A View from the Buggy Page 5

  In January we had an incident I’ll never forget. We’d finished the chores, eaten supper, and gone to bed. I can’t remember what we had for supper, but I’m sure it was good. I’d discovered by this time that not only was my wife, Lorene, the prettiest lady in Coles, Moultrie, Douglas, and other surrounding counties, but she was also the best cook.

  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.
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  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).

  IT 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.

  “You haven’t got anything on me,” the stuffer replied. “I’ll have them tearing their hair out. They don’t have the parts they need, and they don’t know where to put the parts they have.”

  This would have been followed, no doubt, by waves of laughter between the two.

  It was around 5:00 when we made our first attempt to put the grinder into action. That attempt, though, was unsuccessful. And of course we all know that men aren’t prone to ask for directions, even when they don’t know what they’re doing.

  So we tried again…and again. Hammers pounded. Vise grips gripped. We griped. We sweated and did our best impression of someone who knew what they were doing, trying to get that grinder to grind. We even had backseat drivers who seemed to know a lot more about the grinder than we did.

  By now, I began to wonder if our scheduled pickup at 9:00 would be anywhere close to the right time. To make matters more complicated, the snow was coming down hard by now, and the lane at David’s is rather steep. It’s difficult to traverse in dry conditions. If it’s snowy and slippery, things can get ugly in a hurry.

  We continued to fight with the grinder, the cold sweat dripping from our foreheads.

  Then finally someone succeeded in placing what looked like the right parts in the right place, and the first piece of meat was gently tossed into the hopper. It flopped, hopped, and squished and did about anything it could do except come out the front end resembling hamburger. The backseat drivers were all looking at each other with knowing smirks on their faces. So we gave up, and the trek was made to the neighbor’s to obtain another meat grinder.

  The time was 7:30 when we actually began grinding our meat. At least grinding with the replacement grinder was pretty pain-free. We soon had our task completed and were bagging and putting our prized hamburger into freezer bags.

  The problem was a blizzard had begun blowing outside, and we no longer had a way home. So the decision was made to stay overnight and attempt the trip in the morning.

  At least we now had time for a leisurely time spent with the stuffer…or so I thought.

  I could already taste the canned sausage with mustard, topped with all the trimmings. The stuffer was supposed to produce foot after foot of wonderful sausage. Borrowed as it was from a good friend of mine, I never doubted its abilities. When I had picked up the stuffer, he had assured me that after talking with his dad, everything we needed to make our day of sausage stuffing a success was included in this little gadget. We were ready to roll, he said.

  So the first load of sausage was piled into the little press and the pressing began. Some sausage came rolling out of the tube where it was supposed to, but a large amount came puking out of the sides and over the top of the lid. We pushed and pressed on, proceeding to make sausage.

  Our efforts were hampered by a plate at the bottom of the press that kept plugging up, and I
’ll admit that we should have thought things through and left the plate out after unclogging it several times. But how were we to know the press we were using was set up for pressing out fat instead of sausage?

  By now it was 10:00, and I remembered Valley Meats and Yoder’s Custom Meats. The vision of their smooth operation kept popping into my tired mind. Finally we all looked at each other and someone said, “Bulk sausage is the way to go. We love sausages on the grill.”

  So the sausage stuffer was laid to rest in a corner. We did get some stuffed sausage, but a larger portion was headed for jars and the freezer. Our educational and entertaining day of butchering drew to a close at around midnight. The next morning we enjoyed a delicious breakfast of sausage, eggs, and pancakes with all the trimmings. The great thing about this butchering day was that we are enjoying fresh hamburger and pork at home now.

  When I think back, hey…a good time was had by all, and we even learned something in the process! Things don’t always have to be trouble free to enjoy God’s gift of life that He has given us all.

  Spokes and Spooks

  Regina Bontrager

  They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone (Psalm 91:12).

  I HEAVED A CONTENTED SIGH AND LEANED BACK AGAINST THE BUGGY seat. My older sister Keturah and I had been pulling weeds from the neighbor’s strawberry patch and were now on our way home. My arms ached from all the stretching.

  The soothing sound of Lady’s hooves on the gravel enhanced my relaxation. Autumn scents filled the air, the colors at their brightest hues. I had enjoyed the busy summer days and warm temperatures, but with winter coming on, I also looked forward to a slower work schedule.

  “Well, I wonder how many van loads of Amish came to our garage sale while we were gone?” Keturah wondered aloud as she drew Lady to a halt in front of our gray barn. Mom was hosting a three-day community garage sale in our big shed. She continued, “I’ll get Lady in the barn while you take our hoes and pails off the buggy.”