A View from the Buggy (7 page)

Anyway, lying there in bed, we heard a bang somewhere near the kitchen. Lorene whispered, “There's a commotion going on out there.”

Well, I was trying to listen, but my heart and my knees weren't quite working together, so I couldn't hear too well. Then the noise really picked up. I told myself I mustn't act scared for my good wife's sake.

I slowly got out of bed. The moon was supplying me with enough light to dress by. Of course my fingers were scared. They didn't want to get ahold of those buttons, but I got them calmed down. But here was the real sticker: By this time the racket was quite lively, and my knees weren't behaving again.

As I was leaving the bedroom in this condition, my dear wife was faced with a dilemma. What was she to do? She didn't want to stay in the bedroom by herself. But she also didn't want to get in my way, in case I'd have to run real fast toward this racket. So she consulted with me in whispers and took my hand—I can still remember how firmly she grasped it. It brought tears to my eyes, how trusting women can be.

We crept into the living room together, our flashlights in hand. We eased our way into the kitchen and the noise was still going on. We could now tell it was coming from the porch.

My poor heart still pounds today when I think of that moment when I slid back the curtain and shone my flashlight out there. This is also the embarrassing part. See, a few days earlier my wife had set a wooden mousetrap on the porch. I could of course say that a big panther had snuck in and caught its paw, but that wouldn't be true. Instead, I have to admit that it was a mouse making all that racket. He had somehow fastened his tail in my wife's trap and that trap was going as fast as that little rodent could trot.

About then the good wife recalled that she'd read somewhere in a book on marriage that the man of the house is supposed to take charge when things get a little tough. She seemed to think this came under that heading. So with me still being in the first year of marriage, I did want to impress her with my bravery.

I sized up the situation and told her the first order of this operation
was for her to keep her flashlight trained on the mouse. I'd then grab the thing and go from there.

Well…it turned out to be quite a chase. Soon both the mouse and I desired a break, but there was no coffee handy. So we continued to play cat and mouse, with me as the cat. When I went a little faster, my fine little friend also increased his speed.

But as all good things do, this too came to an end. And all parties were happy with the outcome, except perhaps the one in the trap. He left a piece of his tail behind. Now there is a dock-tailed mouse running around somewhere, unless he died of old age or a heart attack. I, on my part, tried to avoid that affliction by heading back to bed. We figured that was enough excitement for a while.

The Pig Chase

Sarah Bontrager

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace (Ecclesiastes 3:8).

I
WAS
16
AND HUMMING SOFTLY TO MYSELF AS
I
AMBLED TO THE
chicken house that evening to gather eggs. Next, I'd weed the strawberry patch with Mom and my four younger siblings. Supper needed to be prepared too, but with Dad gone to a minister's meeting, completing the chores had fallen on our shoulders.

We had put hay in the hay feeders for all the horses and our beef cows. We had milked the Jersey cow and filled the water dishes of the two Pomeranian dogs that shared our place with a dozen cats. The chickens had been fed earlier, as had our two piglets.

What a beautiful evening
, I thought.
If only Dad could be home to enjoy our family time together.
But I knew he was on a worthwhile mission, taking care of church work.

My thoughts were interrupted by someone shouting, “Your pigs are out! Your pigs are out!”

I turned to see our neighbors Henry and Edna running through the orchard following our two squealing piglets.

Oh, no
, I thought.
I must go find more help
. And with that I flung my pail and raced for the house.

Bursting through the screen door I yelled, “Mom! Girls! Our two piglets are out!”

“No!” Mom exclaimed. “Come, let's hurry before they find the garden and ruin our vegetables.”

We hurried outside to find Henry and Edna gone. We figured they had returned home. We knew they couldn't leave their two-year-old
daughter unattended. We didn't know that Henry also went looking for his net with which he planned to catch the piglets.

As we charged around the corner of our implements shed, we almost fell on top of the two piglets. They squealed in fright and the race was on.

“Oh…I wish Dad was home to help us!” my sister Mary gasped.

But in a few minutes we had the two piglets cornered and heading in the direction of the pig shed. Or so we thought.

“This will be easy,” I said to the others. “We'll open the door of the pig shed. Jacob, you stand behind the door to slam it shut as soon as they're inside. The rest of us will continue chasing them in.”

Eight-year-old Jacob nodded and moments later there was a horrible mess of flailing arms and yelling girls mixed in with squealing pigs. Those pigs went everywhere but the doorway. We'd catch our breath and try the whole thing all over again…only to have them escape again. We couldn't even stop them when they dashed between our legs. All that resulted was our own upending into the dirt as the pigs ran off, squealing in double fright.

Finally we gave up. “This isn't working,” I panted. “There must be some other way to get them back in!”

“Indeed,” agreed Anna. “This is ridiculous. All we're doing is running around in circles. Maybe we could just grab them and carry them in.”

“I doubt if that would work.” I continued to gasp for air.

“We have nothing to lose,” Ruth said, all brave and bold.

“Anything's better than this,” Anna said. “I'm surprised my dress is still in one piece.”

As my breath came in shorter gasps I considered their plan. “I suppose those pigs really are small enough to carry,” I finally agreed.

So we set out with Anna muttering under her breath, “Okay, piggies, here we come again.”

By now the two runaways had discovered our woodshed and were rooting around in the loose dirt and bark. We heard satisfied little grunts coming from inside.

With fresh zest, I charged after them and actually got one cornered.
I pounced, landing on top of her. What a squealing fit there was with those pig legs kicking furiously. I wrapped my arms tightly around her belly and gleefully ran toward the pigpen. I lifted her above the hog panels and set her down inside. At last! One down! Now the next one!

I turned to hear Anna yell. “Help me! I caught her!”

Quickly I ran to Anna's aid and together we tried desperately to keep a hold on the pig. This time it wasn't working. Gradually we were losing our grip and soon the pig was free again. It took off hightailing it in the opposite direction.

I sat in the dirt in near tears. “This is hopeless. It's going to take all evening.”

The other girls ignored me and raced off after the pig. I gathered my wits and followed them. By the time I reached them, they had the pig cornered. Seeing me, the pig made for its escape. This time I dived at the animal and grabbed its belly with both arms. And I hung on. I couldn't keep a good grip, though. This pig was obviously heavier than the other one.

It rolled and kicked, dirt flying in my face. I was down to a hold on one leg. I remember being scared the leg might come off. But whoever heard of such a thing? I was now on my stomach being dragged along. Thankfully Anna got her arm around the pig's stomach, and the now-tired animal calmed down enough that we could carry her to the pen.

We all stood there panting. Ruth quickly placed a board in front of the tiny hole where they had escaped.

“There. That'll do until Dad gets it fixed,” she said, adding a cement block in front of the board for good measure.

I stood there brushing dust from my cape and apron. One of my covering strings was torn off. The head covering itself was dirt-covered and smashed. Quite unladylike, I figured. And to make things worse there were peals of laughter behind us. Henry and Edna had returned. Edna had their two-year-old in her arms and Henry had his net.

“Are you okay?” Edna asked between her giggles.

“I'm not hurt,” I said, perhaps sounding a bit shorter with her than I should. My face was scarlet red and covered with brown smudges. At the moment, I didn't find any of this amusing.

“I'm sorry for laughing,” Edna apologized at once.

Henry, of course, didn't say he was sorry. “Maybe someday you can look back and laugh about your first pig chase,” he said, still grinning.

“Why didn't you bring your net earlier?” I asked Henry, trying to collect myself.

“I couldn't find it,” Henry said. “It was stuck in the darkest corner of our buggy shed.”

“That's okay,” I said, feeling sheepish now. “I guess it doesn't help being upset about this.”

Jacob now jumped in with his own question for Henry. “How did you discover the pigs were out?”

Henry grinned again. “Oh…it was so cute! We heard these funny noises in the backyard and went out on the porch to investigate. It took a while until we saw their snooty faces peeping over the tall grass.”

“We stood there laughing for a few seconds,” Edna added.

“All's well that ends well,” Mom announced. She had climbed up on the manure spreader seat and maintained her perch the whole time the ruckus was going on. “I guess we learned something tonight we wouldn't have by weeding the strawberry patch.”

“And we made more memories!” declared Jacob.

We all laughed heartily, including myself.

“Here comes Dad!” exclaimed Mary.

And with that she and Jacob bolted for the buggy coming in our driveway. They hopped alongside the buggy's open door, excitedly telling Dad all about the extraordinary event of the evening.

“Whoa!” Dad said as they arrived at the buggy shed. “I'm sorry I missed out on the show. Sounds like some great sightseeing!”

The rest of us agreed, and a jolly group trooped back into the house at long last to clean up and prepare for supper.

Why Don't We Butcher?

Aaron Miller

And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places: thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations; and thou shalt be called, The repairer of the breach, The restorer of paths to dwell in (Isaiah 58:12).

I
T WAS AN INNOCENT STATEMENT
I
UTTERED THAT DAY TO MY BROTHER
David. “We're almost out of meat in our freezer. Why don't we butcher?” All I was trying to do, I suppose, was revive a family tradition.

There was of course Valley Meats and Yoder's Custom Meats and the other meat processing places not far away. But the thought of doing our own butchering had always fascinated me. I saw gleaming stainless steel knives in my mind's eye, tables heavily laden at the end of the day with neatly packaged meat ready for the freezer, long coils of sausage ready for canning, and the enjoyment of eating it all later. Oh, yeah, I had it all pictured the way it
should
happen.

I now know that this is the kind of thing one imagines when you don't have a lot of experience with butchering. Or, for instance, the knowledge that your meat grinder is a sadistic machine that loves to create problems. Or that your sausage stuffer has internal issues. I had yet to learn that those are all things that can happen when you get together on a snowy afternoon and try to accomplish something worthwhile.

From the get-go, David and I struggled to find a date that would accommodate both of our busy families. Dates were set and reset. Finally we settled on Friday, February 22, as the day we'd gather on my brother's farm in the hills of Holmes County for this important event.

When we arrived, several of the butchers were already hard at work cutting meat from the bones of a large steer. Now I had heard from
others that a butcher cuts the bones out of the meat, and others of lesser talent cut the meat off the bones. I had visions of being in the former category, but at least I knew I wasn't.

Throughout the busy afternoon things went quite well. Everyone was pitching in, and we were soon finished cutting the meat from the bones of both a steer and a hog. I had noticed all afternoon that whenever David spoke of meat grinders, he would add that meat grinders have ruined many a good butchering day. I comforted myself that in our case we had taken care of the problem by planning to borrow a recently repaired grinder. I figured the machine was ready for action.

But I think if we would have been listening we would have heard the meat grinder and sausage stuffer conversing back and forth as the day wore on.

“Just wait until they try to put me together,” the grinder was gloating.