USA: And Now for Something Completely Different
Miraculous Joan of Park, Shingles (like Pringles but not nearly as fun), and a barnyard belly laugh called "Pigs in Space," a true crime, partners-in-swine comedy from the archives.
We interrupt this weekly newsletter to report that there is very little news to report this week.
We are continuing to work on building out our expedition vehicle. Andy’s cabinetry project in the habitation box is coming right along, and I spent a couple of days sanding the exterior of the cab, taping off the trim and getting it ready for paint.
We attended Missoula’s annual Symphony in the Park event this past weekend, which is always a highlight of our summer. Before the symphony played, we enjoyed a lovely picnic alongside the river and met a new friend named Joan, an 85-year-old with a heart for adventure. Just two years ago, she apparently fell 300 feet down a mountainside, breaking all her ribs and fracturing seven vertebrae, winning her an unexpected helicopter ride. She would have died, had it not been for the heroics of a doctor who saw her fall and launched himself down the mountain, sliding recklessly on his backside, to follow after her. She was in rough shape. But now—aside from some lingering soreness—she has found her stride again and is jonesing for travel. After hearing of our upcoming plans, she was inspired. By the time the conductor dropped his baton on the final number of the symphony’s performance, Joan had decided that she is going to go on those trips she has been dreaming of—one a road trip around the Great Lakes, and the other a group tour to Africa—no matter what her kids and grandkids say. If they protest, she is prepared to put them in their places. She is a grown woman, after all, and can spend the rest of her days however she wants. Go, Joan, go!
Also minorly newsworthy: Andy and I got the second of two Shingles vaccinations Sunday. We have mild fevers and body aches, which should clear up within another 24 hours. The symptoms point to our immune systems functioning properly and they are totally worth it when you consider the average case of shingles lasts 2-6 weeks. One in three adults born prior to 1980 will contract Shingles, due to the latent chicken pox virus still in our systems. A full 99% of Americans born in the 70s and before had chicken pox, putting us all at risk. My own father’s case of shingles, a few years ago, attacked his eyeballs! He was absolutely miserable, in horrible pain, for a very long time. So, sure, say what you will about vaccinations, but I for one am willing to feel like crap for 48 hours or so, if it means I will avoid getting shingles—and I am statistically 90% protected from it now.
So, without much news to report, I thought I would treat you to a two-week series from last decade, two separate installments with a few very key elements in common. Both stories involve farm animals and are told from the perspective of me—a person who did not grow up on a farm or anything close to it, only moving to rural Montana when my children were young. Our children’s friends, however, raised animals and were quite comfortable with this foreign lifestyle. We learned quite a bit. Enjoy the first story today and tune in for the second—different but with a similar cast of characters straight outta Old MacDonald’s farm—next week. Same bat time, same bat channel.
From the archives, I present “Pigs in Space.” The title, of course, is an homage to that classic recurring segment on every self-respecting Gen Xer’s favorite TV program, The Muppet Show.
Pigs in Space
(adapted from the original account, written in May, 2011)
Right when I needed it most, my lanky 14-year-old, aka The Pig Farmer, and the two pudgy pork partners provided me with some comic relief today. We have a few daily chores that must be completed before breakfast in our home. I figured, if the farming and ranching families in our community could have morning chores, so could we. One of the morning chores is to care for the animals. We have two big dogs, three small fish and, as of a couple of weeks ago, two young pigs, both pink with faint gray spots, that The Pig Farmer is raising for a 4-H project. Think Babe or Wilbur.
On second thought, don’t think about Babe or Wilbur. These little piggies, after all, are a 4-H project and are indeed headed for market—and that does not mean they are going shopping.
At this point it should be noted that, other than our failed poultry experiment several years back, we've never attempted to raise barnyard animals. We really don't know what we're doing AT ALL.
This morning, The Pig Farmer decided to not only feed and water the pigs, but muck out their stall, which was badly in need of such work. Since the nights aren't consistently above freezing yet anyway, we've been keeping the pigs in the barn while we get their outdoor pen area cleaned out, fenced and ready for them.
Keeping pigs in the barn might sound reasonable to most readers but understand that our barn was never intended to be a home for livestock. It was built by my grandfather when he and my grandmother first bought this property in the early 1970's. A simple structure with a cement floor and cinder block walls, it served as their home while they built the main house. After the build, the main room became Grandpa’s auto shop, as his primary hobby was buying wrecked cars, fixing them up, and reselling them. The two smaller rooms on the main floor held everything else he needed for auto repair, home maintenance, yard work, hunting and fishing. With Grandpa gone, one of these little cement storage rooms currently houses the pigs. But with no easy access to the outside, it is difficult to keep clean. I was excited to see The Pig Farmer take the initiative to clean it out first thing in the morning without being told.
Fifteen minutes later, we were proudly informed that the pigs were outside if we wanted to come see them. TPF had tried to get them out before, but they'd always been too shy to leave the comfort of their stinky little room and would squeal in terror at any attempts to force them out the door. They've come to trust The Pig Farmer quite a bit, though, as the faithful source of food and water, plus occasional yummy scraps from the kitchen and plenty of good back scratches. This time, when TPF opened their pen, then opened the door to the barn and enticed them toward the sunlight, they were hesitant, but willing to try it out.
TPF’s ten-year-old sibling and I, who had already started our schoolwork, came out to say hello to the little 80 lb. bacon bits. They're awfully cute, I'm afraid, so I must refer to them in terms such as this, in hopes of not getting too attached. Still a little nervous, they did not want to stray far from the barn but seemed happy for the chance to explore and stretch their legs.
We brought Drake, the better behaved of our two Labramutts, out of the shop building for a little meat and greet. They have shown great interest in each other before but had never had the chance to interact. There was much sniffing and wagging of tails among the three of them, but the dominant ham hock, Napoleon Bone-a-pork, was clearly in charge and several times put Drake in his place, even though he was several inches shorter than the big dog. With a name like that, I suppose it was to be expected. Drake countered, but it was mostly friendly (except for that one little nip).
This meeting of the human, canine, and porcine occupants of the property went as well as could be hoped for. The Non-Pig Farmer and I went back into the house to continue school. After another half hour or so, I was starting to get concerned that TPF was not back yet and would be quite behind with the day’s assignments. Just as I was planning how I would divert attention from the pigs to the paperwork, I heard The Pig Farmer’s feet pound up the steps of the deck to the front door. Oh, good, I thought. The mucking of the stalls project must be complete. When TPF came in, though, it wasn't to buckle down to school.
"Uh, Mom—” The Farmer sounded concerned—“do you think you could come out and help me get the pigs back into the barn? They are so comfortable outside now that they don't want to go back in."
We, now classified as The Assistant Pig Farmers, followed TPF out the door and down the steps to the yard. Sure enough, the little pork chops were as happy as could be. They were chasing each other around playfully, rooting and rolling in the bit of mud by the water spigot, nibbling tufts of grass, and just generally frolicking in the sunshine. They wagged their little tails at our approach (who knew pigs wagged their tails?) and didn't mind a bit that we were hanging around. Those were some contented pigs.
The three of us began to herd them back toward the barn. They didn't want to go. Just as we would get them almost there, one riblet or the other would slip between our legs or bolt just out of reach. They weren't acting upset or stressed at all, still grunting happily, but they clearly did not want to go back indoors. I honestly couldn't blame them. It was a lovely day. I didn’t want to be indoors, either.
We allowed them to play for a while before trying again. This time we tried to work together better as a team. Surely three humans could be smarter than two ham sammies. We herded some more, but to no avail. The little hot dogs hustled around us and then ambled slowly up the back hill, sending us scrambling again to get ahead of them and work them back down.
We tried tempting them with some of their favorite snacks. The Pig Farmer dug up a few wild onions, which they LOVE. Nibble, but no follow. I went into the house, cut up the cantaloupe on the counter, and put all the leftover guts in a bowl—sweet, gooey deliciousness, if you are a pig. One bite each was enough for them both. I took the bowl back in the house and filled it with milk. Yummy milk! They each took a slurp, wagged their little tails again in appreciation . . . and walked away, completely uninterested in taking another sip—at least if it meant moving toward the barn.
The two little piggly wigglies explored the front of the house, sniffing the tires on the cars. Can you see the crazy mom and two very tall children spreading their arms wide, trying in vain to shoo them toward the barn? Even though it was a few acres away, they wandered down toward the neighbor's house, forcing us to sprint to position ourselves in front of the surly sausage links. They went back to explore my vegetable and flower gardens and we hustled to keep them from tromping through it. They hid their little pork butts under the deck, and we helplessly called them to come. They were thrilled to be exploring the vast, wide-open spaces of the west—all the glory of Big Sky Country—elbow room and don't fence me in and all that. Those naughty sons of briskets.
I wish you could see how relaxed the pigs were as they wandered around, compared to the amount of effort that the three of us humans were exerting. I'm sure it would have been truly comical to watch, and we stopped our efforts several times just to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
At one point, TPF even attempted to pick up one of the little rump roasts. Oh, the squealing and squirming! It was just too heavy and wiggly. The piggie was promptly released, whereupon he trotted over to his partner-in-swine for their next adventure.
After nearly two hours of this—yes, you read that correctly, dear reader—after nearly two hours of unsuccessfully trying to herd pigs, I suggested that TPF call one of the other homeschooled 4-H families who are experienced with pigs. The first phone call was of no use. She suggested that we offer snacks and gently herd them back toward the barn. Been there, tried that. The second call was to the Ward family, who had offered to help with anything we needed. "Uh, hi, Mr. Ward. I have a little problem with my pigs..." After only the briefest of conversations, TPF handed my phone back to me. I asked what Mr. Ward had recommended. "He just said they'd be right over."
I was a little embarrassed at the thought of another family having to come over to our house to help. I wished we could have done it on our own, but I was willing to admit that our efforts were clearly not getting us anywhere.
While we waited, we kept the piggies somewhat engaged near the barn by turning on the water spigot at the well. The pigs love that spigot and it made for a great momentary distraction. It's like a shower, plus you can drink out of it, and it also makes mud. What could be better?
Within minutes, the Wards showed up. They parked their car and walked toward us, two adults with compassionate smiles and sections of plywood panels and their 13-year-old daughter with a long stick. They approached the pigs (who didn't look terribly concerned) with confidence, like they'd done this a million times before. Mom and Dad surrounded the pigs with their panels and moved in. Daughter protected a vulnerable spot by tapping the little pork rinds gently with the stick if they tried to move in her direction. With tall walls (taller than short pigs, at least) surrounding them, they moved nonchalantly toward whatever opening they could find. The Wards expertly made sure that the only available opening was their pen in the barn. The whole operation took perhaps 90 seconds.
Seriously.
We laughed together for a few minutes as they told us about their first experience trying to get pigs from pen to trailer. Their pigs did the same exact thing. It took them two hours to figure out the panel trick. All of us needed to get back to our school day. We thanked them; Mr. Ward tipped his hat, and they were off. And that was the end of that episode of “Pigs in Space.”
I remember an old joke we used to tell when I was in high school, except it wasn’t really a joke. The punchline-that-wasn't-really-a-punchline originally involved sheep, but this works just as well.
Q: Guess what I herd?
A: Pigs
Click here for the promised Part 2 of this two—part series of barnyard follies.
Enjoyed your entertaining post this morning!