“Fuck your lawn.” A couple years ago, Sean “Peppy” Meyer—the farmer at Jester King Brewery, just outside of Austin—hit me with this simple statement. Despite the potentially polarizing stance, Peppy is the kind of person who’s easy to know. Once you’ve drunk a few beers with him, all it takes is a quick “I’ll be in town next week” text to elicit a “Hell yeah” in response. Recently, on my first trip back to Texas since moving to Seattle—and since COVID-19 took over our lives—I trekked out to see Peppy and the goats he tends.
This time, there was less talk of radical plans for the land that Jester King sits on and more quiet, joyful moments of communion among baby goats, with a cup of Saison in hand. New mother Corn Dog had two boys that were damn near as old as the hangover I was nursing while on the farm. A few of the other young goats showed off expert-level tree-climbing skills, even though they were only days old. And the breeze kept blowing, forcing that familiar, rejuvenating Hill Country air into my lungs.
But what brought me the most contentment that day was that, despite all the nonsense we’ve had to live through, Peppy hasn’t lost the hope and empathy for the land that makes his, and by extension Jester King’s, agricultural endeavor so unique. He just gives a shit, ya know? More of us, myself included, should try that philosophy on for size.
