“The Goat Man’s coming” was a familiar saying through the middle parts of the twentieth century; all over our country. Sometimes traffic would be backed up for miles, following a large rickety ol’ wagon with a smaller one in tow. Both were being pulled and pushed by as many as 18 goats. Yes, I said goats. You know, them smelly creatures with horns.
Sitting atop the lead wagon would be a Robinson Crusoe-looking character by the name of Ches McCartney — better known as “the Goat Man.” With his long beard, tattered clothes and hardly-ever-washed body, the Goat Man, — along with his team of all sorts of goats — traveled up and down the highways selling his wares and preaching the gospel. His visits to small-town America became as important as the arrival of the yearly carnival.
At a record-breaking speed of one mile an hour, the Goat Man’s arrival would be announced for days prior to his triumphant entry. Local newspapers would carry photos and write-ups describing the strange-looking caravan and even radio stations found him to be the main topic of conversations. In fact, he would often be given the opportunity to expound upon his favorite subjects: Heaven, Hell and brimstone.
Arriving on the outskirts of town — yes, he did come through Anson, Scotland and Richmond counties — he would set up camp. While his goats rested, he’d start a fire out of whatever sticks, pieces of paper and other trash he could find. The final touch to the fire was an old tire scrounged from the side of the road during his travels.
Sitting in front of a smokey, mosquito-chasing fire, perhaps cooking his favorite meal of cabbage and chicken in an old dented can, the Goat Man would welcome any and everybody to sit and talk a spell.
With large crowds gathered around his camp, he would tell stories of his adventures, such as the time he chased a large Grizzly bear out of his camp, to when he actually fought off a band of desperadoes in Texas. Depending on what state he was in at the time, the stories might include the “fact” that he was the grandson of a famous Confederate or Yankee general.
Just who was this folklore character people called the Goat Man? Some folks said he was born Chesly McCartney in Sigourney, Iowa in the year 1901. At age fourteen, he ran off to New York City and married a twenty-four year old Spanish knife thrower named Sadie. A few years later, both moved back to Iowa and bought a farm.
McCartney claimed that during the Great Depression, he lost his farm and was forced to go to work for the W.P.A. He was working in a logging camp and while cutting a tree, it fell on him shattering his left side and pinning him to the ground for hours. Finally, a search party found him, and presuming he was dead, took the body to the local funeral home. Sometime prior to being embalmed, he regained consciousness — much to the shock of the undertaker.
Recovery took several months, leaving him with a crippled left arm, which never healed properly. Unable to work a regular job, unwilling to go on public welfare and needing a gimmick, he and his wife sewed some goat-skin clothes together, Robinson Crusoe style, for him and his son, Albert Gene, to wear.
McCartney then designed two goat skin covered wagons and together the three of them and their team of goats set off to parts unknown all around the country.
Later, he claims, Sadie grew tired of the rigors of the road, left him and Gene and returned to Iowa. Gene ended up living with his grandparents part time and the Goat Man was left on his own to continue his journey. This journey would last until 1987 and cover seven decades of traveling with his smelly goat companions, from one town to the other.
Ches McCartney looked like a gypsy mountain man who knew the secret of life but would only tell you part of it. Always with a twinkle in his eye, he seemed to be free and happy with life. This world needs a few more men like the Goat Man to transcend time and place and to take us outside of ourselves and our problems.
Next time I’ll try and tell you more about this very interesting man, his rickety wagons and of course his smelly goats. Also, if you have your own story about the Goat Man, give me a call.
J.A. Bolton is a member of the N.C. Storytelling Guild, the Anson Co. Writer’s Club, the Anson and Richmond Co. Historical Society and the Story Spinners in Laurinburg.
