My grandson Jeremy (11) is the chicken guy and on vacation – and I have my instructions, which go something like this: “Nana, Jim Bob is very bossy so don’t turn your back on him – if he goes after you, just hold your hand down flat over his head. Or you can just let him get you, it doesn’t really hurt – and he gets tired of it. Party Girl is laying eggs right on top of Lulu who is broody, she only has a couple of eggs under there, but she’s in a bad mood. Michele and Brenda are co-parenting again, they will take care of their babies, you don’t have to do anything. Just make sure they have food and water inside and outside, only feed them once, and try to keep track of how many babies there are.” You would be thinking right about now that it’s cute that he gave all of them names, and I won’t know which ones he is talking about and that is the gist of my story. And then we can laugh all afternoon about one Nana’s cute chicken antics. But no. That’s not it.

I DO know their names, because our whole family watches the flock like it’s the Real Housewives of Honey Brook. Much of our conversation as a family revolves around the drama and pathos of the chicken yard. The chicken’s names were given them because of a characteristic behavior or their social status in the flock, mostly by me.

Our chickens are free range, which sounds like we made a conscious decision based on information regarding humane needs and best practices. In actuality, it means we don’t have and can’t afford a fence that will contain them. Our chickens have been “free range” for twenty five years, never once has one been hit by a car. Occasionally, a rogue hen will refuse the coop they stay in at night. She might start perching in the trees and while we are deciding what and if to do something about that, she usually disappears – owls will pluck her right off the branch as she sleeps. We have had suspicious paw prints in the snow around the coop, and we have found some chicken bodies “cached” in holes around the farm. Bob and Nola, the bulldogs, killed a chicken together when they were puppies, but a few days with the shock collar took care of that. Since we got goats, we don’t see fox foot prints at all, so Ripper thinks that the goats are like watchdogs. It’s a rate of attrition we can live with considering we aren’t very efficient at collecting eggs, so we have piles of babies all the time. I know this manner of chicken keeping flies in the face of all those who want to complicate the simple life, but it works for us.

This morning I can hear them crowing and bumping and rustling as the flock moves around inside the small coop. It’s a little like listening to someone’s stomach growl – you can’t see what’s causing it, but you can definitely hear it. When I open the little door they tumble out, like clowns out of a clown car.

Party Girl (small black and white Banty) is the first one out. She is named Party Girl because ... well, she only dates the dominant rooster, she lays fertile eggs all the time and insists that other hens raise her children. After the really hard work of rearing the babies is done, she will hang out with her own adolescent offspring, which can be identified by their distinctive coloring. Right now she has a pure white teenage rooster and a black and white teenage rooster following her every where, but otherwise, her only socializing is with Jim-Bob. Or with Jeremy. She loves to be picked up and carried around by him. They sit together on the porch and he strokes her feathers and talks to her. She stares at him with the intention of a geisha. She knows how to work it.

Jim-Bob is a pure white incredibly attractive nasty little s.o.b. He has cobalt blue cheeks and a black crusty comb. He is the father of almost all the babies. He and Party Girl have a very Clinton-esque relationship – she tolerates his indiscretions, she is unfailingly loyal to him. I think she thinks he has a job to do. And he does. Not only is he primarily in charge of making sure the flock increases, he watches the skies for predators during the day – like crows and red tails. He also is a caring wonderful father, often helping Michele and Brenda with their huge broods made up of their babies and Party Girl’s. He teaches the babies how to find stuff in the ground, and he breaks up fights with the older kids.

Lulu, Brenda and Michele lay eggs, raise babies, and teach babies to find food. They often stumble around with a dozen or more babies pushed up under their wings, under their legs or chin. As the chicks get older, they take groups of them on trips down into the field, past the dog kennels, and to the manure piles behind the barn. “Cluck cluck,” they seem to say, “follow me, look at this, you can find food here.” They issue warnings, confer with the other Mothers (but not Party Girl) and generally are a miniature theatre production of what goes on, on any playground anywhere. They keep track of all the babies, steal each other’s babies and seem to know whose is whose. Well, that is how it appears.

As I said, the kids are on vacation and I am homesteading solo during a week of horrible thunderstorms. Almost daily, the clouds roll in from the southwest, darkness eating up the day, winds coming out of nowhere. One early evening, I get caught on the lawn, between the car and the house, as curtains of rain drench me. I am so glad to get inside, dripping water on the kitchen floor. It was hot, but now, soaking wet, I am freezing, teeth chattering. I am alone, so I strip down and grab a robe from the peg in the hallway. Then I hear it, over the banging of the shutters and the rain on the metal roof.

Hysterical, persistent chirping. Louder and Louder, more and more frantic. Where are they? They sound like they are right in the house! I can hear branches clashing, torrential sheets of rain crashing across the yard. The tree between the house and the barn is bending and twisting from powerful gusts, causing the motion detecting light to go on and off, almost at the same time as the lightening flashes. Still I hear the chirping. I go out on the porch with the flashlight and yes, I see them. A moving mass of yellow under the chicken house, on an island between coursing run off from the driveway and barn roof. 

Chirping. Yelling for help. About to be swept away, out into the pasture. 

WHERE ARE THEIR MOTHERS?

Throwing a raincoat over the robe, forcing my still wet feet into my barn shoes, I grab an umbrella and head out into the storm to save the babies. This is right up my alley.

I fight my way against the wind to the chicken house and think, I can just reach down and pick them up and put them in through the little door. Except, standing there, I can’t reach them. They are too far under the coop. I realize I am going to have to kneel down in the rain and mud. Well, it would be ideal if it was only mud but it is the yard surrounding a chicken house, where chickens live. Who are not known for their excremental control.

It is impossible to kneel down, reach under the chicken house and hold the umbrella, so the umbrella has to go. It’s not really functioning as any sort of protection anyway: the wind is blowing the rain nearly horizontal. However, I find I can use it to kind of scoop the baby chicks toward me, and I get four or five at a time out and up to where I can reach them. I open the hatch on the nesting box side of the coop and start throwing them in. I can hear the chickens inside protesting against the rain and wind that blows inside, and I can hear Michele and Brenda chirping, “Come here, get under,” to the rescued babies. I repeat the process several times until there are only two babies left, huddled together and chirping.

I call them, I beckon them, I plead with them and finally curse and scream at them. They heed me not. To save them from the cold water now swirling menacingly toward them, I get down on my belly, shimmy under, grab them, and shimmy back out. I can feel their tiny hearts beating through their bony, wet, feathery breasts. They seem more scared of me than the storm. I toss them into the nesting box and slam the lid closed. 

I feel good, standing on the lawn in the storm, so wet and dirty that I realize I am as wet and dirty as I ever could be. There is a freedom to this, as it is no longer necessary to protect myself from anything. I do a little hero dance in the puddles, throw back my head and laugh. It’s all very enervating until a bolt of lightening slamming to the ground in the field across the street sends me tearing for the house. 

I am sure that as the storm rolled in, the hens moved toward the ramp up to the chicken house like they do every day at dusk. I am sure they called to the babies, and I am sure the chicks heard them. As the thunder and rain rolled in and crashed around them, the chicks chirped so loud I could hear them in the house – and I know the hens could hear them, too. At some point, the hens decided to stick it out in the comfort and warmth of the coop and stop worrying. Later, washed and warmed by a shower, I think about what kind of mothers would take such care of their babies in the sunshine, yet leave them to drown in a storm.

Every morning when I wake up, I do some mental sorting out – usually along the lines of remembering that I am alone now in the house, thinking of things I have to do like grocery shop and work related duties. Before I could not do this because the minute my eyes would fly open, my dogs would be awake and to prevent having to clean up accidents, I would have jump into some clothes of any description, find shoes, tear down the stairs, snap leashes on their necks and then open the door barely in time to keep Ms. Manchester from piddling on the floor in the hallway. About a year ago I started putting all three dogs into crates at night, not sharing my bed with them, and we have ALL been sleeping better. I have time to get properly dressed (if you count striped pj bottoms and a sweatshirt) and control the stampede down the stairs. There have been LOTS fewer accidents.

This morning was no different – a little sniffling about the alone situation, happy dogs excited about another day here in heaven, and out the door to greet the day. It’s been raining for days but this morning the grass was lush and green, the sky was bright, and, all in all, it was a good way to wake up.

Because of some construction, we (me and the dog-tourage) go out the front door – Big American Bull Dog on a pink leash, Little Manchester on a blue leash, Old Jack Russell NOT on a leash. The control of the dogs on the leashes is a fanciful ballet of high kicks and slipped discs. OJR can not be on a leash because of his terrible accident as a puppy when he was kicked by one of the horses and survived a head injury, which left him with short term memory loss and small seizures. Don’t feel bad for him – he wakes up every day in this Dog Heaven and says to himself HEY WE HAVE A BARN! and it’s all gravy from there. But he can not wear a leash because even if we put the thinnest gossamer thread of a leash on him, the minute we attach it to his collar he falls over. We don’t know why, but it’s not funny any more so we just try to keep track of him. The other two – well, they have bad habits that involve chasing livestock or attacking animals larger than themselves and need the control til they get to the fenced dog play yard.

As I have said, this morning we leave the front door without incident (by the time you get to the bottom of this post you will be wondering WHY at that very minute I did not KNOW something was WRONG – having Three Very Active Noses working) and head to the dog play yard. The goats are in their adjacent play yard, and there is some fence jousting and threats and intimidation on both sides but it never goes anywhere. Big Yellow Horse and Big Brown Horse give a glance and head for the pasture. Ripper and the grandkids usually arrive to catch the bus before I get out, and they let the chickens out (again, you are going to wonder why THEY didn’t alert us). The Ugly White Rooster is on top of the chicken house crowing. An idyllic morning. Picture Perfect. Quiet.

Daughter-In-Law is out on the lawn with Youngest Grandson ready for the bus. He does his chicken count, DIL and I exchange bleary good mornings and lean over the fence watching the dogs and the goats and the horses and the chickens, and in general, accessing the very good life that God has given us. We go back in THE FRONT DOOR (again, completely clueless as to what is around us) and sit on the sofa and start to wonder why the traffic is going past the house sooooo sllllooowwwly.

In fact, I remark on it. “Look, that car is going past the house realllllly sloooowly.”

DIL says, “Of course it is. Our house looks like crazy people live here – with all the construction, with the bucket truck stuck in the porch like a permanent fixture, I am sure there are people for whom a highlight of any given weekday morning is checking out the latest crazy crap that is going on here blah blah blah ...“ My attention is momentarily diverted to the TV where they have just announced that the average woman eats an 450 extra calories between Friday evening and Sunday night. 450? That’s like ten calories an hour. Big deal.

I am pulled back into conversation with DIL when she says something about having to pick up a trumpet for Youngest Grandson. I say, I thought he played the violin. She says, NOW he wants to play the trumpet so she has to go to Reading to pick this trumpet up, and she wants to know if I can go with her because she doesn’t know where she is going.

I say, Use your GPS. She says, Well, somehow a penny got down the cigarette lighter thingie and shorted it out, and she can’t plug the GPS I gave her for her birthday in.

I said, I thought My Son Your Husband fixed that. She says, He did. But it happened again. Sigh.

I have a business appointment at 11 am, so I can’t go to Reading to pick up a trumpet, but I suggest that she go to my car (parked next to the front door because it was raining so hard when I got home the day before I just pulled it up on the lawn), plug my GPS in, and then it will be charged and she can take it with her when she leaves.

Another car crawls by the front of the house.

DIL says that is a great idea and goes out the front door. I go to get a cuppa tea. Seconds later, she is back in and says ...

“I don’t know how to say this. Get your shoes on and come outside.”

Through the window I can see another car slowing down and then speeding up, and the driver shaking his head.

I say, “No.”

She says, “Get your camera, get your shoes on and come outside.”

She sees me hesitating and knows I am going to need to know something, anything, that will help me walk the twenty four feet from my kitchen to the front door and out to see the thing that requires shoes and a camera.

She says, “There is a dead deer stuck under your car.”

Well, now. It’s not a horse, it’s not a dog. Thank God it’s not a child. Not pleasant. But not a tragedy. (For those of you NOT from this area, deer are like rats with antlers, wandering around roadways, killing innocent drivers, causing untold millions of dollars worth of property damage, spreading lyme disease, ruining crops. Our native deer are three times the size of the ones our forefathers found when they came to this country, because most of them are cornfed scavengers.)

We walk out together and sure enough, there is a deer stuck under my car. Not just any deer. The BIGGEST, HUGEST, MALE DEER I have ever seen. In perfect condition. With one, two, three, OH MY GOD seven points! (How you measure antlers.) A spread of about eighteen inches. She says, “This wasn’t here when you parked last night, was it?” Just the first of many questions I will be asked about this situation which will give me insight into what people think I am capable of.

No. It was not there when I parked my car last night. And, NO, even though the bedroom where I sleep is under thirty feet from this scene, I didn’t hear anything. And furthermore, doesn’t she think I would have MENTIONED it?

Best guess, someone ELSE hit the poor thing and it was thrown or projected off the roadway into my car. And even though like most things in life there are no answers, and since neither of us are really sure what we are supposed to do at this moment, we wander around it, look at it from a lot of different angles, talk a lot of speculation and take a lot of pictures. We make our best guesses regarding the bloating of the corpse and turgidity and the time of death (DIL practically grew up in a funeral parlor and I watch a lot of court tv so we both can make pretty educated hunches). We look for drag or hoof prints in my soggy lawn. We count those antler points. We wonder WHY the dogs didn’t react to several hundred pounds of fresh roadkill virtually beneath their noses. And then we start making the phone calls and sending the pictures.

DIL calls My Son, sends him a picture to prove she’s not hallucinating, and he says he is on his way. (As wife, she trumps mother when it comes to giving news.) She calls her brother-in-law, Hunter/Gatherer and sends him a picture. She calls her father, also Hunter/Gatherer. He doesn’t have a phone that will accept pictures, but he runs around his workplace finding someone who can get an email – because you just can’t have this happen without sending pictures. So we send him a picture. All these Hunter/Gatherers have been sitting in tree blinds freezing their asses off for years to bag a specimen like this, and I have one thrown on to my lawn. The irony escapes no one.

I call my appointment and leave a long, confusing and absurdly neurotic message about deer and my car and I can’t move it and not being able to put time constraints on this situation so I will have to call them later to reschedule. Patient And Amused Male Business Partner calls coincidentally to discuss something entirely different, and when I explain I can’t move the car because of the dead deer stuck under it, he says, “Well, it’s already dead. Just back up. You can’t really hurt it now.” This makes me gag for about three minutes, and he hangs up, saying he will call back later – I told him I would send him the pictures so he can understand the situation better.

And then my phone rings and it’s Wonderful Neighborwoman. She says, “Rodeo, Did you shoot that thing?”

I say, “Noooooo.” We have a very intense conversation about when she went by she thought I shot it or that I hit it or that I something’d it. That maybe the Crazy Cat Lady next door put it there. That makes us both laugh.

Meanwhile DIL is arranging to have the deer taken away, which is something I haven’t even thought of. I tell her I want the antlers. I want them mounted. I explain that God gave me the deer, and I want those antlers over my fireplace, right above my rifle (which I have never used to shoot anything), and I want to be able to point at them and tell the story over and over for years.

She says, “You are not keeping that deer. You know what will happen. That head will just go in the freezer and never come out.”

Meanwhile, My Son Her Husband arrives at the very second that a flatbed truck with an earthmover pulls off the road just feet from the deer. A skinny young man in a John Deere (!) hat asks, Hey, can I have that deer?

My Son says, Yes. I say, No.

My Son says, You don’t want that deer. No one will take it away if they can’t have the head. And you know what will happen, that head will go in the freezer and never come out.

You leave a couple of animal bodies in the freezer for a couple of months and your family never lets you forget it.

I feel genuinely sad as my son and this stranger drag the deer out from under the car and put it on the flat bed. The stranger is beyond excited. That cheers me a little. I hope he makes up a huge hunter’s lie about how he got this magnificent beast’s head.

All the excitement is over, and DIL and I adjourn to the kitchen table and are astounded at how two hours have past. Not only past, but we know this is not how most people have spent their morning. As My Son was leaving he shook his head and said, “You have to stop doing this. Things like this keep happening. Really.” He wasn’t blaming us, but the thought was not lost on us. We start trying to figure out why we have one domestic episode after another. We worry about what will happen tomorrow. DIL distances herself a little by reminding me that until she and My Son took what is now approaching custodial care of me, they lived a very tame life. She swears months would go by without anything happening. I need to come clean with you all and tell you that I don’t put one TENTH of the daily, unusual, crazy, unpredictable, bizarre things that happen here down in writing because frankly a lot of the times I am embarrassed because if I did, it would speak to the out of control, random direction my life takes ninety percent of the time, and no one would let me hug their children or pet their dogs for fear of some cosmic intervention that would wreak havoc on the innocents in proximity to me. I say to DIL, “While everyone is laughing, I am thinking I need some kind of chi-cleaning or something. Like an exorcism.”

She says, “We need a Priest.”

I say, “I was thinking of something more like an Asian spiritual monk, someone who would smudge smoke over me and waft away the evil spirits.”

DIL says, “Oh, no Rodeo. You need a Priest. They scare the crap out of Demons. You don’t want some Asian spiritual monk that just makes friends with it.”

Oh, Heck NO! We wouldn’t want THAT! Or maybe I would. Or maybe, this is the last time something like this will happen, as Karma or God or whoever moves on to amuse themselves with someone else.

We live in a very old house. No one seems to know exactly how old, even the public records. I recently had a conversation with my insurance person regarding this. You see, my house is not what insurance companies feel comfortable with, but it is okay, if you pay them more, they get over it pretty quickly. Although we only put in one claim in thirty years, I can hear them shudder when I call because they are basically pessimistic when it comes to 200-plus-year-old barns with imperfect flooring, horses and goats that spend their lives figuring out how to escape onto the road, the absence of sidewalks and fire hydrants, old trees close to the house, and, of course, they have read the blog so they know I am accident prone. I called my insurance person because we have an addition going up, basically doubling the size of the house, and I wanted to be sure we were covered over what has turned out to be (no surprise) a very protracted construction period.

She says (after taking a swig of gin or whatever she keeps on hand for my phone calls), “What can I do for you, Rodeo?”

I say, “I need to make sure I have coverage for this addition – remember we talked about it?”

She says, “Let me pull up your account.” I know she’s got it in a bookmarked file on her computer, marked with a skull and cross bones, so it takes her no time at all.

“Now,” she says, after another swig, “Your original house is what? Sixty years old?”

“Noooooo ... it’s like 160.” I am patient. “The house you can see above the ground we think was built around 1876? Remember? There is a plaque on the wall in the stucco?”

“Stucco,” she’s starting to remember.

“And, remember, there is a house under the house that predates 1790? The part with the dirt basement?” I hear her choke down some more gin.

“And remember, we talked about why it says sixty in the public records? Because when we got canceled by the old insurance company, you looked it up and it said sixty? That was in 2000, and we figured that was when the Rural Electrification Program came through and we got electric, and the house then showed up as having been renovated, and the Simpsons who owned it then put the apartment in because Mr. Simpson had his knees broken by that bull and they hired a farm manager?”

“Riiiiiiggghhhhtttt.” I’m losing her.

“No, no – you remember this, because you made the same noise then. Really, we brought the title search in from when we bought the house and you made copies, and it does indeed say the house, at least the part we live in now, was built in 1876. So that makes it ... sort of 120. But we know it’s a lot older. Because of the house underneath. We went to the Courthouse and we have records that some squatter named John Alford lived here long enough before 1790 that he got the land from the new government, when they seized the land from the Penns? And now, we are building this beautiful addition – and we modernized everything, got a new metal roof, and a new septic, and well – well for water, not well, like I’m finished speaking well.”

I realize that none of this is important in the context of our conversation, except that it makes me sound like I am pathetically trying to get her to like my house. We finally do get down to discussing coverage and get that all straightened out, but I wonder if, in the future, some record will say the house was built in 2009.

And I start thinking about value. This is the second house Charles and I bought together. The first one was our “smart decision” house. It was brand new, in a first time home buyer’s neighborhood – a little three bedroom ranch house at the end of a cul de sac, with lots of kids in the neighborhood. The $300.00 mortgage payment, which included taxes and insurance, kept us awake at night – 17 percent interest! But we knew it was better than that $150.00 a month rent we had been paying. It was perfect, but I was never really at peace there. Charles was working on it all the time, tweaking that perfection: he put in hardwood floors (the only house in the neighborhood to have them), a beautiful gourmet kitchen with a state of the art microwave oven/stove combo (again, only house in the neighborhood to have one), brick pathways and an over engineered fence to keep our two dogs in. Meanwhile I died a little inside each day from boredom with the Tupperware parties and Creative Plaything parties, and just ... two ... dogs. Only thing was, our son was deliriously happy.

So when I found this neglected but graceful farmette, not three miles from our present house, I went about convincing them both that this was also a “smart decision” house. I told Charles that if he was going to work on something all the time, it ought to make a difference! He could restore this house and never ever run out of projects! (I am a SERIOUSLY good closer.) It took about six weeks of driving past every day for him to see the possibilities, but also it had a caveat: it was CHEAP but had almost 8 acres! He would be a LANDOWNER. He would have more ground than his brothers and sisters PUT TOGETHER, and that was very important cred for the middle child of ten. Also, he could have a big tractor. That sealed the deal.

My son was another matter. At eleven, the last thing he wanted to do was move away from his friends. We would be changing school districts. He looked at the no sidewalks/no pavement situation and asked plaintively, “Where will I ride my bike?” I explained he could have a DIRT BIKE. He said, “I have a dirt bike now.” Which he did, but we had to load it in the car and drive to a place he could ride it. I said, “You can get up every morning and just ride right in your own backyard. Let’s take a walk, and I’ll show you what I mean.” We climbed through the fence, into the pasture, weeds over our heads, gnats buzzing around our noses. He’s skeptical. We walk and walk and I show him the barn full of weird scrap metal things, the huge rock in the field perfect for a fort. We actually get winded, fighting our way to the rear property line. I turn him around and say, look – all the way up there – that would be our house! And then ... I see something in the grass, half buried in the ground.

Pushing his head down for a closer look, I say, “Look! Every day we can come out here and find interesting things like this! It’s an odd plant! We can come back every day and see what it grows in to! Some unusual pretty flower maybe!”

He shrugs me off. “Those are plastic grapes, Mom. Some old country person came out here and dropped their plastic grapes.”

Okay, so he was right, and like most conversations that follow this, things are never as good as I think or as bad as my husband and son think. But he has no choice, we move, and after years that fly past in the blink of an eye, he’s moving in again, with his children and wife because it’s the best place in the world and I can’t stay here by myself.

But it is an old house, and when you live in an old house, people always ask you the same question: “Did you find anything valuable? Did you find buried boxes of silverware or cash? Did you find hidden antiques? Treasures?”

I got a metal detector once and within feet of the kitchen door, it started to click. I got a shovel, dug down and found a metal filter from a coffee percolator. I found what appears to be an entire tractor buried behind the barn. I have found shards of pottery and lots and lots of Schlitz beer bottles hidden beneath trees and in the eaves of the barn (someone seems to have had a problem). We have found big and small horse shoes, strap hinges three feet long, and lengths of chain.

Once, while facing the fireplace in the basement, I impulsively reached up into the beams and found ancient hairpins and a comb. In a moment transcending time and space, I knew a woman had stood where I stood and let her hair down in the evening. And for a reason I will never know, never put it up again.

When we removed the mantle piece in the living room, a 1960s dog license fluttered to the floor. My son found an unusual blue marble deep in the foundation. He handed it to me and in minutes I found a Marble Guy on the internet, sent him pictures and was informed it was a regular old marble. Well, except that it was OUR old marble.

But no coins, silver or anything of real value (which means, worth money).

What we didn’t find, and couldn’t, was the real stuff. Like the reason that woman never put her hair up again. The first cries of the babies born here. The last sighs of those who died. The stuff that life is made of is in the air we breathe here, not in the ground or in the walls, and can’t be sold on eBay. It’s what we will leave behind when we go.

It’s one o’clock on a Thursday afternoon, and I am in my office, three towns from home. I am paged – it is Rippergurl in a high state. She says, “Rodeo, whose cows are these?”

Since I can’t see through the phone, I have no idea. I say, “I have no idea.” She says, “There are cows all over the road!” (Again, I can not see through the phone.) I say, “Where ARE you? And how many?” I don’t know why it’s important to know how many, but it is. I mean, how do I gauge the urgency I will bring to this conversation if I don’t know if there are dozens, hundreds or several cows on the road in front of her? The “where” is very important – is she downtown? In which case – the officials will be doing something about it. Or is she in front of my house? Which means that it is somehow my fault that there are a hundred cows loose in West Cornmeal township?

The worst is confirmed. She is only 1/4 mile from my house. She can’t count the number of cows. They are “all over.” They are “all sizes, shapes and colors.” They are “milling around.”

I say, “I bet they belong to that guy – the one who bought Mr. Esh’s farm – I think he’s a heart surgeon from Philly? The one who will not let my boarders ride through his place?” (I am in danger of going off on a tangent and she knows it) Reacting to the unspoken warning in the long, deep sigh she has just let out, I say, “Just drive up there, tell his farm manager there are cows. It will be okay.” Apparently, she is out of gas and in a hurry. So I say, “Okay, look. I will call the police. They will know what to do, help us find the owners. You go do what you have to do, and I will take care of it.”

Having said this, I hang up the phone from my new vantage point on the office floor where I now am sporting hemp woven textured letters that say WELCOME – because I have completed a Kafka-esque transformation into a doormat.

Since I am three towns away from the milling horde of cows, I call the state police. Now, since we are so rural, our town is served by state police who are housed in a barracks twenty miles distant. This barracks is NOT surrounded by a high fence made of lodge pole pines, but it might as well be. I am all business.

“Hello, my name is Shirley. I live in West Cornmeal Township off of Rt. 82. Apparently there are loose cows on the road.”

Voice of Young Trooper: “Are these cows on the road, Ma’am?”

Voice of Rodeo: “Um, yes. I am calling to report loose cows on the road – on Route 82.”

Voice Of Young Trooper: “We responded to a call earlier today and the cows were not on the road.”

Voice of Rodeo: “Well, they are on the road. And if they are not on the road right now, they will be. I actually need your help to find out who they belong to.”

Voice of Young Trooper: “So you are saying these cows are not on the road now.”

Heavy sighs and resignation in the Voice of Rodeo: “Can you help me find out who owns these cows?”

Voice of Young Trooper: “We will not assist you unless the cows are on the road. I can not help you.”

Voice of Rodeo: “Can you tell me who to call?”

Voice of Young Trooper: “No. Now is there another matter I can assist you with?”

The phone line goes dead – I think I hung up.

(I am typing this from an air mattress on the floor of my living room, in front of the 42-inch TV, watching Tommy Lee goes to College with Rippergurl while we eat Chunky Monkee Ice cream, washed down with Mike’s Hard Lemonade.)

I call Rippergurl back and tell her to call My Dear Son, whose business is right where the hundreds of cows are milling around. We decide the best thing is to have him go out and look at the cows (he might be able to count them) and report back to me – because he is not a hysteric like Rippergurl – and busy like her too, because she is at her sisters, out of gas and a bunch of other hooey reasons why she can’t deal with this situation. (Turns out she was just tired.) The plan is that she will call her husband my son (when it’s convenient and she’s caught her breath from the hideously stressful two mile country drive over to her sister’s house in her freaking Mercedes), and I will make some calls to neighbors to figure out whose cows they were.

First up, I call My Hay Guy – you know, brawny good looking Mennonite Hay Guy of Previous Domestic Episodes – and ask him – he will probably know who has cows. Mrs. Hay Guy answers and says that Hay Guy is out in the field, cutting hay. Figures. She says she doesn’t know who might have them, but the strangest thing just happened, the power just went out.

Hmmm…

My son is now chasing cows all over the road, and the power is out. I call Rippergurl and ask if she has talked to her husband My Son. She says he’s out on the road on his four wheeler with his Part-Time Guy chasing the cows. I ask did she actually SEE him doing this? She says no. I say the power is out. She doesn’t quite see why I am shouting this. I say, “Ripper, you don’t get it. The power is out! They probably just chased the cows on to the road and a truck swerved and ran over them and hit a pole and the power is out!”

(This is just the first unrestrained panic-stricken conclusion I will jump to for the next week.)

Rippergurl says, “Um. I don’t think that happened, but I will leave my sister’s now and drive up and down all the back roads in this township, looking for his body.”

I feel I was being patronized. Just a little.

So, now in addition to the unrestrained panic-stricken conclusion jumping, I feel patronized, and I still don’t know how many cows are wandering at will through my neighborhood. And how it will eventually be shown to be my fault. An official cow count could make a huge difference to the amount of pre-emptive guilt I am feeling. No one seems to answer the compelling questions I have. What breeds of cows are these? Do any of them have horns? Are they milkers for God’s sake?

(We are now watching Clean Sweep on the TLC channel and judging a complete stranger on her clutter.)

Now, I was at my office because I was working before Ripper called. See, if Ripper had any actual friends that she hadn’t run off with her unfettered opinionated ranting instead of just cyberfriends, she might have called one of them and told me this sad story when it was all over. I have encouraged her to find playmates her own age, but she makes disparaging and judging comments about the clothing (Liz Claiborne Grranimal Separates – Healthtex for Adults), parenting styles and morals of women her own age and drives them right off again. So, whenever she has something to share, I am it. I transfer the conversations to my cell phone in my car on my evening appointment. Yes. I drive and talk. Yes. Judge me if you must, but I get a hell of a lot done.

Ripper tells me my son is alive, his Part-Time Guy is alive, and the cows are alive. They used golf carts to chase them into my neighbor’s small pasture. Ripper says that her husband, my son, told her he took a steak knife out of the camper to protect himself in case “it became a bad situation.” What, he was going cut them and Part-Time Guy was going to squeeze A1 Sauce into their eyes?

I said, “Do you know who they might belong to? And how many are there?”

There are dozens, Rippergurl says. Dozens. Some have horns, some are babies, some are bulls. Part-Time Guy’s father is a local large animal vet. I say, Maybe he’ll know whose cows these are? Ripper says maybe. Which means she is still thinking about how tired she is and has lost interest in the cows. I say again, loudly, to catch her fading concern for the cows, “Do you think they belong to the Cardiac Surgeon Guy who bought the farm from Mr. Esh who won’t let my boarders ride through his property?”

I’ve lost her. I think she hung up.

I go off to my listing appointment (I actually do work as a realtor when I am not chasing wildlife or throwing my glasses out the car window or running over lettuce in the Wegman’s parking lot) feeling as though the cows are tucked in, the owner will be found – I have the idea that the police are really working behind the scenes to find the owner – and when I get home there will be a bouquet of flowers on the porch as appreciation for my good work and I will have shaken some of the taint that my reputation has accumulated because of the unpopular stands I take at Township Meetings.

I successfully close my listing appointment, but it is quite late when I am on my way home. I don’t want to go into the house and then back out to check on the cows, so I call ahead to My Husband to ask him the status. He’s already in bed. He will later claim he was groggy.

I said, “C, are the cows still there?”

He says “No. Someone picked them up.” This completely takes me by surprise.

I say “Really? Who?”

He says, “The Owner who else?”

I say, “Who was it?”

He says “THE COWS’ OWNER. I talked to the Township Guy who lives across the field, and by the way he’s holding a grudge against you for calling him a pinhead at the last township meeting, and he told me that they might belong to his neighbor.”

I said “Really? Was it the Cardiac Surgeon Guy who bought Mr. Esh’s farm who won’t let the boarders ride through his property?”

He says “I don’t know.” I am losing confidence in the veracity of this conversation.

I say, “Are the cows really gone?”

He says, “Why?”

I say “Because if they aren’t gone, I need to get them some water.”

He says, “I do not know why you are worried about this.”

I say something I will repeat many times over the days to come, “Because I don’t want those cows on the road, and our horses, and mostly I don’t want this to be my fault!”

I lost him. I think he hung up.

When I pull in the drive I make a wide circle so that my headlights shine down into my neighbor’s barnyard to see if I can see cow eyes. Nothing. Maybe they really are gone. C said they were gone. So they must be gone. Crisis averted. Whew.

The next morning, I get a call from Rippergurl’s Husband My Son.

He says “Mom!”

I say, “Hey, Sweetie.” (He has remarked that I talk to him like he is a cocker spaniel, but I am still in the trauma recovery mode from the stupid young man’s disease years when a simple phone call could mean months of court appearances and a grandchild.)

He says, “Did you give those cows some water?”

I said, “Oh, no, Honey Pot, they are gone gone gone. Dad said the guy came and picked them up last night.”

He says, “No.”

I say, “What do you mean , No?”

He says, “I just drove past your house and they are in your yard.”

(We are now watching While You Were Out and they are stapling sod to a coffee table.)

When I get this phone call, I am dressed for work in a nice pair of black pique Talbot’s slacks, black boho sandals and an aqua knit top with rhinestone accent. Yeah. I look cute. But I am not really dressed to water cows. And you know what, I am not sure, as I have never watered cows before. But, I’m running late, and it won’t take long, so I head out to the pasture to look at the herd of dozens of bulls, milkers, horned bovines and heifers and calves in my yard.

There are four.

Four cows. One baby blonde, one mommy blonde – she’s got tatas, a big black one that looks bull like and a little horned guy who – while I am watching – puts his head between the railings of the fence and pops it open like a tuna can. Now, this is actually handy because it gives me a hole to crawl through into my neighbor’s pasture.

A word about this neighbor. She runs an Animal Rescue. There are suspicions and rumors in the neighborhood fueled by our large contingent of animal loving neighbors, and Rippergurl and My Husband C who went over there to adopt a Chichuahua (apparently there is a need for a Chihuahua rescue now that they are last season’s fashion – having been worn like brochures by Paris Hilton and her ilk). I came home to find the Neighbors, Rippergurl and My Husband C planning a recon mission into her yard complete with night vision goggles and Global Positioning Devices, to determine what was behind the slatted blinds hung on the OUTSIDE of the windows. And more importantly, to determine the contents of the over fifty foul-smelling trashbags piled up in the driveway and by the curb. They deferred at the last minute and decided to anonymously rat the Rescue Woman out to the local chapter of Animal Welfare Nazis.

Anywho, I realize at this moment, no one has mentioned to Animal Rescue Woman that there are cows in her yard. I’m not going up to the house. I am not walking past those bags. I do have her cell phone number so I opt to call her.

She answers on the first ring. It’s loud whereever she is. I say, “Phyllis, I am in your yard.”

She says, “Cool. I’m in Vegas.”

(I decide I will not share this bit of info with the the ladies next door, C and Ripper because nothing then would be keeping them from knifing open those bags.)

I say, “Phyllis, you won’t believe this.”

(We are still watching While You Were Out and Ripper is eating zesty bean and cheese dip – which will make this a very fragrant air mattress in half an hour.)

I say, “Phyllis. I just need to tell you that there are four stray cows in your barnyard.”

I say, “Phyllis, Can you hear me now?”

Phyllis says, “Cows.”

I say, “Yes.”

She says, “What kind of cows? How many?”

See, now this is where I get the disturbing notion that Phyllis and I may be more alike than I am comfortable with. I say, “Well, this is the thing. These four cows have been loose and stray since yesterday afternoon. No one is sure who they belong to, but I suspect they may belong to the Cardiac Surgeon Guy who bought Mr. Esh’s farm and won’t let the boarders ride through his property. My daughter-in-law is supposed to be checking in to this, but she’s been tired lately. But not from grocery shopping, most of which she does at my house, in my pantry. Oh ... Sorry ... the cows. My son and his Part-Time Guy the large animal vet’s son chased them into your barnyard yesterday. I was wondering if they can stay here til we find out who owns them?

“Phyllis?

“Phyllis?”

She says, “Well, sure. Sure. I’m in Vegas.”

Now I am wondering what Phyllis has been doing in Vegas that she is taking this news so calmly. I continue as though she is paying attention to what I am saying. “Now I have to give them some water. There is plenty of grass here. Hey, that’s your bonus, your gift. These cows are going to take this long grass in your pasture and turn it into Pasture Pudding.

“Phyllis?”

She says, “Well, yes, sure. Give them some water. Whatever they want. And tell the guy who owns them that he can donate to my Chihuahua rescue.”

I say, “Sure sure. Well, I have to go now and drag a trough over here.”

Phyllis sort of chuckles and says, “I am in Vegas.”

And I lose her. She must have hung up.

I walk up to the house and get the big golf cart that’s “lifted.” I realize as I write this that normal families do not usually have a choice between lifted and unlifted golf carts when they set about a chore but it’s just one of the many special things My Son and My Husband bring to life here on the farm.

*There is a Talking Head song that goes

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack

And you may find yourself in another part of the world

And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile

And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife

And you may ask yourself – Well ... How did I get here?

Well, that song often runs through my head. But back to the story*

So, I get the “lifted” cart which also has a diamond plate cargo bed on it, and I heft the huge 55 gallon rubbermaid black rubber trough onto the back, and, because I believe in eliminating extra trips whenever I can, I get a length of hose with only a few dog bite leaks in it and drive that all over to the barnyard. I climb through the fence, getting only a couple of splinters in the knee of my Talbot’s black pique slacks. Well, no tragedy, they are last year’s anyway, and it didn’t quite draw blood when they hit the soft tissue of my knee.

I hook the hose up to the pump, put the trough in a fairly flat place, and get the water running. It’s running mostly rust, but it’s water. This gets the attention of the huge Blonde Mom cow. Too late, I think, hmm ... I wonder if they are friendly. Because she weighs about 4000 pounds, and she’s heading straight toward me, with the others following. I have had animals all my life, but not cows. And hey, in person, they are a lot bigger than their photographs.

(We are still on the air mattress and watching Town Haul. Sure, they pick an easy town – just try Honey Brook.)

Actually, watering the cows is very uneventful. But they drink gallons at a clip and I have to stand there for about an hour, filling it up as they drain it. They take turns and are better behaved than your average third grader. Blonde Mom with Tatas seems to be the alpha cow. Little Guy with Horns seems to be the token comedian. He just has the air of the ugly red-headed cousin about him. The horns must be new because he can not stop playing with them, opens the fence up again and climbs INTO the golf cart.

I scurry back through the new improved hole in the fence and sort of flap at him until he steps down from the cart. Again, just one more thing that if I told someone, “Hey, today I chased a longhorn steer out of a lifted golf cart,” they wouldn’t believe.

I am staring at them drinking, grazing, it looks pretty peaceful, and they are chewing their cuds under the tree. The amazing thing about cows is that they seem to have a really interesting relationship with flies. No matter how many flies there are hanging on their eyelashes, crawling up their nose or riding on their tongue into their nostrils, it doesn’t bother them. But all this reverie is still not finding out who owns them. I have my cell phone. The reception is pretty good out here in the pasture. I call Ripper.

“Ripper, did you find out if these cows belong to that Cardiac Surgeon Guy who bought Mr. Esh’s farm and won’t let my boarders ride through his property?”

She says, “I am soooo tired.”

I said, “Isn’t this guy your client? Do you have a phone number for him?”

Ripper says, “I have been talking to these damn customers all day. They just want and want and want.”

I said, “Well that is very sad. Now, what is the freaking phone numver for the Cardiac Surgeon Guy who bought Mr. Esh’s farm and won’t let my boarders ride through his property?”

Ripper says, “Well I talked to Mike about that.”

I say, “WHAT?”

Ripper says, “He spends a lot of money here. I don’t want him to think we think he is a bad cow-keeper guy.”

I say, “Ripper. Everyone’s animals get out. (This is not true – there are annoying people whose animals never get out and I hate them a lot.) We don’t think he’s a bad cow-keeper guy. (I actually am forming that opinion.) But I would think if he is a good cow-keeper guy, he would like to know if his cows are out.”

She sighs and says, “I am so tired.”

I lose her. I think she hung up.

My next call is to the police, down in their barracks, twenty miles away. We do the same dance as before, about whether the cows are on the road or not. Whether they can help me with anything else. Then the trooper (this time it is a woman) says, “Hold on. I will try and get someone to help you with this.”

Ten minutes go by.

I lose her. I think she hung up.

Okay. Who do you call when an animal is in trouble? All the ladies next door are at work, and I can no longer phone the gay guys down the street because they have me blocked since we had a shouting match about being invited to Pampered Chef party, so I call the SPCA next. I wade through the “choose ONE if you have been bitten by a stray animal, choose TWO if you have a confined stray,” well that choice sounded pretty accurate if you had sum up this situation in just a phrase….

I hit TWO on my phone to connect me with the confined stray animal option. When a guy answers the phone, I think I am finally going to get someplace. I start out with my most professional voice, because I know if I have to give details the conversation is going to degenerate really fast.

“My name is Shirley and I live in West Cornmeal Township...”

SPCA guy interrupts me. “I am sorry, I can not help you. Your township does not see the need to support the SPCA.”

I am dumfounded. Am I really going to be put in a position of appearing to agree with anything that goes on up here? I say, “No, look, I really need your help.”

SPCA guy says, “I don’t care. Your township does not support the SPCA, so I am not going to help you, no matter what your problem is.”

Later, C will say that I should have told them I was beating the cows.

I say, “Listen, I have 8000 pounds of stray cow careening around my yard. They have been lost for 36 hours. If you are not going to help me, can you at least tell me who to call?”

SPCA guy says, “I don’t have to help you.”

I am thinking isn’t this the HUMANE Society? However, I try the tried and true “more flies (an homage to the colony now living on all this cow flesh in my pasture) with honey than vinegar” approach. “I am sorry, I have had bad experiences with my township too. But I really need your assistance. I need to know if you can help me with these cows.”

SPCA guy says, “We don’t do large animals.”

I say, “Okay, who does?”

He sighs – I guess talking to a distraught woman with four loose cows in her yard is vexing to him – “I guess you could call the Large Animal Control Officer.”

Now, we are getting somewhere. I ask, “Do you have that number?”

He says, “I have a number but I don’t know whether they will answer. You should write this down.”

I don’t want to tell him I don’t have a pencil and paper because I a standing in a pasture. I pretend to memorize it as he repeats five or six times.

He also suggests that I call the township.

I call information and get the number for Large Animal Control and speed dial it right from 411. Rings twice. Voice Answers. “I am sorry, but the number you have dialed is not in service.”

That call cost me one dollar.

I call information again, and get the number for the township. I get the answering machine and leave a detailed message as requested.

That phone call cost me a dollar, too.

So, it’s just me and the cows in the pasture, and no cavalry is coming to the rescue. Not the police, not the SPCA, not the Township. My husband is in DEEP denial about their mere presence. Ripper is tired. I have to go to work. I have to find out who owns these cows. They must be worried sick. They world seems very large, able to swallow up cows and owners and turn purported caring organizations into feeble nasty backbiting ineffectual wastes of time.

Who can help? Who can help? A light bulb appears in a bubble over my head. The Daily Local News.

Now, this is a newspaper that has given me endless fits for years. Until lately, when in some kind of perverted joke of God’s I ended up being interviewed by them two weeks in a row for real estate related articles. Then, of course, they became important. I happened to have the number of the reporter who interviewed me in my speed dial.

A voice says, “Newsroom”

I say, “Is Bob there?”

Bob is not. I ask for another reporter I have met. She’s not there either. The guy on the phone says, “Can I help you?”

God bless him.

(Now we are watching Teen Nick – and I have no idea why except Ripper just royally screwed up the remote and spent a frantic fifteen minutes with me screaming DON’T TOUCH THE TV trying to get cable back.)

I say, “Newsguy, My name is Shirley and I live in West Cornmeal Township. I was hoping you could help me find the owner to some stray cows that I have been keeping for thirty-six hours.”

Newsguy is so happy. It must be a terribly slow news day. He says, “SO, You have stray cows? Right in your yard?”

I say, “Well no, they are actually in my neighbor’s yard. I am hoping that you will help me find...”

NewsGuy says, “I will have a reporter call you and get the details and when can a photographer come up and take some pictures of you and the cows?”

We get our arrangements made – and I head off to do a little actual work. As I drive back up the hill in the lifted golf cart, I look back over my shoulder at the cows and just pray they stay in the barnyard until the photographer can get here. I am pleased with myself. I am getting somewhere. I will find out who the owner is, even though I feel it probably is Cardiac Surgeon Guy who bought Mr. Esh’s farm and won’t let my boarders ride through his property.

I meet a client for lunch, and I am dazzling them with my realtor professionalism. I am hoping they haven’t noticed the cow custard on my shoes or the fence splinters in my nice Talbot’s black pique slacks. During lunch, my phone rings. The client says, “Why don’t you take that?” And I do.

It’s the reporter.

The client listens intently and with amusement to one side of a conversation which sounds like this:

Me: Four

Me: A Black Angus, A Brahman, Her Baby and a Texas Longhorn.

Me: Since Thursday

Me: I think it might be the Cardiac Surgeon Guy who bought Mr. Esh’s farm and won’t let my boarders ride through his property.

Me: I could tell they were steers or male because they seemed to be used to having things done for them.

Me: I am just hoping to find the owner.

Me: Golf carts. My son and his Part-Time Guy chased them in with golf carts.

Me: Me, too. I can meet the photographer in about two hours.

I hang up and notice that my client’s fork is poised halfway to his mouth, which is open.

I finished up our interview less than confident that I am going to get the business and head home to meet the photographer.

(I am now watching Fresh Prince of Bell-Air, one of my guilty pleasures.)

Rippergurl calls me on my cell. She has finally located Cardiac Surgeon Guy who bought Mr. Esh’s farm and won’t let my boarders ride through his property. He is on vacation about three hundred miles from here. He is not going to be able to get home til Saturday. That is tomorrow. Til then, he is hoping that we will watch them, and he assured her if they have food and water they pretty much stay put.

I tell her the newspaper is going to do a story on them because I hoped they would be able to help me find the owner. She flips on me.

“Rodeo, this man is our client! I do not want him portrayed as a bad cow-keeper guy! Mike is going to be furious!”

I say, “Ripper, I could not get anyone including you to help me find the owners to these cows. I called the police, I called the SPCA, I called Large Animal Protection, I called the Township, I called the Hay Guy! The story is cute – I will make sure the paper knows that we have found the owner and he is coming to pick them up. Why don’t you come and see for yourself?”

Ripper says, “I am so tired. But maybe I can come. Do you have any extra toliet paper? We need some rolls for the shop.”

The photographer arrives, Ripper and the grandsons arrive and we all pile into the golf cart fleet and head down to the barnyard. Thank goodness the cows are still there. The little longhorn is outside the fence again, tearing up small trees and banging his new horns into rocks. I am starting to really like him. He’s cute, too. Maybe they will let me keep him. I must have been suffering some kind of dehydration-induced emotional hallucination.

The photographer comments on the flies and the cow flops. She looks familiar. I say, “Didn’t you take pictures of me for those newspaper articles?” She says yes. I ask her if she still is dating the guy who works in the coroner’s office. She says yes and tells me that she has been doing some crime scene photography. I confide to her that I watch quite a lot of Court TV and would she like to step up on the porch for some lemonade? This gives me a chance to pump her for details on matters of local forensics. She tells me the article should be in the next day. I tell her that I only called the paper to see if they could help me find the owners. She says, “It’s a slow news day,” and packs up her equipment and waves good bye.

The sun is now setting, and I am glowing with the self satisfaction of a job well done. Soon the cows will go home, life will return to normal and I will have a funny story to tell.

But the end was at least five days away.....

(It is now 9:10 am Eastern Standard Time and I have had my half a Cinnabon and a cup of earl grey tea. I turned on the TV and crawled on to my air mattress. I am glad we got this 42-inch High Definition TV because I can almost smell how bad this Kung Fu movie starring Patrick Swayze is.)

But back to my story:

Friday night, I am ensconced in my leopard upholstered retreat and surfing the internet on my laptop. I idly type in LONGHORN STEER…. Did you know you could ride them? That people teach them tricks? I can see myself doing this, so I send off a couple of notes to steer owners who have websites and ask them if you can keep these steers with horses, if they eat a lot. I tell them I am babysitting a really cute baby steer, and I am falling in love with it. I tell them I want to do research on the subject before I make a decision because I tend to make mistakes of judgment regarding good looking dogs, horses and men. It’s going to be different THIS time. I drift off to sleep in a very happy state, far from the unrestrained panic stricken doormat of a woman I was two days ago. I have grown.

Saturday dawns and I brush the sleep dust from my face, dress appropriately for cow watering in a nice pair of Talbot’s summer slacks, pink top and LL Bean Muck boots. I decide to get some exercise and eschew the lifted and unlifted golf carts and walk down to Phyllis’ pasture. The cows are gone.

Hm... I guess he came and got them. Early! It’s only 9:15! He is a Good Cow-Keeping Guy! I didn’t even have to go out there – chase them, help him, get My Husband to help. Huh. Not a noise, no clanging gates, and I can’t even see where he might have backed up a truck. Maybe he is beyond a Good Cow-Keeping Guy and is more of a Cow Whisperer! Even so, I would have liked to meet him, giving him the opportunity to thank me for all my hard work on his behalf. Hit him up for permission for the boarders to ride through his property. I am instantly ashamed of these thoughts.

I set about my house chores – setting aside various sundry overstocks for Ripper because she never has time to shop and she’s always tired – glance out the window and see that one of the boarders (who is not allowed to ride through the Cardiac Guy’s property) has arrived. She had been away all summer educating the children of sex workers in Brazil. I watch her as she gets out of the car – looks around, but does not go to the barn. She is coming up the steps. I am glad I got dressed this morning. She comes in, looks at me and says, “When did we get cows?”

Traveling Boarder and I confer. I give her the panic stricken, unrestrained version with bulleted highlights: Cows On Road, Horses On Road, Steak Knives, Death And Destruction On An Apocalyptic Scale.

She says, “They seem to be getting along all right.”

I say, “For NOW…”

She says, “I think it will be okay.”

I hold my arms out to the side at shoulder height. I point my index fingers. I draw them inward toward my nose, grabbing her attention.

I say, “PAY ATTENTION TO ME FOR ONE SECOND.” (Amazingly, she doesn’t just slap my face.) “We have to get these cows into a more secure enclosure – like our small pasture. They have been ripping down fences for three days. Our fence right now has a hole in it big enough for a steer to fit through. Horses could fit through it. I do not want OUR HORSES, YOUR HORSE, these COWS or anyone to get hurt on the road. We must secure these cows if there is even the slimmest chance that something could happen.”

I see that either she is afraid of me because I appear deranged OR my argument has finally made sense to her. She says, “What shall I do?”

I say, “Let’s roll the round bale feeder into the space between the fence and the barn, put that old trough there, buttress the whole mess with rocks, and that should keep them from going in THERE.” (I point.) “Then, let’s either catch the horses or chase the cows into this small enclosure and turn on the electric fence. Wait, we can put the horses in the stalls first, and deal with the cows later.”

Somewhere, very faintly, I hear the theme song to Mission Impossible.

We go into the barn to get leads and Starlight Mints and cellophane – all the essentials for horse catching – and go out toward the peacefully grazing horses. They hear the clanking of the hardware on the leads, remember vaguely that this might mean some sort of work like being ridden and decide to run in circles. The cows continue to graze. I hold starlight mints out for Buckskin Mare. Traveling Boarder tries to sneak up on her horse who is not happy to see her, no matter how long she has been away. Buckskin Mare and I are playing a game over the starlight mints on a par with World Chess Competitions. I hold one out. She stretches her neck out just far enough. I step back, just a hair. She extends her lips, then her teeth and then her tongue. I let her taste it. She moves a hoof three inches. Traveling Boarder is now running and swearing after Thoroughbred Horse.

Suddenly, I hear a gate open and a golf cart clanks into view. My husband is wearing a cowboy hat and chasing the cows. You would think this momentary diversion would distract Buckskin Mare and I would be able to slip the lead around her neck. Well, no. Actually, I was distracted long enough for Buckskin Mare to steal the starlight mints, cellophane and all, and run to the farthest corner of the pasture. Probably right next to the steer-sized hole.

Cowboy-Hatted Husband is getting no where with the cows. Not surprising, really because according to him they left the area two days ago. He claims he has no memory of that conversation. Traveling Boarder and I try to form a phalanx to divert the now galloping cows into the small, secure pasture but they don’t go together. They are the most disorganized herd animal outside a middle school I have ever seen.

On the second try, My Husband has a melt down. He starts screaming that he doesn’t know why HE has to deal with these cows, Why I am OBsessed with these cows, he doesn’t care if they die on the road, it’s not HIS fault, and He didn’t shrink my sweaters in the wash (?), and I should just try DELIVERING MAIL like HE DOES, every freaking day and NO ONE appreciates the stress that a Union Mangled, Management Victimized JOB can have on a person and HE IS JUST GOING INSIDE. There follows a lot of swearing, the cowboy hat gets thrown and the golf cart turfs the pasture.

Traveling Boarder says, “What’s up HIS rear?”

And of course, it starts to rain.

Traveling Boarder says that when the horses calm down she will put them in the small pasture. I say I have to get changed, and I have to go do an open house. Traveling Boarder says, “I wish I could ride over THERE,” (pointing at the old Esh farm) and shuffles off to clean some tack.

My Husband is prone on the sofa, in front of the TV, asleep. How do men do this? I go up, chose a nice black crepe de chine straight skirt with boxed kick pleats, and acid green twin set and some nice professional flats. Showered, dressed, hair pushed into shape, I start out the door toward the car, so I can leave for my other life.

Traveling Boarder is waving at me frantically from the pasture. Buckskin Mare is in a headlong mad dash for the barn but the door closest to her is shut. I GET IT. I rush toward the back of the barn, slide the door open and she slips and slides right into her stall. Thoroughbred Horse clambers into his stall behind her, kicking up oyster shaped manure balls and blowing horse boogies.

I am soaking wet, which improves my hair but leaves spots on the twin set, but I head off to make the world safe for real estate.

I go to my open house and manage to put all thoughts of cows aside. Well, except for the inevitable comparisons one makes when alone with strangers. Reaching home hours later, I find a strange car parked in the driveway, its doors wide open just like the WIDE OPEN GATE to the upper pasture. I skid to a halt, race over to shut the gate just as Thoroughbred Horse was taking an active interest, and then back track to the strange car, where a blonde woman is sitting listening to the radio.

I say, “HI.”

She says, “Hi.”

I say, “I live here.” (Although she doesn’t seem very interested.)

She says, “Oh.”

I’m not shy. I say, “Who are you?” and I extend my hand.

She says, “I am just waiting for them – and motions toward the field.”

Into view at just that moment comes four galloping cows, three teenage boys on foot , and my husband and a strange man on golf carts. The boys on foot have cattle tazers which sound crueler than they really are. I mean, a smart cow knows what happens when they get touched with one, so they move away, hopefully toward something safer. These people are equipped and experienced and everything seems to be going well – and my husband is not wearing the cow boy hat.

Lickety split those cows are inside the small enclosure – a secure place. The strange man introduces himself and assures me that he is not a bad cow keeper. He says he grew up on a farm. That he appreciates everything my husband has done for his cows. My husband and he high five and down town each other, the teenage boys smack each other with the tazers and then they all hop in our farm truck and drive off.

I feel like I am in an episode of Star Trek where the crew from the Enterprise has violated the Prime Directive, i.e., as the right of each sentient species to live in accordance with its normal cultural evolution is considered sacred, no Starfleet personnel may interfere with the healthy development of alien life and culture. Such interference includes the introduction of superior knowledge, strength, or technology to a world whose society is incapable of handling such advantages wisely. Starfleet personnel may not violate this Prime Directive, even to save their lives and/or their ship unless they are acting to right an earlier violation or an accidental contamination of said culture. This directive takes precedence over any and all other considerations, and carries with it the highest moral.

About an hour later they are all back, laughing and joking and throwing some seedy looking hay into my bay. I count five bales. C tells me that they will be back on Tuesday to pick up the cows, and we will just be taking care of them until then. More waving, more high fiving, and the bad cow-keeper who is a cardiac surgeon who bought the old Esh place and will not let my boarders ride on it is off with his minions. My husband is grinning, ear to ear. Whew, he says, I could use a beer! And he goes in the house, lies down on the sofa and is asleep within minutes.

(Ripper is ‘tired’ not tired. She thinks that I will buy that as an excuse to not do something or pay attention. She has learned that people turn their heads and say Is Ripper Anemic? if she keeps saying that. She learned how to do this from my mother, only my mother says I am so “busy.”)

(We are on the home stretch now.)

Saturday night I spend some time looking up Longhorn Cattle on the internet – and reading the replies to my inquiries on Jeffrey’s behalf. That is what I am calling him – he just looks like a Jeffrey. Longhorns don’t eat much, you can keep them with horses, although they like cows better, he could grow to be a couple thousand pounds and his horns could be six to seven feet in width. I wonder whether he would be able to get into the barn when he is full grown. I email my two good Glamazon friends – Anita and Carol. Anita thinks it’s a cool idea for me to adopt a longhorn steer. Carol says, in measured tones, “Is there no one else better equipped to take care of this steer than you?” I drift off to sleep wondering whether Talbot’s has any cowhide print slacks or jackets in the fall line up. Maybe a little clutch purse.

Sunday morning I water the cows – much easier now that I know where they will be. Mama Cow with Tatas and the Black Angus bull like one are eating the poison ivy off the barn wall. I take this as an indication that they are hungry. Remembering that The Cardiac Surgeon who bought Esh’s Place now labeled as Bad Cow-Keeper Guy who still has not mentioned letting my boarders ride through his property said that as long as they have water and food they will pretty much stay put. (This seems ironic in the extreme at the retelling of it – how the hell would he know?) I go and get some of the hay he brought and throw it over the fence. Silently the cows drift across to the hay, sniff and it must smell like home because they dig right in. I don’t know how many people ever get a chance to spend some time watching animals graze, but I recommend it for hypertension and general pissantism. It calms you right down. For a similar effect, close your eyes and listen to “Where Sheep May Safely Graze” by Bach. I like to think of my farm this way. Except for when we are in high Domestic Episode Alert.

Yup. I could get used to being a Good Cow Keeper. I know I would spend endless hours with Jeffrey, bonding with him, getting him to trust me. The thrill of letting him eat out of my hand! Just then he lifts his little head skyward and drives four flies into his left nostril. I read last night on the internet, that instead of branding cattle, you can nose print them, because like snowflakes and finger prints, no two cow noses are alike. The Resident Scoffer of the Itty Bitty Committee In My Head snorts and says, “Have they checked every nose?” My Good Cow Keeper Buzz is instantly killed when internal Itty Bitty Committee bickering breaks out and the Resident Scoffer and the Ebullient Pollyana wearing the I believe in Angels T-shirt start to arm wrestle. (I just asked Ripper if this is too much truth about what goes on in my head – she took a sip of coffee and sort of shook her head no.)

(Rippergurl is pounding the wicker table on my deck demanding that I post a retraction of my explanation of her TIREDNESS. She says I am not supposed to say SHE SAYS because you all will think she is lying. HOWEVER, she has chronic lyme disease and a resulting heart condition. And she says she did not want to get involved in a five day plus cow herding situation and she knew somehow the whole thing would end up with me pointing at her on the lawn screaming this is all your fault since she started it with her phone call.)

I have til Tuesday to make up my mind about the steer. Sunday morning passes into Sunday afternoon, Sunday afternoon blends into Sunday evening and more internet cruising for appropriate Good Cow Keeper Outfits and Boutique Steer Accessories. Glamour Shots. Real, authentic Rodeo Princess Rhinestone and Plaid Shirts. A lot of it has a tacky Southwestern sort of feel – I may have to start my own signature line of items. A website. A Café Press store and a Paypal account. Appearances on local cable talk shows.

I can’t stand myself.

Anyhoo, Monday morning I have to go to my office. As I mentioned before, I have been featured in two real estate related articles in the local newspaper in the last two weeks. One was about getting your home ready to list and included such sage advice as “If You can smell the dog but not see it, shampoo your carpets before listing your house” and “Put your underwear IN the washer.” The other one was about First Time Home Buyers and highlighted the experiences of a Talbot’s Sales Associate I turned into a client. Realtors pay THOUSANDS of dollars for this kind of recognition. But did anyone at my office actually read those articles? No. But when I get to work on Monday morning the front page of the same newspaper, with a picture of me and two cows, is taped to the front door.

Headline: COWS ON LAM IN COUNTY (Cows on lamb: like a gyro, I guess.)

All day, moo-ing follows me around as I check my mail, use the fax, conduct business worth millions of dollars. When I am paged for a phone call, more moo-ing.

There is an all call for a lunch order – cheese-steaks. Some dimwit thinks it’s funny to apologize to me for this.

I am called Cowgirl, Farmer (they want to see my Farmer Tan) – office personnel ask me for cow patties for their garden. I feel like I am back in the second grade.

And see, by the nature of a real estate office, people come in and out all day. So every jackass with a comment thinks they are the first one to think of moo-ing.

Numerous copies of the article are slid into my mailbox. One with a mustache drawn on the cows.

Several professionally jealous people sneer (realtors are good at sneering) about my shameless self promotion. I’ll do anything, they say, in addition to exploiting innocent livestock in my manic drive for attention.

Monday evening I return and the cows are there. Jeffrey is sharpening his horns on the stone wall of the barn – snick snick snick in the dark. I am a little disturbed at a not so innocent gleam in his eye. Maybe I am being conned again by good looks and need.

I throw more hay – that Bad Cow Keeper so generously gave me – over the fence. There are now only two bales left. Good thing they are going home tomorrow. Well, Maybe not Jeffrey.

I fill up the trough, my horses eye me over the fence. It’s been a vacation for them since the cows showed up. They can just be horses, left to their own devices, which they enjoy. Petey the Jack Russell is prone to staring at the steers, I think he thinks he could take one down.

Well, one more night and this whole episode will be over.

Tuesday morning I am up bright and early. I have cleared my schedule so I can be home when the truck gets here for the cows, and I have decided to ask about keeping Jeffrey. I had promised myself no more baby substitutes after my two dogs died last summer, but I think I am a different person now. I will not go over board with this cow. It doesn’t occur to me until now that just making a mental note to “not go overboard about a cow” is sort of an overboard statement.

After watering and feeding the cows (the generous donation of hay being used all up now) I go inside to take a shower. I am not going to be caught unprepared when the cowtaker comes. I lay out my outfit – another pair of nice Talbot’s slacks in a summery print and garden clogs and a matching pima cotton T-shirt in aqua.

Stepping out of the shower I hear gate clanging and horn honking. I grab my robe – and only my robe – and go to the window. A truck is in the pasture, at totally the wrong place to be loading these cows. And my horses are grazing in a field across the street.

I tear from the house, violating the Prime Directive of Farm Living = DO NOT LEAVE THE HOUSE IN JUST YOUR ROBE TO CHASE ANIMALS – because you will not be back in the house for at least an hour and someone will see you and you will get nasty farmyard mud up your whatsis when you slip and fall. Which you will.

Next to the door I have my LL Bean muck boots, and I slip these on as I rush past. Yes. I am now chasing horses in only a short bathrobe, sash flying in the wind, and muck boots. Fortunately this is an outfit that gets attention which makes it easy to get the cars on the road to stop when I attempt to get my horses under control.

Buckskin Mare is interested in getting back to her pasture. This whole cow thing is starting to violate her sense of normalcy. She trots, like a circus pony, back across the road in front of a brake screeching semi and right into the open gate. Thoroughbred Horse is not so easy. He wants to be with her, but he also is having trouble thinking how that might happen. He is quite overwhelmed. Road, cars, wrong side of fence, all these thoughts careening around his gelding brain. He is having a horse meltdown right in front of me. I stand next to him, not moving, in the middle of the road, while some people in their cars wait patiently, and some don’t, for this little drama to end.

An impatient driver decides to just drive through our little to-do. Just to make a point, he barely misses the horse and me and the draft off his vehicle blows my robe open. Nice.

I am out there, without a lead, and I am about to remove the sash from my robe to loop around Thoroughbred Horse’s neck (I would be doing this one handed and that scares me) when the Mennonite Guy With The Cattle Truck sends his four-year-old helper out in the middle of the road with a piece of baling twine. I put this around his neck and Thoroughbred Horse is actually happy to be relieved of making a decision about what to do and lets me lead him into the pasture where Buckskin Mare is suffering from an extreme case of Separation Anxiety which she manifests by running in circles and blowing.

Mennonite Guy with the Cattle Truck and his four-year-old helper are finished. Jeffrey is loaded, and I have a change of heart about keeping him, fueled by the fight or flight panic adrenals coursing through my blood stream after almost getting hit by a truck, killed by a panic stricken horse and having my privates displayed to innocent people who just woke up and got in their cars and are on their way to work. It’s just as well that he is going home. Anyway, I can visit him any time I want. Right?

I express this sentiment to the Mennonite Guy with the Cattle Truck. He says, no Ma’am. I am taking these cows right to the processing plant. The owner says he is tired of them breaking down the fences. Just as well, once they start doing that you can never keep them in.

He loads up his four-year-old helper into a car seat and clatters out of the field and on to the highway. I stand in the driveway and watch as the truck drives away. I collapse on the gravel drive way.

My heart twists in my chest with anguish, bitterness and grief.

(I have had a two leftover bbq chicken thighs and a Yoo-hoo, and am ready to go on.)

I sit there for a while and the whole wide world seems to have gone quiet, waiting for me.

I dig my hand into the gravel, picking up handfuls and throwing them. Disconsolate, keening sobs wrack me. All the sorrows, all the disappointments, all the sad textures a woman’s life can have settled on me like a cloak.

I get back up and take another shower. Endless commentary from the Itty Bitty Committee. It’s about three days before I find my peace with it. Three days of people moo-ing at work, copies of the newspaper article being mailed to me, Farmer jokes. Three days of everyone’s life getting back to normal. Three days of asking what the higher purpose of these cows was. Why didn’t I chase the truck and get those cows back? Because they didn’t belong to me. They were sent to earth to be someone else’s chattle. That was their purpose, and since I believe that your role in life is never a punishment, but a chance to learn, I had to accept what happened to them as part of a larger plan. I do not believe that God has time for random acts – only humans do. I am still straightening it out but I think for me the point was acceptance of the idea that you can do the right thing – get involved, care deeply, work hard and the result can be sadness and grief and loss, and it was still the right thing. God’s gift for paying attention is that sooner or later, you get to laugh.

PS: Okay. I just got a phone call from Ripper who has suggested that I get REAL about the other issue with the whole Cow thing. Which won’t die.

A full two weeks after they are all gone from my life and I think I have gotten the lesson and am moving to the place where I actually apply it, I am on my way to the scratch and dent store with my husband to buy a new washer and dryer. (And I will get the one I want because I have told him that they last about fifteen years, and if I don’t get the fancy schmancy set I want this time, I will be building up buttloads of seething resentment toward him every time I open the lid and shove in his dirty underwear.) Anyway, we are on our way to the store, which is about an hour and half drive from our place, on Labor Day. We are chatting about this and that and I say, “You know, I really thought that Bad Cow Keeper Guy would have said thank you. He was raised on a farm and you would think he would have an appreciation for all the work I did, and the care I put in to that whole episode. I mean, five bales of hay! His cows ate that while they were here!”

C says, “Well, He did give me $50.00.”

I am dumbstruck.

I say, “You didn’t tell me.”

He says, “I forgot.”

I said, “What did you do with the money?”

He says, “I gave it to Dawn (lawnmower neighbor) for mowing the field. Well, I haven’t yet. But I will.”

No big deal.

I would like to say I smashed him on the head, made him pull over and ragged him, had a shouting match and made him see what a sniveling glory grabbing ingrate he just has exposed himself to be. But I didn’t.

I was seeing those cows, those wild, willful docile animals. Powerful, huge animals who could break through any fence except the ones they perceived as indestructible. I was seeing myself as a wild, willful docile woman, whose man wouldn’t think twice about doing this.

[Image: iStockPhoto.com/Bob Ainsworth]

I believe that every decade or so I should really look at my life. That’s usually because I have spent the previous ten years making a mess of it. So, on the day I turned 30, I was standing in the grocery store looking at a pack of chicken. I was figuring out, as it lay there with the plastic wrap snuggly clinging to its pinky, salmonella-infested moistness, that it just didn’t look that tasty. It also did not look like an animal. Because I am not one of those blessed with a mind that can take such information and just move on, and because it was my 30th birthday and I wasn’t feeling particularily moved by anything else about the day, I set myself a year long goal of really figuring out whether I was: A) an insatiable omnivore opportunity eater who just grazed my way mindlessly through life, or B) a Conscious Consumer who thoughtfully chose what she put in her body as a statement of her political, ethical, moral and spiritual beliefs.

It was the 80s. Most people remember the 80s as a-ha and Air Supply on the radio and the slow return of conspicuous consumption. For me, it was a decade of soul searching manifesting itself in an odd melange Joan Collins suits, Princess Diana beige hair and huge glasses. Casual wear was a denim jumper and sensible shoes – a uniform made necessary by our recent move to the farm. Looking bad, I was dowdy before my time.

Back to the chicken. I bought it, but every time I took it out of the freezer to cook, I would find myself staring at it, turning it this way and that. I had to wonder why I wasn’t looking at it and saying, “Yum, I can’t wait to sink my teeth into that.” I had to wonder why I was wondering at all. Bright light fills my head. It’s because I don’t see a connection between this hunk of frozen frankenchicken and an actual chicken.

I spent weeks walking around trying to discuss this conflict with friends and colleaques. Many would say, “I couldn’t eat it if it did look like a chicken!” Then they would relate some story of a grandfather or mother who would chop the head of a hen and let it run around the yard, or a cousin who hunts for all their meat. Maybe they would tell me about some duck or something they got for Easter and gave a cute name only to have it end up in a cassolette. Then, sometimes, something more insidious would happen – someone would tell me about a crazy college kid who gave up eating everything with a face.

So, I started obsessing about this issue and finally one day got tired of obsessing and decided to set myself about solving it once and for all.

I challenged myself: If I can raise a chicken, butcher it and eat it, I will remain a omnivore. If not, I will never eat anything with a face again.

As I said, it was the 80s.

I went about researching where to buy chicks, what to feed chicks and what accessories they might require. I bought little feeders and big feeders, waterers, automatic waterers and a twelve hole nesting box. I decided on a management method and sought out the chicken expert at the local Farm and Tractor Store.

One very exciting day, a big box of cheeping peeps arrived at the post office and My Husband brought it home. The twelve White Cornish Cross chicks lived for several weeks on the table in the middle of the kitchen, in a cage with a towel over it and a heat lamp hanging above. I was the only woman I knew raising chickens. And I was damn proud of it.

When they were large enough (and frankly, too stinky for the kitchen) I moved them outside. C and I had collaborated on a chicken house – but no run – these would be Free Range Chickens. This was a concept that was considered forward thinking and philosophically superior by those who could afford fencing but decided against it. It was not a concept at all, merely where your chickens were, if you couldn’t.

I think these chickens got to be large enough to butcher in about seven weeks. It was astounding – they became huge, stumbling baby huey chickens over night. I recall that as the time came for the butchering and they got bigger, I decided I did not want to do the actual killing myself. It wasn’t that I was afraid, it wasn’t that I was too fond of them. I very simply was concerned that I hadn’t done it before and I might botch it and cause unnecessary suffering. I had developed, rather than an affection, more of a respect for them.

I found a Mennonite Butchering Guy, boxed them up one fine afternoon, and within half an hour Mennonite Butchering Guy’s wife and daughters were asking me if I wanted them whole or quartered.

They came home in the back of the truck in black plastic trashbags stuck in buckets. They were incredibly heavy, even without their feathers and their innards. I dragged the bags of chicken into the house and piled them up on the kitchen floor. At that time I had four dogs and they came in to the kitchen and sat in a row, with a demeanor of idle curiosity. They had no interest in the chicken. It had almost no odor.

Shocking Self Realization: I had been eating fetid, germy, bacteria laden smelly chicken my whole life. This was the first clean meat I would experience. I was revolted at what I must have ingested without even thinking for decades. This completely out distanced any anthropomorphic fantasies I had about the souls of the chickens.

I had no problem eating these chickens. I even relished these chickens. I invited terribly good friends over for dinner and we were blown away by the taste. It did taste different! I remember someone thought I should bring their wings cooked in sauce to some kind of function. I would not waste this AMBROSIA on drunk people at a party.

Okay. So, I had accomplished what I set out to do. I had defined myself as a person who was not a hypocrite. I could raise something and eat it. I could not only remain an Opportunity Eater but I was also a Conscious Consumer who chose what she put in her body as a statement of her political, ethical, moral and spiritual beliefs. One step closer to Nirvana!!!

The meat chickens were such a success – and were giving me such great things to talk about with people that I moved on to egg laying chickens, ducks, guinea hens and turkeys. (The turkeys spawned dozens of Domestic Episodes.)

Now before the rescue lady lived next door, her house was occupied by a real gem of a neighbor who enjoyed making my life miserable. Her pool was about 200 feet from my barn. So the progression from the low impact meat and egg production of the birds to installing a pigpen in plain view and smell of her pool house was pretty easy.

I had Chester Whites. This is a special breed of pig genetically designed to have a huge behind. I think I was too, but no one ever gave me a special name because of it.

Pigs are not smart, cute or clean, and they are not friendly, even to each other. They want one thing out of life. They want to feed that huge rear. They will eat anything, in any quantity that can be supplied or stolen. They are such efficient eating machines that they convert almost everything they eat into future meals for people. Smart opportunity eaters down through the ages have capitalized on this by learning to make tasty entrees out of everything but the squeak. They are also very strong and can destroy almost any enclosure, so you have to keep them on concrete with rigid fencing buried in it. If they can get their nose into a crack, they can tear that up. I have seen a pig put his nose down at the edge of an asphalt drive way and plow a trench through it 10 inches deep. There were no truffles under that driveway. Believe me, I looked.

Once, I let the pigs out on the lawn because I thought that would be a kind thing to do. (I don’t go to the zoo any more, because of these overwhelming urges.) After they had wandered around for a while, I thought I better put them back. I had no plan for this. I tried wiggling a bucket of food at them, but that was of no interest because to them, everything is food. I tried putting a lead around the neck of one, but it slid right over his head when I pulled on it. I did finally chase them back in, but not until after one of them had bitten me on the hand, swallowing a chunk out of my knuckle that exposed the bone. No worries, I bit him later.

I was running a piggy version of a Day Spa. It takes about six months to bring a pig up to butchering weight – you do the math. You get them at about a month old and they weigh about 40 pounds. In five months they will have gained about 200 pounds, at a rate of about 1.3 pounds a day. Since the average pig needs to eat between 4 and 6 pounds of quality feed each day to gain 1.3 pounds, and you have 4 pigs ... you will carry aproximately 3100 pounds of food out to the pen. They will also create aproximately half that weight in poopie. Which stinks. They drink about 3 gallons of water a day. I had what is called a Pig Nipple for their drinking pleasure – a hose with something very similar to what people keep in hamster cages. I also provided them with sun-brellas and sunscreen, and I gave them daily showers. All in all, it was not bad to be Rodeo’s pig.

They were all named Spam, at least the ones I didn’t call Freezer Meat.

I can’t say that I ever used the USDA’s recommended proceedure for estimating the weight of my pigs (take a tape measure and measure their girth directly behind the front legs and multiply by some number). I just got damn tired of all this feeding and sunscreening and called the butcher. There was just one little detail that we hadn’t thought out. How do we get them there?

It never occured to us to hire a professional pig mover. Why would it? We had a standard Ford F150 4-wheel-drive pick-up. My husband built sides for this and rigged up an old barn door as a ramp. We backed it up next to the pigpen, opened the gate and put the ramp inside and waited for them to get curious and climb in.

And waited and waited. Pigs glanced casually at the ramp. Pigs sniffed the ramp and walked to the opposite side of the pen. Pigs walked to the very bottom of the ramp and pooped. But no pig actually got in the truck.

We called a local expert named Dougie. He said, Pigs don’t walk up ramps. Pigs can't walk up ramps. You are going to have to help them up.

Uh-huh.

We tied a lead around the neck of one, Charles pulled, and I pushed, and we did get the pig up the ramp. THE 250-POUND SMEARED WITH PIG FECAL MATTER PIG.

The second one struggled a little more, but eventually Spam 2 was in the truck. Pigs are very verbal. Spam 1 and 2 were shouting advice to Freezermeat 1 and Freezermeat 2 down in the pen. It was earsplitting and annoying. Freezermeat 1 ended up with a bucket pushed on his head walking up the ramp backwards. I don’t have any idea who thought that was necessary.

All this pig tonnage walking up and down the ramp had shifted things a bit and C wanted to make sure that Freezermeat 2 would go in easy so he adjusted it a bit. Enough so that Freezermeat 2 was able to slip between the ramp and the fence and head for the lawn.

And it started to rain.

I was wearing my denim jumper and a pair of muckboots. Charles was wearing overalls and no shirt. We were wearing matching smears of pig poopie. All over. Places you wouldn’t want your own poopie.

We chased that loose pig for an hour. He had amazing stamina for a short, round 250-pound animal. I bet people say that about me, occasionally.

Years later, while looking through the family album, my son remarked that I must have been drunk a lot when he was a kid. Despite unimpeachable evidence to the contrary presented by his beloved Grandmother, he cited incidents like what follows to make his point.

Just as, pig manure smeared and soaking wet, Charles and I sheparded Freezermeat 2 around the corner of the house, My Son, (Now Ripper’s Husband) was dropped off with two of his friends. He took one look at his parents, shook his head and went into the house. His friends (afterall we weren’t their parents) joined us and soon all four of us were wearing that pig down.

The two boys and Charles got the pig to go up a small incline. I was at the bottom. Someone screamed, “BLOCK HIM!” I bent at the waist , flexed my knees and prepared to block. A 250-pound pig running at about 20 miles an hour down a hill.

He caught me square at my flexed knees. The force of the impact knocked my glasses off and parted my knees as he was propelled forward. As though we had practiced for months, I slid over his pointy, wet head to a perfect, although backwards, seat on his back and was carried off across the lawn.

My first thought was: I can’t see where I am going.

Second thought was: OH MY GOD I AM RIDING A PIG, AND I AM GOING TO DIE!

Third thought: I am only 18 inches off the ground. No way am I going to die.

Fourth thought: Well, I am just going to sit here until this pig gets really tired and falls over.

Which is what he did.

It took the four of us to push/drag him up the ramp into the truck with his buddies and soon, slightly cleaned up, we were on our way to drop them off at the butcher.

Getting them out was much easier – they go down ramps fairly easily. The stall where we were putting them had a single lamp in it, and at one point I heard Charles saying gently, “Go into the light…”

I let him handle the details like labeling the pigs with spray paint so the butcher knew who owned them.

The next day I got a call from the butcher. He says, “Your pigs are clean and lean, Rodeo.”

I beam. I say, “So you had no trouble telling which ones were ours?”

He pauses. “Well, yours were the only ones labeled ‘PIG.’”

Oh, Charles. You goofball.

I have forgotten birthdays, anniversaries, and tax bills. I have forgotten my phone, shoes, and hair appointments. I’ve forgotten to unplug the iron and I’ve forgotten where I’ve parked. I’ve completely forgotten people’s names, where I met them and why I’ve disliked them. Don’t even get me started on hours spent hunting car keys, lost earrings or important papers. I’ve picked up an exquisite Limoges milk pitcher from the sideboard in my own dining room and wondered where it came from. Thank goodness my old horse Bonnie had a real barn lust or there would have been many afternoons out trail riding that might have ended in hysterical phone calls because I forgot how the trail went. I accumulated almost fifteen pounds of brown sugar over time, because I could never remember – while at the grocery store – whether I had it in the pantry. I’ve walked into rooms, forgetting why I went in. I’ve forgotten to close gates in the pasture and doors on the barn, leading to many many domestic episodes. I’ve forgotten how to spell “predicament” and how much 35 minus 17 is.

In fact, while I was writing this, several times I have forgotten what I was doing and wandered off to do something else.

My point is … Dear Daughter-In-Law (DIL) Ripper brought an ancient Singer Sewing Machine in from the barn (don’t remember where we got it, how long it’s been there or why I brought it home in the first place) and said, plaintively and with much rolling of her doe like eyes, “I wish I knew how to use this.”

I have not touched a sewing machine in many, many years. My mother was and is a Seamstress Supreme, and sewing was an activity, much like reading or playing an instrument, that was a huge part of my childhood. She made all of our clothes, and going to the Fabric District in Philadelphia to pick out fabric for dancing school costumes or prom dresses was a very special occasion to be shared just between us. We would stand together in front of the pattern books, turning the large pages, and she would say – I can take that sleeve, and put it on that top, and we can match it with that skirt and make it out of this fabric – and outfits and evenings and girlish dreams would form, and out of the scraps, my Barbie and Chatty Cathy would have the best, most fashionable doll clothes In our neighborhood – sorry Gail, but I still think so!

She had a Necchi Sewing Machine that did zig zag stitches and scalloped and serged and ruffled. The arrival of this machine when I was little meant that my sisters and I got her old machine just for us to use. It went into the basement on its own table, next to the “toy” iron, which heated up enough to really iron clothes, and the “toy” oven, which got hot enough to bake cookies. We had real scissors, boxes of straight pins and needles, and all these appliances used electricity.

All the little girls in the neighborhood had similar little kitchens and laundries in their basements, which we played in when we weren’t sledding down hills without helmets and riding our bikes in traffic. Or walking over a mile to the candy store with our quarter allowance. It was a different world. It’s not that we didn’t burn ourselves or cut ourselves or sew our fingers into the hems of little doll pants – it’s just that unless you were REALLY hurt – requiring treatment by a doctor – it was just child’s play.

But, where was I? Oh, yes. Ripper, with a dusty, chicken poo encrusted ancient Singer Sewing Machine.

I’m staring at the machine which she is wiping down with a cloth. It’s so pretty – shiny black, with gold scroll work. She’s holding an equally old spool of thread. Apparently, in the same pile of junk in the barn that held the machine, there was a sewing box full of balls of lace, little papers of needles and pins, LA MODE buttons, and that is also now on my kitchen table.

“I could make stuff with this.” Ripper is now unrolling lace across the table. “Why would someone have so much lace?” (I’m assuming she means the original owners of the box and the machine, not us – because I still can’t actually remember bringing this stuff home.)

I say, “Well, women used to sew the lace on the hems of their skirts, to make it pretty, or longer, if there wasn’t enough fabric.”

“I could make something on this machine, if I knew how to put this thread on it.” She’s trying the spool out on various places.

I know how to thread it.

Of all the things I have forgotten in my life – important things, unimportant things, objects and thoughts and occasions and feelings – I remember how to thread this machine.

I remember my sister sitting next to me and saying, “I’ll show you – just ONCE, though.” I remember where to put the thread spool, I remember the way you hook it through the arm (I remember it’s called “the arm”), I remember looping it around the tension knob. I remember that you have to be careful not to screw with THIS too much. I hand her the thread and tell her to thread the needle – because my eyes just cannot do that.

Once the needle is threaded, there is the matter of the bobbin. I show DIL how to use the wheel to move the needle down down into the sole to loop around the bobbin thread and pull it up. I remember all of this. I remember that the bobbin is a pain in the ass.

We start sewing all the junk mail. About every three inches, the bobbin thread breaks. Apparently the long deceased owner of this bobbin kept adding different colored thread to the already filled bobbin and it is a mess. Ripper gets tired of sewing the junk mail and rushes off to the fabric store to buy fabric to “make something.” I insist she take a picture of the machine with her camera, so she can show the people at the fabric store what she is using. I don’t really know why I think this is a good idea, but there is just something about US buying fabric that seems to require some kind of validation.

In about an hour, she’s back with batting and fabric and a BIG IDEA. She’s going to make pillows.

Now, in addition to making all my clothes and my doll clothes, my mother made slip covers and curtains and I remember that it was a major activity that involved piping and fabric on rolls, moving furniture to get areas big enough to cut the fabric, rows and rows of straight pins, and zippers longer and more problematic than the Mexican American border. The whole family talked of nothing else for weeks, and even my father the engineer used to get in on the cutting and pattern making.

DIL is unfettered by any need other than to get that Singer chewing up yards of fabric, so she cuts two squares, sews them together and stuffs them. Every once in a while the bobbin thread breaks, or the machine comes unthreaded, or I offer technical advice like – “Reverse at the end of each row, to secure your stitches.” Voila, pillows! Less than three hours after she dug that little machine out of a pile of hay in the barn she has a stack of pillows and a whole bunch of creative pride.

Then she says it: “You are like a real mom. You taught me to sew.”

With affection.

Along with threading a machine, I will never ever forget how I felt when she said that.

I make her promise that at my funeral she will tell my sisters and my mother (assuming I go first), and anyone else that will listen, that I taught her to sew. On a machine. That I remembered how to thread.