Three Little Pigs

 

Three little piggies inside the pen
And three on the outside where they look in,
Adventure awaits, but danger does, too,
What’s a mother to do with her curious zoo? 

I moved in last week. Finally. Despite an overzealous inspector who’s never used a hammer in his life, we finally jumped through enough hoops to satisfy even him and now I have a home of my own. It’s been a long year for all of us here on the mini-farm.

This house feels like home. It felt like home months ago as I stood in the center of what would become the great room, staring through open rafters at the blue sky above and breathing in the comforting space of a room outlined by bare studs. The “casita” was designed by us and built with me in mind, and even without drywall up yet, it fit me like a glove. Amazing. Rob and I built the first place we ever owned when we lived in Florida and the feeling was similar. This time, though, I was the one making all the decisions. So it means even more to me that I feel at home here when I’ve never lived alone before.

There are so many great things about my new location. Every huge window has a relaxing view of grazing animals, pastures guarded by mature shade trees, and clear skies punctuated by the graceful patterns of birds in flight. Sometimes, too, the not-so-graceful. There’s a downside to having sparkly clean windows—picture feathered face plants and bird concussions.

My daughter and her family have loaned me this location where I built my home. Technically, that makes it the Brady Guesthouse. Complicated, I know. Basically, it means I don’t have a separate address. Talk about living off the grid. I’m simply the house with the blue door. But it gives me the added benefit of enjoying a lot of gorgeous, established landscaping with none of the maintenance. Since Rob was always the gardener, too, nothing has changed there. In defense of my lazy self, though, I am learning to use a hose to water the flowers Katy planted for me. I can be taught.

Plus, there’s the extra joy of squeezy hugs from half of the grandbabies God has also loaned to me whenever our lives spill over onto one another here. Having family close by where I live on the east side of Dan and Katy’s expansive pasture makes all the difference as I learn to fly solo. The only thing that could make it better is if my son and his family were neighbors, too.

And also, there is always this longing—the impossible wish that there had never been a cause for all this change. The “why’s” persist, but we’re discovering how to live with those, too. You can’t ask much more from grief than learning how to carry it and keep going.

There’s a lot of serenity here, and I crave it, spending hours staring off into the distance as I regain my focus on life. Pastoral settings offer tranquility in spades. Up to a point. Two weeks ago, Maggie, my granddaughter Jules’ pig, gave birth to her first litter of piglets. Of the seven, six survived and quickly became the delight of the neighborhood. Word travels fast when babies show up, even the kind with curly tails. These six had names before they ever tasted breakfast. Keith, Bilbo, Scott, and Pepper. Bert and Ernie (who are identical twins, I’m told) complete the roll call. Maggie, exhausted yet instantly on 24/7 duty, had her hands full. Because, as Jules explained, “Ernie is naughty.”

Ten days into infancy and the black-haired little guy already has a reputation as a troublemaker.

There are sliders in the great room that lead to my back patio which is bordered by new fencing. They offer an expansive view of the Brady farm’s menagerie. Sitting on my sofa eating dinner a couple of nights ago, I watched Katy’s two sister-sheep graze in the emerald-green grass on the other side of the “no climb” fence. I love these crazy girls. They’re not fluffy, white cotton balls like their mothers were. They have a sleek profile and look a lot more comfortable sans the heavy sweaters most sheep wear.

Now that their bossy mothers have been sent away to greener pastures, Sarah and Esther are really letting down their hair. They head butt, chase each other across their finite meadow, send the chickens scurrying, climb the no-climb fence to pull down leafy tree branches, and pause mid-chew when something needs to be pondered. Or investigated.

Like three little piglets. On the outside of the pigpen. Free range ham in wooly sheep territory with no idea how to get back inside the pen like their frantic mother was telling them to. I watched with curiosity as Sarah and Esther suddenly sprinted across the pasture toward the runaways. I assumed it was the tantalizing smell of pork chops beckoning.

“This can’t be good,” I muttered, setting my dinner aside and grabbing my phone to call Katy.

My amazing Katy. She’s living the life I always wanted to live but I now realize is too exhausting for just about anyone to deal with. At this particular moment, she and the fam were away from home enjoying a well-deserved evening with good friends, not expecting a phone call from me telling them that three pounds of pork had escaped from the compound and were in danger of becoming mutton mush.

Katy sounded concerned on the other end of the phone. “I’ll grab Jules,” she said. “We’ll be right there.” Which was a good idea since, until recently, I’ve only ever dreamt of living on a mini-farm and don’t have any actual experience with stray critters other than wrangling a few ducks last year, arguing with a stubborn turkey, and praying a herd of chickens into their coop so I wouldn’t have to touch any of them. By the time we hung up, two of the escapees had found their way back to their mama, leaving one dark-haired fugitive to fend for himself on the outside. Isn’t that the way it always is? No loyalty among thieves.

Racing back and forth along the fence line, the youngster’s squeals did nothing except annoy the nosy sheep who turned tail to summit their nearby dirt hill. Maggie stomped her feet in the dusty pen, bellowing grunts at her terrified offspring, while I stood clear of the chaos and made sure the midget piggy didn’t disappear before Katy and Jules got there. As the little guy crashed for the tenth time into a trash barrel that blocked his way, I told him with all the sincerity I could muster, “Sorry, kid. I don’t hold pigs.” Meaning, I wasn’t going to rescue him. Honestly, I was sympathetic about his predicament, but this city girl picked up a chicken once and was shocked to learn it felt nothing like Col. Sanders’ version. I’m not doing that again.

Finally, the dark one bounced off the plastic barrel for the last time, saw his way back to the enclosure, and scurried inside to his mama who’d been holding dinner for him. She fell over onto her side like a fainting goat and was instantly attacked by all six of her hungry offspring. Tragedy averted.

Katy and Jules arrived with a couple of reinforcements, located the secret escape route of the little porkers, and sealed off the portals. That’s when Jules explained what happened. That the loose cannon was Ernie. And Ernie is naughty.

I listened, but now I wonder. It seems a little too simple, right?

I’d had a lot of time to think about it while I stood there avoiding piggy poo. Doesn’t Ernie have an identical twin brother? And weren’t there three piglets running around free until two of them ‘magically’ found their way back inside? It looks suspicious to me. If I can’t tell the little porksters apart and Jules wasn’t there to see how it all went down, then how do we know it was Ernie who caused all this mayhem? I’ve heard about the pranks twins pull. This one had all the ear markings of oinker shenanigans.

Maybe Ernie was the fall guy and Bert was the wise guy setting his twin brother up to look like the black sheep of the family. Stay with me here. He coaxes Ernie out of the enclosure and leaves him alone in the arena while he and his accomplice run home to watch the fun from the cheap seats. They come off looking like a couple of mama’s boys and suddenly everyone thinks Ernie is the brains of the outfit, when the whole thing was just a case of mistaken identity. It could happen. Poor, trusting little Ernie got thrown under the bus by a couple of greasy gangsters masquerading as his brothers.

The swine.

I never did like that Bert character. He’s too slick. If you ask me, he’s the naughty one.

With the pig pen reinforced, it looks like all the barnyard theatrics are over for now. But something keeps bothering me about the whole affair. Even if I’m right and Bert and his buddy took advantage of witless Ernie, all of them still found their way back to the dinner table without any help. So, what was the point of all that drama? I’ve been watching a lot of Hallmark Mystery movies lately, so I’ve got hours of experience noticing details that most people miss.

Let me pose this question to you. Who pulled the fire alarm that night, and why?

Right. It was those sister-sheep, Sarah and Esther. They knew I was watching them climb the no-climb fence when they weren’t supposed to. I had the goods on them. It was a diversion tactic, the way they raced across the pasture, fingering the little hams who were just having some laughs. And right when I called for backup, what do they do? Up and leave the scene of the crime. Know what finally clued me in as to who was really the mastermind? It was the pigs. Sheep don’t like pork chops. They like leaves.

And people say television isn’t educational. Tell that to Bert and Ernie. Sesame Street probably saved their bacon.