtyard—but you're still somewhat protected.



It feels something like a military fort in a time of peace.



Inside, the marble hallways are named after the Spanish missions—San Buenaventura, and so on...



...but with all those stained glass skylights, it evokes the same feeling of being outside, yet protected.



How rare it is to see natural light among the dead.



In fact, you're surrounded on all sides by light, prismatic as it's filtered through the monumental stained glass windows at the terminus of three different hallways, rising 12 feet tall by 10 feet wide.



All three were crafted by LA's own Judson Studios: Dawn (circa 1938), Life Eternal (circa 1953)...



...and Christ and the Children (circa 1959).



After all, what could be more peaceful that being surrounded by lambs...



...and a pink dove?



The art elsewhere inside the mausoleum is equally as incredible—including ceilings hand-painted in the 1950s by the Heinsbergen Decorating Company (also known for its work on other Southern California landmarks like LA's City Hall, Bullocks Wilshire, Griffith Observatory, the Fine Arts Building, and the Tower, Fox Fullerton, and United Artists theatres).



Mosaic tiles, Art Deco decorative tiles, and fountains beckon the living down each corridor, even if they're not visiting the dead.

The construction of El Portal de la Paz was part of the initial expansion of Rose Hills in the 1930s, which is largely credited to its founder's son, John D. Gregg. Appropriately, he's got his own gated area in the mausoleum, where he's been interred alongside his wife Lucela, his sister Leora, and other relatives in the Gregg family room.

Does he know that he's buried in this beautiful place?

Something tells me it's OK if he doesn't, because it's not so much for him. It's more for those he left behind.

They're probably the ones that need peace the most.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: The Locked Chapels of Rose Hills
Photo Essay: Mountain View Mausoleum, Daytime
Photo Essay: Mountain View Mausoleum, Day into Night
Photo Essay: Stained Glass Crawl Through a Cathedral Crypt

Photo Essay: Top Posts of 2016

I think I grew up listening to too many year-end countdowns on my favorite radio stations, because I've felt compelled to do a "Year In Review" for the last three years, around this time of year.

Maybe it's just human nature—to want to look back and reflect upon where we've been, what we've done, and who has noticed.

I don't pay very much attention to the statistics of this site because I get a lot of satisfaction out of the process of assembling it—and I don't really measure my success by how many clicks or comments I'm able to elicit.

But nevertheless, some posts do resonate with people more than others, so it's interesting—if not meaningful—to at least know what those are.

This year, like many of the past years, certain posts from years ago still get a lot of traction now. So, in the spirit of not repeating myself, I've left those out this year.

As a result, here follows the Top Posts of 2016 that were actually posted in 2016, more or less in descending order:



Crossing the Border (Cruzando la Frontera)



Photo Essay: USS Iowa, The Last of the Battleships



Photo Essay: A Night on the Battleship



Photo Essay: Naples, the Dreamland of Southern California



Photo Essay: A Jeepney Tour of Historic Filipinotown



Photo Essay: The Extinction of Dinosaur Swampland



Photo Essay: A Farewell to the Palace on Mount Yamashiro



Open Letter to Our New President



Photo Essay: A Fake Cemetery (with Real Headstones)



Photo Essay: Belmont Tunnel and the Hollywood Subway's Fade Into Oblivion

I've got about 20 posts still in draft mode that I'm working on finishing up, so there's still lots more to come.

The most I can wish for you—and myself—is that the next year be better than the last.

Onwards and upwards, my friends.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Top Posts of 2015
Photo Essay: Top Posts of 2014
Photo Essay: Top Posts of 2013

Photo Essay: The Locked Chapels of Rose Hills

At 1,400 acres, Rose Hills in Whittier, CA is not only the largest cemetery in North America, but also the largest memorial park in the world.



But for those of us who merely drive past it, with no one to mourn within its perimeter, it's simply the cemetery with the red neon sign.



Founded in 1914, Rose Hills didn't go all "Hollywood" with the 20-foot letters that spell out its name until the 1940s. The sign was briefly switched off during the 1970s energy crisis—but it only stayed dark until the FAA requested it be turned back on as a beacon for the pilots who'd often used it for reference while in flight.



But this particular sign hasn't been in this particular place in Rose Hills the whole time since the '40s: The original sign got moved around a few times, and the original wooden letters eventually warped and broke the neon. Metal letters and new glass tubes replaced the old ones back in 1990.



The neon sign is just what people see from the outside of this "memorial park." On the inside, its landscape is dotted by mausolea and chapels of many different architectural styles—and yet still, it reportedly has "excellent" Feng Shui.



The most striking standout—architecturally, anyway—at Rose Hills is the Memorial Chapel, with its three spires seemingly stabbing the sky at 90 feet high in the air.



Built in 1964, this is a Mid-Century Modern masterpiece by A.C. Martin and Associates, also known for their work on LA's City Hall, the  LADWP headquarters, the Wilshire May Company building, and the in-progress Wilshire Grand (though Martin himself passed away in 1960).



The entire structure is still blindingly white, the spires reflecting off the pools from which they arise.



On a clear day, you can see Downtown LA from here (or maybe even forever).



This chapel is technically only one story high, but it feels much larger, thanks to the roof that curves up into one of the spires.



Everything about the Memorial Chapel soars—but if you only look up, you'll miss what's underneath that curved roof...



...which is a panel of stained glass in the dalle-de-verre style...



...like that of French craftsman Roger Darricarrere (though I've yet to verify whether this particular piece is actually his or not).



Unlike most churches that you can just walk into pretty much at any time you want, this chapel is far more elusive. On my visit, I asked a worker who was polishing the hardware on the door, "It's not open?" and he shook his head no.



When I asked when it would be open, he shrugged and said, "I don't know, maybe tomorrow?"



By the year 1959, Rose Hills had expanded from 31 acres to 2600 acres in just 30 years—and that was largely thanks to the efforts of John Gregg, son of Rose Hills' founder Augustus Gregg.



John Gregg was also the one to commission the neon sign back in the 1940s.



This chapel was erected as a tribute to him.



Up the hill from the Gardens of Affection, Benediction, Contentment, Remembrance, and Solace, another chapel was built of wood, stone, and glass in 1997: "SkyRose."



Sounding something like a James Bond lair, it rises up 90 feet and three stories high, with the top floor serving as a custom-built loft for an organ by Quimby Pipe Organs in Missouri.



Although the organ itself is considered new (also circa 1997), several historical reed ranks built by the Skinner and Aeolian-Skinner Organ Companies of Boston, Massachusetts can be found in the Solo division played from the fourth manual.



The organ has a total of four manuals, 65 ranks, and 3,937 pipes. But the trick is getting to the chapel on a day when it's unlocked—and on a day when there's someone there who can play the instrument.



It's such a shame to be locked out of yet another chapel, this one having come out of a partnership between two Arkansas architects, Fay Jones and Maurice Jennings.



Prior to Jones being awarded the AIA Gold Medal in 1990 and becoming a Fellow of the AIA in 1979, he was a Taliesin-trained apprentice of Frank Lloyd Wright, whose influence on his work is clear.



Jones has been quoted as saying that the SkyRose Chapel would “nourish and express that all-important intangible of the human condition at its spiritual best.” Intangible, yes—and impenetrable.

Although it's his largest, the SkyRose Chapel isn't Jones' most famous work—that honor being held by the Thorncrown Chapel in the Arkansas Ozark Mountains. In fact, Jones is credited for having created the "Ozark" style of architecture, though it certainly seems to fit here in Southern California (especially amidst other likeminded houses of worship like the Wayfarer's Chapel).



Back down the hill, the diamond-shaped Hillside Chapel—completed in 1956—makes for a fitting neighbor to the SkyRose Chapel, with its angled roof, stone-clad walls, and 22-foot high windows. It's one of two chapels designed by A.C. Martin that year, but it's the only one to have survived. (The Sky Church was demolished after sustaining heavy damage in the wake of the 1987 Whittier earthquake, and the Memorial Chapel came eight years later.)



The interior is said to have perfect acoustics—but that can only be proven by actually going inside, which is just as much of a challenge here as it is at the Memorial and SkyRose chapels. All you're left to do is peer in through the rose-tinted windows, which were designed to give the appearance of an eternal sunrise (as seen, of course, from inside).



Each of these chapels, in their own unique way, embrace the natural world that surrounds them—and that includes, of course, the roses of Rose Hills. So, by being locked out of these many chapels, you're forced to embrace the outer landscape, the experience of which these architects tried so hard to bring into their structures.

That is, being outside of the chapels shouldn't, by nature, be that different than being inside of them.

But something tells me it is.

Related Posts:
A Wayfarer's Visit to a Chapel
Photo Essay: The Storybook Wedding Chapel of Forest Lawn Cemetery
Photo Essay: Overlooking Old Hollywoodland from the Letters That Once Spelled It
Photo Essay: The Decorations, Wishes, and Faces of Chinese New Year