The Escapades of Snitzel the Pig

Snitzel the pig, my nemesis, my humbler and mortifier - the small homestead animal I so dearly wanted, visions of inexpensive nitrite free sausages and breakfasts with bacon in my mind.

A few months back she somehow manipulated her way out of the electric fence while we were at the cabin and our *oh-so-very-nice-and-very-undeserved* neighbors woo-ed her back in with a piece of pizza.

The second time she escaped we were home (thank you, merciful Jesus) and milk being her soft spot I was able to get her back in with some of that. I immediately went out and bought the big-boy electric fence, enough to hold back a massive crowd of beef cattle, the country farm store personel promised me. We strung it three layers high. Stinkin' pig.

And so, headed back from the cabin again tonight, after a lovely and lazy afternoon spent celebrating Addie's birthday with lunch and Grandma Pam's delish pumpkin spice cake, back in range for cell service, some punks threw a handful of stones at the van as we drove through the city. Picking up his cell to call the police, Sean noticed a message from our neighbors to the right... and then...from the neighbors two houses on the left.

"Dear, God..." I whispered into the dark as the immediate sence of forboding overtook the atmosphere of the van. Snitzel the pig, all 240 pounds of her, was loose roaming our country road, chowing through the neighbors lovely pumpkin display, getting her head stuck in their table saw. Their table saw! The table saw INSIDE THEIR GARAGE! Mortified. I am completely mortified. One neighbor called to say they saw her skipping down the middle of the road, carefree and footloose.

I pulled this mugshot of her off of facebook, running up our neighbor's steps.

Sean's run out now to replace the pumpkins, Snitzel is once again secure and in holding, and one unnamed-for-their-protection child will be having a few extra chores this week for unplugging the electric fence (on purpose and with good intentions) before we left this morning (and failing to plug it back in).

I am thinking bacon and hams and chops are coming soon.

Grandma

Vibrant lipstick in a shining gold or silver roll up tube. She was never without it and as little girls she'd dab some brilliant rose hue on our lips, me and my sisters. Bubble baths and fancy powder on the bum afterwards and crisp sheets that had been ironed down the hall with the family gallery splayed against both sides. And the smell. Her house never smelled anything but fresh and wonderful.

She was raised partly by an English grandmother which accounted for her impecible manners and the collection of beautiful china in her cupboards. We learned Rummi at her dining table or on the back porch in cooperating southern weather. Little girls shouldn't gamble and so we played for dimes or m&m's from her stash.
Breakfast, lunch and dinner had cloth napkins and matching placemats and tablecloth and napking rings, always. When we were little we could chose from the vast assortment of colored napkins and shaped rings and pleated edged placemats.

"Now, Darling..." she'd begin a sentance, next to me on her sofa, as she rubbed my arm and asked about life or boys then later marriage, then great-grand babies.

My grandmother never hid her feelings. She was not flagrantly moody or emotional by any description, but we all knew whether or not something met her approval. My husband, she loved and all the great grand-babies too.

Rifts within our family, she did not love, and implored me to mend them, quoting scripture to me. :) It was such a hard time for both of us and I felt sad relief when she later learned the truth of things. She was a true matriarch of the family.

When I flew down with our firstborn for her introduction to my grandparents, Grandma flew to me arms wide at the gate, tears streaming down her bright eyes, lipstick perfect, outfit coordinated. Grandma never dressed in old lady clothes or orthopedic shoes. A few years back she clucked her tongue at having to set aside her bright heels and vast array of sandals in colors that shamed a rainbow, but still, hers were not old lady shoes.
When we visited, she let me dig through her photos and ask a thousand questions, absorbing family history. Her in a gorgeous outfit she knit, Pop-Pop and she standing at the alter in a dress she borrowed from a girlfriend, Pop-pop in a TB hospital for two years, her waitressing, raising three boys in the mountains while Pop-Pop taught history, her mom passing away from a brain tumor, tea with her ladies every week at the hotel (which I fondly remember attending with her, though I recall the hotel's coffee cake being dry, funny the things you remember), the one time she went camping with her boys, the first time women were "allowed" to wear "slacks" and so on and so on. I would ask over a photo and she would make a curve in the air with her manicured hand, diamonds flashing, bracelets gently clinking and say, "oh that... that was the time..."

I have so many lovely memories of my Grandma. I love that she sang loudly in church but could not carry a tune, her reverence for taking the Lord's table, her generous but wise spirit, her potato salad, her excitement over the phone, calling to tell me of "a deal" she got at Belks - an extra 75% off an already reduced ticket which bought her a pair of "slacks" at $2, that into her eighties and with cancer she still hung laundry on the line, that she loved my Pop-Pop all her life and took care of him until a few weeks before she left for heaven.

In our last conversation, and I knew it would be the last, I told her how proud I was of her, what a good job she did taking care of Pop-Pop, that I loved her and that I would talk to her soon.
I am so thankful, so very,very, that I have a huge memory bank of memories from my Grandma, and some photos from her albums. I wish these memories onto my kids and so we've been telling lots of stories the last few weeks, mulling over photos and smiling happy smiles at the life of a beautiful, strong woman who I am so thankful to have known.

The Adirondacks

The cabin we often visit and that I often mention as being "north" is in the beautiful Adirondack Park. We stayed overnight on Friday, laden with good foods and cozy clothing and books to read fireside, expecting a sunny Saturday of being outdoors, clearing some fallen tree clutter and so on. The continual deluge of rains had us roasting our hotdogs and marshmallows in the wood stove and sent us on a scenic drive around Piseco Lake instead.

North

Orange and golden glowing, the woods hugging the dirt road welcomed us north. North to the cabin for a few days of repeat visits, a suburban stuck waist high in mud, us all carrying firewood the papa sawed and split into the cabin, babies napping while the older kids and he built a hunting blind out in the big woods, carrot cake for the birthday babe, a deluge of rain and washed out roadway to the cabin, hugs from grandparents who live a whistle down the way...
We're headed up again this weekend.

A birthday week

In my arms she lays here, bare foot slung up over my shoulder while she nurses, a smudge of coal on her left cheek from where the papa tickled her with his beard and covered her in kisses, her squealing and signing "more" and he, fingers and hands and blue jeans covered in black soot, installing the new coal stove in the kitchen.

I remember last year, a chilly fall day, she was due a week earlier and had not come and with my midwife on notice, I faithfully glugged the slippery oil down to help her come. Next night she did, pink and red and noisy. We could hardly hear ourselves above the hollers. This week she'll be one year old, how time flies in the face of life. Now she is round cheeked and even rounder thighed and particular about doling out affection and hilariously funny when she is over tired, peels of deep belly laughter rolling in waves at the slightest provocation.

I am asked all the time by nervous mothers, expecting their second child, if it is possible to love the second child as much as the first, or will the second child play second best or if I still feel the thrill of new life holding a new babe in arms all these babes later. I've loved nine children in our home now (foster babes included), and have six for keeps for a little while, and I still love and worry endlessly about the ones who left, and still feel light as air and wear an impossible grin when I've found we're expecting another child. Love is a supernatural, not-of-this-earth thing. Love multiplies. It isn't divided or sorted or handed out in portions according to earthly measure. Such is its beauty.

Happy birthday week, Sweet Addie-girl. Happy birthday.