As The Butter Churns

April 17th Love Letter

 (All kinds of green - the leaves have finally arrived)

    I am convinced Jack, of beanstalk fame, must have been lived in the Pacific Northwest. Last night the surrounding the forest was cold, black and foreboding. The stuff of fairy tales. Winter’s starkness lurked in the barren branches. However, this morning as the alarm sang out I squinted as  sun streamed in.  I looked out the window to see vibrant green leaves decorating the trees.

    Filled with hope and good dose of vitamin D I brewed a pot of coffee and looked at my mail. There amongst the bills and usual stuff was a note from an old friend.

 Hello Denise!

Dawn keeps me updated on your life I hope you are all doing well out there.  Let us know when you come back home for a visit!

 (Dawn and her daughter, Amara)
 

I wanted to let you know about Lucy the black lab mix you rescued.  When I took her from you 4 years ago, I never knew how important she was going to be.  Initially, Adam and I thought it would be a good idea to get my mom and stepdad a younger dog so that when their old dog died, they would already have a replacement.  The dogs didn't get along too well at first, but eventually, Lucy would guide Andy through his blindness and look out for him on walks. My parents put Andy to sleep 2 years later and enjoyed Lucy even more because she became the one and only dog!  I think Lucy is happiest this way as well. 

Last summer my stepdad had a massive stroke in the front yard and fell.  He barely lived 5 more days while on life support in the ICU at UCLA.  On August 9th we took him off the machines so he could die peacefully.  Of course everyone came and filled up the house for months so that my mom wouldn't be alone.  When they all left she realized that although she still misses her husband of 22 years dearly, she is not alone because of Lucy. 

She talks to Lucy, walks Lucy, drives her to the groomers once a month, walks her to the vet's clinic down the street to weigh her (she's on a diet), and treats Lucy as her closest family member.

I just wanted to thank you for such a wonderful dog.  Lucy is the reason I don't feel bad about my mom being home alone all the time.  Some mornings she is the reason my mom gets out of bed.

When I think of you, pilgrims and ass jokes fill my head.  We miss you!

Kristina

 (Henry with Lucy and me with Ricky -  We found them near our church, St. Bernardine's we took them in looked for their owners and then sent them to the pound for a while, but when no one claimed them - we took them until we could find them homes. Ricky went to an Alzheimer facility in Calabasas-)

    I sat for a while thinking back to Lucy and the day Henry and I found her and her pal Ricky. It was during a heat wave in August. The temperatures soared in the triple digits. The two wayward canines were panting in the heat and searching for water. Their paws burned from the searing pavement. 

    The whole family got involved in their rescue. Lisa who was working at Warner Center Pet Clinic, neutered Ricky and did dentals on both of dogs.  And so little Lucy wouldn't confuse with the hunch back of Notre Dame, she removed a ginormous three pound mass from Lucy's shoulder. Pro bono. 

    Henry had begged to keep Lucy, but I couldn’t possibly imagine having any more pets - after all we had two dogs and a cat.

I remember Mike saying to Lucy as he scratched her behind the ears, “You know, you and and I have a lot in common,” he’d theorized.

“Really? How do you figure?” I'd asked from the kitchen.

“Well, we’re both strays you took in and watch out for,” he’d laughed.

It was still so early in the morning it was rude to call anyone, but Mike. I picked up the phone  and read him the letter about  Lucy, tears filling my eyes. It was nothing short of magical. 

April 15th Like Father Like Son

(Henry's 2nd Father's Day - with Tom's tie and shoes)

    In order to be a hurdler or shot putter on the middle school track team, Henry had to have a physical exam on record and have the papers turned in by a certain date. Unfortunately, on such short notice, Henry’s very nice pediatrician Dr. Thompson, the one with the nice shoes was not available.

    “There is a visiting intern from Children’s who can see him,” The receptionist suggested.

     “Great, we’ll take the appointment,” I confirmed. “Oh and Henry’s voice has been gone for about a month now,” I added.

     “She’ll see him at 8:30AM and she can probably give you a referral to an ear-nose-throat,” the receptionist said as she hurriedly tried to catch another phone call.

     The next morning, as Henry finished the last of French toast in the car I remembered to warn him. “Uh forgot to mention, the doctor today is a woman. I didn’t think you’d really care, but I thought you should know,” I said matter-of-factly pulling into the deserted parking lot.

     “Huh, I hope she isn’t too pretty,” was the hoarse reply. I felt a smile creep across my face, but I turned my head and glanced in the side mirror.

    “I think it’s the same doctor we met a few months back,” I said.

     “Probably,” he said nonchalantly.

     The doctor and Henry chatted about his voice, gymnastics, track and his current height, his expected height, his dream height and his possible height. Then, the doctor said,

     “Henry, this is the embarrassing part of the exam. It’s at this point that I need to take a peek down your pants. Don’t worry, your mother’s here and it won’t be too embarrassing. Is that ok with you?” 

     Henry looked at me and nodded. The doctor did her exam, turned and said, “Oh you’re definitely in puberty”.

    When she left the room to get the information on the ear-nose-throat referral Henry turned to me, “Was it just me or did she sound impressed?” he asked with all the bravado of a burgeoning testosterone laden male. Not a trace of modesty in his voice. I just knew this was going to happen. It’s why I cried at the birth. He’s becoming one of them. I should have noticed the signs. He’s very interested in tools. He smells. He spends a disproportionate amount of time in the bathroom and holds the toilet in too much reverence.

     “Well, your father was a streaker,” I smirked.

 

 

 

 

April 12th The Great Escape

 (Sir Edward greeting me through my open window)

    The morning came way too early, but I forced myself awake and was relieved to find coffee in the freezer. I whipped up a batch of maple sugar French toast and got the zombie-like children out the door for school. They’d miss first period, but they’d be there come hell or high water. They’ve both had strep and can’t afford to miss any more school.

    When I got home I was surprised to see Tom greeting me at the gate. I hit the button and my window slipped down.

     “Great timing. How did you know I was coming?”

     “I didn’t,” he grumbled pulling the gate.

     “Then why are you out here?” I was curious.

     “The pigs are missing,” he said angrily. “I went and let them out in the back fenced yard like you said, then I went upstairs and was doing some of the stuff on my list when you called to see if I needed anything from town. I remembered you didn’t let the barn animals out before you left so I thought I’d go and take care of them. On my way, I decided to check on the pigs. I couldn’t find them,” he explained, “they were gone. I’ve been looking for them ever since. They got out through one of the holes Deli dug under the fence”.

     “You have got to be kidding. I didn’t even consider Deli’s damage. How stupid am I? They don’t know where they live or their names” I almost cried. This was like bringing a baby home from the hospital.I remember the first time my mother drove away leaving me with the baby. I stood there holding Henry wondering if anyone realized I sometimes forgot to feed the dogs.

     Before you’re a parent, you think you’ve baby-proofed,you're sure you've been thorough but as your suddenly, the world looks different to you. Your perspective completely changes. You notice sharp and jagged edges everywhere. The coffee table is a possible cause of head trauma. Or in this case small holes in the fence line can prove fatal

     “I know,” he agreed.

     “And they’re perfect prey in the woods,” I thought out loud.

     “Oh I know,” he said dismally.

      "You haven't seen even a sign of them?" 

    "Nope nothing," he answered. I thought about the vast forrest. We weren't even sure if Big Foot was out there. How were we going to find two tiny pigs? I couldn't give up before I started, but I did wonder if my luck had finally run out.

    I parked and began looking. We combed the entire area searching the compost pile, the shop area, behind the barn; the apple trees and then I went and checked the bathtub. I was terrified to look in, but I forced myself to check. We hadn’t covered it yet because we’d been busy and it’d been raining and a whole number of things that didn’t matter at this moment. I leaned over. No pig carcasses. I yanked the closest thing I could find, a big animal carrier and put it in the water. Then I grabbed rocks and filled up the edges. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do for now. I kept looking.

     “We have to call Kirk and Jason,” I said. “Maybe they might know something that would help us”. How do you confess that you can’t hold on to two pigs for less than twenty-four hours? I was beginning to lose hope. They couldn’t live long snorting through the forest with cougar, coyotes and wolverine lurking about. I tried to remember they were livestock. It didn’t help. I thought of the money I’d spent, the excitement I’d felt and realized it was all slipping away. I dialed the phone and delivered the bad news.

     “Already? That’s horrible. Well, the only suggestions I can give are to get some grain and put it in a scoop shaking it like Kirk did,” Jason said. “Kirk? Do you have any ideas where they should look?” He said to his partner. “Kirk says look in the pasture and to remember they’re little they could be in the high grass, Oh! And they’ll head for a road probably”, Jason advised.

     “OK, we’ll keep looking and call you when we find them,” I said with resolve I didn’t feel. In fact, the cold hard truth that we may never find them nor know what happened to them set in. I relayed the information to Tom.

     “I guess you would have noticed them if you passed them on the road,” Tom said.

     “Definitely, I notice a chipmunk, maybe they took the gravel road out there near the trees. The grass is high there,” I suggested without much hope.

     “It’s worth a shot,” Tom said as the second hour of our search neared a close. We were jiggling the grain and calling to the pigs.

     “I don’t want to have to tell the kids the pigs are gone, but I’m about out of hope. I can imagine they're at school full of stories about the pigs. What am I going to say?” I asked sadly still jiggling.

     “Honestly,I was about to give up when you got home,” he agreed.

     “Thank Goodness you were here, otherwise I would have gotten home and discovered them gone and  I don’t even want to think about it.”

     The cows all came running to the fence expecting treats. When we all but ignored the, Abe began moo-ooing loudly at the social injustice of it all. He always feels slighted, but this time I suppose he had a point.

     Irish began barking wildly. “Irish, be quiet!” Tom yelled.

     “Irish does not bark without a reason,” I cautioned and tried to see where Irish was looking. I followed his gaze, and there were two little piggys trotting along down Mosquito Lake Road ala Pancho and Lefty. “Irish found them! Look! Shades of Pancho and Lefty," I sighed.

     (Spotted - on Mosquito Lake Road-pigs)

    "But a lot smaller,"
 
     We hurried over with our grain scoops and gave the piggys a little food to get their attention, but were now faced with the daunting task or pig wrangling.

    "On the other hand Pancho and Lefty new how to behave," Tom recalled.

     It is important to note stories have been written and  contests are held annually about capturing pigs for a reason. These swine are swift and elusive. Smart and therefore worthy adversaries I assure you. Hamilton or "Boaris" or whatever his name is would not herd like goats nor would he benignly follow a trail of food. In short, they had to be outsmarted. Between the two of us we weren’t sure we were up to it.

 (Farmer John, I mean Tom lures pigs-)
 

 

    We put together our game plan. We realized he was key to our operation. If we got him, she would follow. We had to confine them, it was the only way. I went and got the puppy pen we used for geese, ducks and the like while Tom kept an eye on them and kept them interested in the food. The puppy pen was so heavy I realized I couldn’t carry it all the way back, so I plopped it on the wheel barrel and started off. The only problem was I really had to pee. Now what? There was no time for decorum so I ran over behind the barn and dropped ‘trou’. I hadn’t done this since Homecoming with my friend, Laura about a million years ago. No matter I had pigs to catch and who was going to care? Franklin?

     We approached this operation like a military assault. The enemy was occupied while we set the trap. Once in place we forced them into our trap. They fell for it, but probably never would again. Triumphant we were almost celebrating when they started to knock the pen down by putting their snouts under the fencing and lifting it up. Shocked we both held down the sides and figured our next move.

   (Tom preparing for The Pig War)

 (What's her name - eating the bait)
 

 (Everyone is interested in these renegades)
 

 (a little ham)

 (Resigned)

 (She- devil?)
 
 
    “We’re going to have to get them in the carrier and then back in the room, “ Tom said. “Now that they’re confined it shouldn’t be too difficult”. And for once it wasn’t but this little escapade changed everything.

    “Do you think we should name them Bonnie and Clyde?” I wondered.

    “More like Breakfast and Dinner,” Tom sneered. He smiled then, “Or Bacon and Sausage”.

   (the new pig pen - our mudroom)

 (Later -Henry getting further acquainted)
 
     

 

April 11th Our "Q"

(I can not explain the lack of sound - except that Sony hates Macs)

 We’d barely checked into the motel after seeing the pigs, when Quinn pulled out a green box and opened it up.

            “Henry we’re going to get rid of that dark fuzzy thing above your lip. Right now!”

            Henry ran and hid behind the curtain while Tom flopped down on the bed. “ I like Margret Suzanne, but Henry’s suggestion of Midge suits her,” Tom announced.

            “Midge for the midget. I was called Gidget for a long time,” I reflected as Quinn pulled Henry from the beige curtains and into the bright sterile light by the long white counter. I looked over as she began pressing strips of wax across his lip and between his eyes.

“What’s with the eyebrows?” Henry demanded.

            “You’re on your way to a mono-brow. Girls hate that.” She’d uttered the magic words – girls hate that- and she knew it. I glanced at her. She was smiling knowing there wouldn’t be any more struggling; the spider had subdued the victim. “You need to wait a couple of minutes while it sets up,” she instructed.

            “He’s completely out matched,” Tom whispered. Nodding in agreement I settled in and watched in disbelief as the movie “Megladon” plodded along. To be clear, this is the type of movie you would only watch in a motel killing time. Or on a date in college, bringing to mind the second worst movie I’ve ever seen. “Q” a 1982 film about an overgrown flying lizard landing on rooftops in New York

  

            “Yeowwww!” Henry screamed like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

            “Oh stop it!” Quinn commanded looming over him. “I do this all the time. It just stings a little you’re a drama king just like your mom said”.

            “Mom!” Henry squealed.

            “It’s true,” I confirmed. 

            “It is,” Tom concurred, “but you do look red and splotchy”.

 (Q, the Winged Serpent)
 

He did look raw, and for a moment I thought of getting some ice from the vending machine, but by now it was the tail end of “Megladon” and I didn’t want to miss the part where the giant Octopus, his mortal enemy, which had thawed out of a glacier, strangled Megladon.

After the Octopus and Megladon predictably sank to the ocean floor for about six scenes, I thought we’d turn out the light and get some rest. We were here for Henry’s gymnastic meet. But no, it seems the only thing worse than Megladon is “Piranha” where the toothy little fellas get so big in South America they leap out of the water and eat helicopters. I turned over and drifted off as Henry, Tom and Quinn were screaming things like “Oh come on!”

“Doesn’t he think he’s going to be eaten?”

I woke up bright and early, got up and went to make some coffee. I opened the coffee pouch and placed the coffee pod in the tray, but when I went to pour water in the well of the coffee maker, I realized we didn’t have an actual coffee pot in the room. This couldn’t be. There was not a minute to lose. I threw my hair in a clip and I marched down to the lobby. Calmly as I could, without a morning cup of coffee, I explained the problem. The young girl smiled nervously back at me sizing up me and my mint green flannels. I could see she was worried she had a “situation” on her hands and quickly began searching for a carafe. I could imagine Quinn’s reaction to my pajama clad lobby appearance, but this was a desperate situation and after all I was presentable and my toes were freshly polished.

“I’m so, so sorry she said trying to manage me, you can have some of the coffee from the breakfast buffet while you wait. I’ll go to an unoccupied room and get you one,” she assured me. In the interim I did indeed pour myself a cup or two and grabbed one for Tom. The nervous girl with the bob did indeed return in a timely manner with a perfectly suitable glass pot and a couple of extra coffee packets. Whew. Crisis averted.

 (Quinn and Henry before the meet- Henry's face isn't that red - in this picture)
 

Henry began his meet with a bang. He got the highest score he’s ever gotten on floor. The next rotation he tackled his arch nemesis, the pommel and once again he received his highest score. Ever. Tom and I were busy calculating what he might end the day with if he just stayed even close to his average scores. But as I’ve learned recently, don’t count your turkey eggs before they hatch.

Henry bombed on rings getting almost two points lower than normal. Next was the vault. And he delivered, not his best, but pretty ding-dang good. I could hardly breathe as he began his parallel bar routine. I heard people in the crowd talking about the routine, but I was afraid to hope. It seemed good, really good as I waited nervously for the score. Good? When I saw Henry’s score flashed on the scoreboard in red lights I wanted to leap out of my seat. “That’s my boy who did that,” I muttered to myself. He’d gotten a 14.75. We were thrilled. Could this be happening? Could this be Henry’s meet? Tom began calculating All Around potential scores scenarios again. He’s always doing the math.

 

(perhaps it's time for a different video camera? Technical difficulties have plagued me long enough)

 (Henry doing his parallel routine)

“If Henry gets anywhere close to his lowest score on this event he’ll still get his highest All Around score ever,” Tom informed me. I was sure he’d be in the top three on the podium if he did that. But there I was counting my turkey eggs again. Henry did an incorrect sequence on the high bar because he was scared. He’d fallen a couple of weeks ago on the high bar and hit his feet doing his dismount. So despite our calculation, it was not to be, Henry ended the year in a heap of tears.

“I don’t even want to stay for the awards,” he lamented.

“You’re staying,” Tom laid down the law. “You’re going to support your team and you know you had a great meet for the most part. If you’d ended the day with your parallel routine, you’d be feeling great right now. I’m sure you’ll get something on p-bars,” Tom said pouring the daddy on.

“Hey, where are you and Quinn going?” Henry demanded as he saw us trying to sneak out.

“Mmm-um, we’re going to go and pick up the piggy’s while you and your father do the award thing,” I told him. As we made our way out of the gym, one of the mothers stopped me.

“Denise, is Henry OK? We were kind of worried about him when we saw the blotchy spots on his face. Is that from the pneumonia?” She asked concerned.

“Oh, no. He’s fine,” I said glaring at Quinn. “That’s nothing. Really,” I assured her as we escaped on our mission.

It was a maddening hour each way to get the pigs and there was no way around it. We tried a short cut that ended up being a long cut down one-way streets in Portland. However, with our trusty cell phone, Google Maps and my sister who’s been lost more times than any human being I know, we made it. “You better call Pea and Henry and tell them to get something to eat until we get back,” I instructed Quinn. You do not need to tell Quinn twice to make a phone call, it’s in her DNA, she gets it from her maternal side.

“Tom said Henry got six medals. One in every event except high bar. He got second in parallel bars. Some kid got a .1 higher then him, and he came in 9^th for All Around,” Quinn relayed.

“He must be feeling better,” I exclaimed relieved.

 (Henry - second place -parallel bars Level 6 - Region II)
 

“And HE didn’t want to stay for the awards,” Quinn mocked. “Ridiculous. He does look really red, don’t tell him I said that. Hey how about Barbara-Q? Get it? Barbecue, Barbara-Q," Quinn giggled at her own joke.

"I get it, and it is cute in a meat-eater-sort-of-way".

 The pigs turned out to be good travelers. The only sound you could here was "Hamilton’" snorting. It was silly to here snorting from a pig in my van as we drove through Portland.

“Are you kidding me, we’re going to put Irish in here too? Are you going to seduce him?” Quinn asked.

“What? Am I going to seduce him?” I asked flabbergasted. What were they teaching middle schoolers these days? What kind of talk was this?

“You know where you make him sleepy?” She said innocently.

“Oh, you mean sedate him. Yes, I am going to sedate him,” I laughed hearing Gilda Radner in the back of my mind, “That’s very different”.

We intently listened to or book while the kids rode with pigs in their lap’s most of the way. That is until we loaded the big boy, Irish. We’d called Jim at the border and he’d slipped Irish a mickey so he’d be nice and sleepy for the ride. 

 (Quinn and her lap pig)

 (The little girl and Henry ride home)

“He doesn’t even seem to notice them, The big boy is so tired and just wants to snuggle,” Quinn cooed. Then flatly, “Can we turn the book back on?”

“Sure,” I said as we headed north on the dark road. Everyone else fell asleep. Quinn hung in the longest trying to listen to the story. Tom kept forcing his eyes open every once in a while.

“You OK?” He’d ask, as he’d reach out and touch my arm. I was amused as I stopped for a cup of coffee at the Arco™ near Alderwood Mall. What was he going to do if I said “No,” he was certainly in no position to drive. As I drove along in the quiet of the night, Awesomez’s remarks crept back into my mind and irked me all over again. She’d said:

“Hamilton, Hammie? Like in ‘Toy Story’?” Like Hammie in Toy Story, Like Hammie in Toy Story.

“Toy Story! I am not going to have people think I named my pig after a character in “Toy Story”,” I said to no one in particular.

The tires crunched on the gravel as we pulled in to the driveway, Tom woke up like the dogs do when I get off the freeway. I hopped in and out and opened the gate. Tom got out after I drove in and closed it. Slowly we wound along the driveway in front of the pasture, as Tom sang softly holding my hand.

“And on this farm we have some pigs…” 

“EIEIO,” I crooned off key.

April 10th A Pig And A Poke

 (I run a flop house- Scarlett, Emmett, Alvin, Tabitha)
  

    Early Saturday morning, I got up before everyone else collected some eggs, brewed some coffee and whipped up a batch of maple, brown sugar French toast. We had to get on the road because we had an action packed day. There was a noon appointment to have our reunification lesson with public enemy number one, Irish, then we were meeting Mike for lunch before heading out to Sandy, Oregon. Sandy is just outside of Portland where Henry would be competing in the 5 State gymnastic Regional’s (Men’s Region II). Sandy also just happens to be the home of some cute little piggies - American Guinea Hogs. I’d arranged a “Farm Tour” so Tom could see if he liked them too. We’d gone last year to the same farm with Awesomez so Quinn, Henry and I were pretty sure we liked them already.

    First we picked up Quinn in Burlington at the Starbucks we used as a family meeting point then headed down toward Centralia where we were going to see Irish. The day had finally arrived for our canine college student to graduate.

    When we arrived, I was instructed to stand with my back toward Irish and when Jim walked up from behind me I was to take the braided leather leash, give Irish the command to “Heel!” and head out. There would be no “greeting” period no snuggling. We would simply set to work and let Irish know things had changed. I had an hour lesson on how to interact with my newly educated hound. While Tom, Quinn and Henry watched. Irish was not perfect, but neither was I. We both learned how to correct our mistakes. Henry couldn’t take the idea that he couldn't go up and hug Irish and so he went with Quinn to sit in the car.

  (Jim, me and the big boy, Irish)

 (Jim teaching me - the procedure)
 
     At the end of the lesson, I put Irish on a small rug in the reception area for a “thirty minute down” while we: Tom, Quinn, Henry, Me and Mike who’d arrived to join us for lunch, all got instructions about how to behave around the big boy. Irish all the while lay on the rug whimpering. He could see us plainly and had to constantly resist the temptation to leave his floor mat and walk in the room where we were all seated. This got to be too much for him at one point and I had to go and “correct” him by putting him back on the mat. When I returned, Henry had his head in his hands, his eyes watery.

     “I don’t like seeing you yank on him,” Henry responded to my quizzical look. It seems he and Grandpa Horn are kindred spirits when it comes to doggy discipline.

     “Henry he’s a big dog, he’s fine, but if you don’t get his attention, he’s not going to learn anything. Look at him now, he’s just fine,” Jim said firmly clearly not wanting his hard work to be undone by an overly emotional pubescent pre-teen. Henry wiped his eyes, nodded and looked away.

     Normally, owners pick-up their dogs when they take this instructional lesson. I would have loved to put the big guy in the back and left with him, but I couldn’t see taking him to the hotel this evening and leaving him in the car while Henry competed, so we arranged to leave Irish with Jim for one more day. Crying could be heard from the kennel as we pulled away. “Ohhhhh, the Big-un is confused,” Quinn whimpered. “He probably thinks we’re never coming back.” Henry stared at the kennel fence. He said nothing, but in my rearview mirror I saw him wipe away a tear.

     “But think how happy he’ll be when we come back tomorrow,” Tom urged parentally.

     On Jim’s recommendation we made our way to Country Cousins for lunch we passed pasture after pasture filled with various cattle. Quinn gazed out the window for sometime before speaking. “You know what I love about cows? Cows are my favorite animal because cows, no! I mean elephants!” She giggled at her own mistake.

     “What?” Tom shot back as he collapsed into laughter. “What did you just say?”

     “Well, I love how cows, I mean elephants will nurse another elephant’s baby,” Quinn informed us. Quinn an uncanny knack for saying something completely goofy providing us with endless amusement.

    "Oh Quinn, you're never going to hear the end of that one - it's almost as good the time you said you had six toes and were worried about the cost of pedicures." Henry whispered.

    "Whatever," Quinn harrumphed.    

 (Centralia, WA)

 (Pea, Quinn, Mike and - Henry as the dog)

 (Henry- the flower dog)

 (Tom and Quinn)
 

     After a delicious lunch of yak burgers (yes - yak burgers) with Mike the van was racing south again. Tom pushed the cd button and our murder mystery, “Caught”, resumed. Occasionally, someone would call to pause the story making a prediction or asking for a point of clarification but other than that we listened without interruption until we neared Sandy when Quinn moaned she didn’t want the story to be turned off.

    “You’re obsessed,” Tom accused. “Don’t you want to see the elephants? I mean pigs”. Tom teased.

    “Ha-ha, you’re so funny. I’m afraid we won’t finish the story before I have to go home. That’s what happened with that other mystery, “Down the Rabbit Hole,” she explained. “I never did hear the end,” her voice trailed off as we pulled into the driveway of Cascade Meadows Farm. “Oooooh! Look!” She squealed.

     “Piggies!” Henry yelled. “Do you think I’ll find another soul-pig?” he asked.

     “Any pig you talk your mother into taking home will become your soul-pig,” Quinn countered as they took off down the muddy driveway. Tom turned to me and gave me the I-know-we’re-leaving-here–with–a-pig-glance.

     “What you never know? I don’t even have a carrier. We might not want one,” I said in mock innocence. He arched an eyebrow my way and pulled his farm boots on.

     “And I’m a cow, I mean an elephant,” Tom mumbled.

  (Quinn, Henry and Tom wait for the pigs)
 

When the all the piglets came down off the hill you couldn’t help but smile. Their tubby bodies scampering was a sight to see. There were only two girls. The bigger girl, Jason and Kirk were keeping for themselves. The other one was a teeny tiny shy cutie pie we couldn’t help but want to pick up. Her nose was wrinkly and her ears stood straight.

  (a bunch of baby American Guinea Hogs)

 (the little girl)

 (my girl)

 (Denise hugs the girl pig)
     “I want her don’t you?” I said to Tom.

     “Of course I want her,” Tom agreed. “She’s adorable, she’s so petite, we should name her Petitie -but wait Petite’s already the name of our elephant – I mean a cow”. Tom continued to poke fun at Quinn.

     “Ha-ha,” Quinn responded snidely although she was used to it.

     “Then we need a boy!” Henry said as he began assessing the rest of the piglets.

     “You want one without a notch in it’s ear,” Kirk informed us, “those are suitable for her to breed with. They’re not related.”

  ( the little girl and Henry)

 (the floppy-eared boy)

 (Kirk talks to Tom while Henry assess)

 (shy pigs)
 

After careful consideration we narrowed the field to a couple of friendly boys. There was one boy with floppy ears who seemed braver than the little girl and another with upright ears, who was a bit shy but went everywhere with the little girl. We marked them both with pink nail polish so we could decide later. The name discussion ensued, Henry and I had been prepared with Hamilton Bonaparte – “Ham Bone” and Margaret Suzanne – “Piggy Sue”, but those weren’t for sure. Quinn wanted Evangeline for the girl but she liked Hamilton for the boy. Tom liked Piggy Sue.

 (fuchsia OPI nail polish marks- our selects)
 

    We talked to Jason and Kirk, the owners of the farm. Henry got a lecture about factory farming. “You like bacon right?” Henry nodded not sure he wanted to admit this.

     “And ham,” Henry added sheepishly his voice still horse.

     “Well then you’re adding to the torture of animals,” Kirk spat. “Wouldn’t you rather eat bacon with out all those chemicals and know that your pig lived a wonderful life until it’s last moment? Wouldn’t you rather know your bacon had a good life and didn’t live in a box without sunlight?” Henry looked up at Kirk his eyes grew wide. “I walk up to my pig that’s grazing in the pasture just like this one. Point my gun right here,” he said motioning to the top of the pig’s head and BAMM! His last minute was a happy pig moment. No fear, no torture.

     “Just think of them as dogs you can eat,” Jason chimed in.

     “Dogs you can eat?” Quinn said quietly. “That’s not helping. I’ve been doing a social action project about factory farming, and it’s horrible, but seriously? Dogs you can eat?”

     “I agree, the dogs you can eat thing is tough, but Kirk makes a good point, he’s right.” I reflected as we got in the car to head out. “I mean why do we eat pigs that are tortured and we don’t consider our own? The answer is we’re weak. I don’t know if I can do it. We’ll see,” I said mulling the idea over in my mind.  “You know that’s why your mother gave up pork.”

     “I know,” Quinn acknowledged.

     “They hired someone to come out and do it for them at first. I don’t think we could ever shoot a pig or actually pop a whole pig in the oven like they do,” Tom confessed.

     We stopped on the way to the hotel and picked up a moderately-sized dog carrier. Little Midge (short for midget) or Piggy-Sue or Evangeline was only about seven pounds. “It’s just like Maryruth said, “happy meat” Tom remembered. “I can’t think of the name of the steer she said she fed him for two years and then he fed her for two years. Was it Homer? Or something like that?”

     “I found that hard to hear when she said it, but kids we can’t have forty-two pigs on the farm. We just can’t. Some are going to have to be sold as meat and we’re going to have to butcher some. That’s the plain truth of it. Otherwise we can get two boys.” I waited for their answer.

     “I think we can live with it. I know if they’re not used as food, they will become extinct,” Henry said. “But Kirk acted as though I was going to have to shoot them myself” he recounted in disgust.

     “And I know it’ll be really hard, but I’ve seen enough of the factory farming to understand what he meant. Henry I’ll show you it’s absolutely disgusting.” Quinn added. “It’s enough to make me a vegetarian again.”

     We were getting piggies I thought. And we were in quasi-agreement as we pulled into the Peppertree motel in Beaverton. Quinn’s phone rang. It was Lindsey. Again. She wanted her opinion on the matter of all things swine to be heard. And when Lindsey wants to be heard you can hear her. We had already collected the information that she in fact wanted the floppy-eared fellow.

     “Now she wants you to name the pig, Wilbur,” Quinn relayed.

     “Wilbur? That’s like namiing a llama, Tony or Dali,” Tom responded as we trudged up the stairs loaded down with our bags.

     “Wilbur? No!” Henry said. “I like Hamilton”. I was exhausted and knew we had another long day tomorrow but heck we had piggys coming home.  I’d concede the floppy ears, but I was not caving into to Wilbur or Babe or even Arnold Ziffle. Let’s face it, no matter whose soul pigs they were, the kids would go off to swim parties, the movies and dances. I would be the one who was going to feed them and clean up after them for years to come. These were going to be my piggly-wigglys. My colonial farm set was about to be complete.

     “You look so happy,” Tom said pulling me in close. “You really do love them,” he said softly. I nodded folding into his arms. I could check off another dream come true on my list.

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 9th The Man Who Stares At Goats

 (Christina pays a visit- I left the front door open)
 
     Despite Spring break, the phone jarred me per usual into semi-consciousness. I knew before I picked up, it was Mike. I fumbled for the phone and we began our morning update. Holding the phone with my shoulder I stepped into my slippers reaching for Tom’s heavy red robe. On me the worn terry cloth number dusted the ground. I wrapped it around and pulled the tie tight. Turning around as I listened to Mike recount an incident from work, I screamed.

     “What’s going on? Are you ok?” Mike asked panicky.

     “I’m fine, but it looks like Christmas morning. There must be three to four inches on the ground,” I informed him. He laughed. “You laugh, but I’m over winter. Sure it was mild, but we’ve just had Easter, I’m seriously ready for rhododendrons and butterflies,” I insisted.

 (Winter is finally here)

     Coffee in hand I tidied the house, sweeping the always dusty stairs. Letting the debris fly to the hallway below, I thought about how much I despised these cruddy stairs. They were too narrow, too shallow and didn’t even have a banister. I’d done my best to fix them up, painting the trim black, but it didn’t really help much. Oh well, I’d put it on the list of things to do to fix this house. Once on the list I thought, it would get done – eventually. I did the dishes, fed the dogs, let the barn animals out and took a bale of hay to the cows. Henry slept. Still in our robe, I vacuumed the rugs, mopped the floors and washed the tablecloth. Henry slept.

     Luther pranced to the door his too long toenails clicking on the pine floor. He stood sniffing the door with perky ears, beckoning me. Figuring he needed to go out I opened the door. A pair of men’s boots standing on the mat startled me. My heart pounding at the unexpected sight I raised my eyes up the workman’s jumpsuit relieved to see a smiling Little Chris Donaldson.

    “You scared me!” I admonished but he just laughed.

 (Little Chris Donaldson)
 

     “Did I?” He said with a touch of glee in his voice.

     “Yes, you did,” I said catching my breath and slapping him on the arm.

     “We’re here working on the water line and I’m supposed to ‘deal’ with the homeowner,” he said smiling.

     “You have time for some coffee?” I asked swinging the door open wide and very glad I had already done the dishes.

     “Yeah,”

     “You still want all that junk in it? Your coffee drink?” I asked mockingly already knowing the answer. We caught up and sipped our coffee. Little Chris looked around to note any changes. He said he could work on Sir Edward’s feet and would help me put up a fence if I needed him too. I knew he meant it, but he never really has time for such things.

     “I would next week, but I have a rodeo,” he told me sheepishly.

     “I thought you gave that up,” I said, “so you’ll be able to walk when you’re forty.”

     “Yeah, I keep meaning to. I already hurt, but I love it,” he admitted. “Well, I better go, they’re going to be wondering what happened to me. Come on down later, the guys think you’re,” he trailed off. He’d obviously thought better of what he was about to say. I smothered a smile as he closed the door.

     I checked the clock. It was almost time to leave so threw on a pair of jeans, a white long-sleeved t-shirt, straightened my hair and quickly put on some make up. I wrote the boy a note and started for town.

     Half way to town to the airport, I dialed home. No answer. I felt a grip at my heart, I hate when he doesn’t answer the phone, but I didn’t panic. I don’t like leaving Henry alone, not because I don’t trust him, but because there just anyone out here if falls or needs help. However, I know Henry sleeps like the dead. In fact, I always say the USC marching band could go right through his room and he wouldn’t even rollover. I dialed again.

     “Hello?”

     “Hey Good Afternoon!”

     “Mama? Where are you? What time is it?” Henry croaked. His voice had disappeared when he got strep and pneumonia and as of yet it hadn’t returned.

     “I’m going to get your father remember? It’s almost 1 o’ clock. Have you looked outside?

    “What?” I could practically hear him turning when I heard, “Oh my gosh! Did I sleep through Christmas?” Henry whispered.

 “I know, well anyway, do your chores we’ll be home soon, smooch!”

     By the time I swung into booming Bellingham International it was just about noon. Despite all the warnings to the contrary I pulled into the yellow loading zone and parked along side a set of grandparents. Ready to wait, I pushed my seat back and whipped out my new favorite read, “Small Time Operator”, a handbook for aspiring home business owners. Awesomez, had suggested I get it and truly it was a wealth of information. I was deep into shipping procedures and pitfalls and lifted out of my seat when the back of the car opened. A glance in the rearview mirror told me my reaction had taken careful planning. Tom grinned like a little boy. On the way home, we made our requisite stop at Lowes. The snow had all but disappeared. Tom had work to do this trip. The barn door needed mending and about a million other things had to be done before and there wasn’t much time, he really only had a day or so.

     Tom set to work mending things, hanging things and replacing things while spent my time doing all the wifey-type things like schlepping Henry to gymnastics, cooking dinner and doing laundry.

 (Edward and Pea)
 

     While in Burlington I picked up a few more trinkets at Home Depot and headed one again. Tom was still at work in the house so Henry and I went straight to the barn. I opened all the pens and let the animals in. I noticed something strange. None of the goats got up. They ignored me food completely. That was odd, there were infinitely curious and social, they never ignored me. I went about my business, shut Frank and Silence in their pen, put away the hens and shut Lloyd and his gaggle up for the night before getting out the food bowls. As I slid the door of the food room to the side I got a knot in my stomach. The goats, all of them just sat there. Usually the sound of the food room opening is like a bell at recess. The goats usually go nuts vying for the best spot at the feed bin. This time there were still on the ground. Their eyes sleepy.

     “What is going on Alexander? Don’t you feel well?” I asked my lethargic goat.

     “What’s wrong with them?” Henry asked.

     Remembering the words I’d heard when I first got them from Marcia. She’d said, “The main thing you have to remember is, a goat that doesn’t eat is a very sick goat.” It was a telltale sign.

 (Alexander -my sickie- if you look in the right corner there is a duck sitting on a nest)
 

     “They’re sick,” I surmised, “Marcia, told me to give them baking soda. I have some in the house can you run go get it? There’s a giant box in the pantry. If they can’t burp they can die,” I said not wanting to be too dramatic, but we were most certainly talking about life and death here. Henry took off like a track star sprinting across the barnyard.

     I went over and opened the gate to their pen. Usually, everyone rushed me. Still nary a ruminant got up. Rachel was the closest so I bent down and felt her belly. It was hard and distended. Her coat seemed kind of rough and it sort of looked like a Rhodesian Ridgeback with a spike down the middle. Frankly, I wasn’t sure if I was imaging that or not. I finished feeding the rest of the animals and waited for Henry to return. We poured most of the box in the bowl and tried to get some Rachel and Christina interested in the white healing powder. They were only slightly interested.

     “Do you think they’ll be ok?” Henry asked. He was raw when it came to death on the farm lately. We’d just recently dispensed of a Silence’s stillborn turkey eggs. “How would we bury them? With the tractor?” Henry wondered getting ahead of himself.

 (still born turkey egg)

 (bad eggs- thus illustrating the old saying - don't count your turkeys before they hatch)
 

  “I guess so. All we can do now is hope. There isn’t any vet open now and I have no idea what they could have gotten into. The food room isn’t disturbed or the chicken feed. All the lids are on everything. I can’t imagine what’s making them sick unless it’s just too much green grass. They could have frothy bloat,” I explained. Solemnly, we went in the house. Henry and Tom ripped open a bag of chips while I flipped on the burner to heat up the water in the kettle.

     “Do you really think it’s that serious?”  Tom asked popping a Kettle™ Chip in his mouth and washing it down with a swig of Becks™.

     “Yes, goats are wimps. If they can’t burp they can’t live. They could all be dead by morning. Really,” I said flatly. “When I got them Marcia told me most people kill their first goats within a year. I’ve had them almost three and they’ve stayed healthy,” I said trying to look on the bright side. I thought of calling Lisa, but I knew it was late and I didn’t think there was much I could do. I thought about the goats dying and it saddened me, but I wasn’t hysterical. In an odd way I was getting used to loss on the farm. The goats were my first animals. I was a completely nervous mother driving four goats in my van up the I5 almost three years ago. I went to bed wondering what was happening in the barn. Would I find one, two three or eight bodies in the morning? Were the sheep possibly sick too? Had they eaten a poisonous plant? I doubted that though they seem to instinctively know what not to eat.

     In the morning, my eyes flew open. I leapt out of bed and rushed to the barn.

     “Please be alive, please be alive,” I whispered to myself. The barn was dark except for the heat lamp in the center of the barn for the ducks. My eyes adjusted and I could make out figures on the ground. They’d made it through the night. They were still lying around like they were in a sick ward, but they were alive. I breathed a sigh of relief. Alexander seemed to be the worst at this point. The others got up with some prompting.

     I called Lisa and apprised her of the situation. “Hmmm, could be bloat,” she suggested.

     “That’s what I thought,” I said glad for the confirmation.

     “Do you have any of the activated charcoal I gave you? Or mineral oil”

     “Yes, should I give it?” I supposed I should have thought of that last night. I felt guilty for not calling her sooner.

     “I think you should call Kulshan. You know, you could have called them last night, I'm sure they would have had an on call vet assigned," she scolded. "But anyway, you can see what the vet says, just in case there’s a better answer,” she advised. So I hung up and spoke to Amber other wise known as Dr. Itle. She told me to take their temperatures and give her a call back. My sister then called and asked me to also check their gums, bellies and stool.

     “OK then, Pea you need to come with me. I need help,” I called. And Tom pulled on his jacket and boots ready to be my assistant. We walked into the barn and I quickly located the barn thermometer.

 (the thermometer)
 

     “Now you’ll have to hold Rachel while I insert the thermometer,” I instructed. Tom tried grabbing the goat around her legs but she wiggled and wriggled and hopped around. I couldn’t get the thermometer in as he struggled with her. I knew he was trying, but he seemed to be approaching it awkwardly. He didn’t want to let her move, but he didn’t want to hurt her either. “um, do you want me to hold her?” I asked handing him the thermometer and grabbing the goat. “Just put it in,” I said matter-of-factly.

     Tom just stood there intently looking at each of the goats one by one. He was just standing there holding the thermometer. I buried my head in Rachel’s neck, but when Tom still didn’t make a move, I looked up. “What?” I asked confused.

     “I can’t. I draw the line. I’m not shoving this thermometer up that goat’s butt. I'm just not. I’m not sticking it in there,” Tom said in a tone that was not open for discussion.

     “Really?” I asked anyway although I knew he’d pigged up. He gave me a look that did not invite further conversation. It was kind of funny actually. Here he was my hero, this big strong man who could leap tall buildings, pour cement, construct sturdy fences and yet he was not going to do this. I thought of goat herders in ancient lands getting syphilis and wondered if this was a factor. I said nothing but reached for the thermometer. “Can you hold her?”

     “Oh I’ll hold Rachel, you put it in,” He offered grabbing the goat.

     Rachel arched her tail up as the blue thermometer hung out of her pinched, pink bottom. 98, 99, 100.5 100.6, 100.7, 100.8, 100.9 the digital numbers kept climbing 101, 101.1 When it beeped her temperature read 101.3 “She’s going to be OK. Amber said if it was less than 103 she was probably out of the woods,” I said happily hoisting up the red robe and grabbing for my coffee cup perched on top of some hay.

 (my goats - on the mend)

 (Really feeling better)
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

April 4th All Ears

 (Luther, The Easter Basset)

     My little sister, Lisa, is almost pious if it weren’t for her ongoing affair with the cookie. In fact, Lisa has never met a cookie she didn’t like. She’ll eat them for breakfast, nibble them in the afternoon with a hot cup of coffee and sneak a few at midnight with her decaf Earl Grey™ and a book. Lisa barely discriminates; she just loves cookies, all cookies. She’ll snack on everything from Thin Mints™, Milanos™, Chessmen™, Snicker doodles, Le Petit Ecolier™, Savanahs™ to Chocolate Chunk, Madeleines Ginger Snaps and even the little Cat Cookies™ you get from Trader Joes™. So when she gave cookies up for Lent, I knew it was a true Catholic sacrifice unto God. And good for her waistline.

  (Holy Cow!- Gnatalie)

 (Tabitha)
 

 (Edward peeks)

 (Rachel gets into the act)

 (Henry and Edward-- bunny up)

 (Tabitha determined to don the ears)
 
     Now, Lisa does a lot for me, being my on call vet for forty-six animals of all shapes and sizes. She is tirelessly researching reasons and doing tests to find out why Luther is drinking so much water just in case he has some sort of mysterious condition. She willing gives up her days off to help me on the farm and she rides three hours to Olympia to drop off Irish just because I need someone to hold my hand. During the last few weeks she'd dropped a few hints about hoping there would be cookies ready for her at the end of Lent. I wanted her to know I was listening.

     I decided to make her some cookies. They couldn’t be just any cookies; they had to be special cookies. Cookies that said you do a lot for me and I love you. 

    In this spirit, I hesitantly ventured into the mysterious uncharted waters of rolled fondant. A strange, flexible icing used to decorate cakes and cookies. Rolled fondant as it turns out is a true cavity creating combination of marshmallows and powdered sugar mixed together to form a kind of dough. You begin by melting them together in a double boiler and mixing them up in a big ooey-gooey mess. The directions say, “Thoroughly coat your hands with Crisco™ this process is like a hand softening treatment”. Kneading this pile of gunk is like being in an, “I Love Lucy episode” fondant everywhere sticking to everything. When I added a sprinkle too much of water and it began to stick to everything, so I added a touch more powdered sugar and the darn thing became dry and cracked. Drat. I did it over and over and over. Frustrated I called my Martha-Stewart-friend, Toby, for advice. Certainly, she must have made rolled fondant after all she makes her own crackers and marshmallows Why make crackers or marshmallows? Where’s the benefit? Are they better fresh?

  (Fondant - prep)
 

    “Are you kidding,” she said, “I’ve never made it or used it, but I’d buy it at Michaels™ you can get packages in different colors.”

    “Oh, I was trying to save money,” I thought it would taste better homemade,” I complained. And although she didn’t have any sage advice, Toby did keep me company on the phone while I took my turn as a bread machine, kneading my concoction to near perfection.

    Next, on the docket was the actual cookie. I selected shortbread for a variety of reasons. First they are an excellent dunking cookie, delicious with tea and they hold their shape when baking better than the benchmark sugar cookie.

    Baking cookies might seem simple enough, but I’m known for getting distracted, missing the timer and inevitably scorching entire batches. This time was no different. I tried, but when the timer went off they just didn’t "look" done. So I gave them just a little longer. A little too long, I tried again, but they all had a bit of a tan. No matter I would cover that right up with fondant.

  (Shortbread dough)

 (a bit over baked)

     Saturday morning, I was exhausted. I had to take Henry to the hospital after he had trouble breathing during gymnastics on Wednesday. It turned out he had strep and pneumonia. 

 (Henry waiting at the hospital in Mt. Vernon)
 

    As a result, he’d been teary and needy and had quite a bit of trouble sleeping. A mother’s work is never done and all, I got up and realized that after three days of unexpected confinement I was out of the essentials, chicken feed, alfalfa pellets and coffee. I would have resort again to my emergency stash, the three-year old Costco-size can of Yuban™ Tom bought for some work camping trip. In my haze I accidentally grabbed the can of Crisco™.

    “That might taste better than the Yuban™,” Mike laughed over the phone. “I’ll bring some coffee today when I drive up”. Mike as usual was coming up for the holiday weekend.

    Properly caffeinated I pulled out my decorating tips, laid out my new non-stick “fondant mat”, selected a rolling pin and took my tangerine, sky blue, leaf green, lemon yellow, rose and jet black food colorings out of the cupboard. The first step was to prepare some butter cream icing. I added just a splash of almond extract for some zing. The butter cream icing is like mastic when tiling. You slather a thin layer on the cookie before applying the fondant; otherwise the fondant would slide right off.

    To color the fondant, I learned you take toothpicks with food coloring and knead it into the “dough”. The color slabs are then rolled out quite easily and cut with the same cookie cutter used to make the actual cookie, creating the perfect fit. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I did not expect it to be as effortless as it turned out. There was one casualty; however, one of the bunnies did have ear damage. Calmly I performed triage. Turning the bunny over I took some butter cream frosting and asliver of fondant creating a bandage of sorts.

  (Bunny cookie with butter cream icing and fondant ready to go)

 (Blue bunny!- albeit a little bumpy)

 

 (Luther reprising his role as the the Easter Basset)

 (Miracle had her own set)

 
 

 (getting tricky - mixing fondant colors)

 (creating one piece)

 (cookie shapes cut)
 
  (Gnatalie)

 

    Once all the cookies were covered with their first two coats of icing, it was time to make the third in the trifecta, the royal icing, for the details. The finishing touch. I began with the flowers. They were my least favorite cookies for some reason and I decided to make my mistakes there, perfecting my icing flow before moving on to my favorites, the baby geese.

  (Baby geese in progress)

 (getting there)

 (Icing tools)
 

    I even got tricky – making little balls of fondant and mixing colors, creating “decorated” eggs. With newfound confidence I really went nuts creating bunny necklaces using one of my fancy-dancy decorating tips. Not being able to leave well enough alone I added centers to the little bunny necklaces. I assessed the cookies. I was pleased. I didn’t know if they’d taste any good, but they did look cute. The kitchen on the other hand was a disaster, Mike was arriving and we had to get ready for church. Hurriedly, I rinsed everything off and ran the dishwasher. Then so I could give them to Lisa after Mass, I carefully layered the cookies in some tissue I had in the Harry Potter room under the stairs. Throwing a touch of ribbon around the outside of the plastic case I finished and got ready for church just in the nick of time.

 (baby geese - done)

 (ready for packing)

    Lisa called in the morning as she does every Easter. I answered the phone, “He is Risen!” She said as she does every Easter. “You heard me! And my those bunny necklaces! You really out did yourself,” she gushed and I swelled with pride. Those bunny necklaces really were something. “How did you get everything so smooth?” She asked.

    “That is fondant.” I explained.

 

 (courtesy of Chris - LIsa & Phoebe at their house having Easter cookies)