Some March

Imagine pitching this idea to a publisher nowadays: A book for kids, about a girl and a pig and a spider; and life and art and death.

Yeah, no.

Thumbs down

Get out of my office.

Give up writing altogether. Clearly, you have no idea how to make good CGI movies, I mean juvenile fiction.

These are among what I suppose would be the hypothetical responses to first hearing about a story that mostly takes place in a barnyard and hinges on one’s pig’s panicky journey toward accepting how life works. Namely, that it is enriched through creativity and ends for all who experience it.

This isn’t an E-I-E-I-O kind of kids’ farm story. It opens with

“Where’s Papa going with that ax?,’ said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast."

An innocent, awakening to death as an order of business, is sentence one. In a kids book.

There’s nothing villainous or evil in E.B. White’s portrayal of the fact that Fern’s father plans to cull the runt of his most recent litter of piglets. John Arable is just starting his day the way many farmers have started many days: humanely ending a young life. He is doing what is necessary to preserve the integrity and efficiency of his home, his legacy, his farm.  

The first chapter of Charlotte’s Web makes you reckon your romantic notions about country life with the reality that there are no freeloaders allowed at the farm. If you won’t fetch a fair price, provide healthy offspring, or make a good Christmas dinner, you will be swiftly removed from the gene pool as soon as you show up.

Yet, something stops him. Fern, doing what many farmers’ daughters have done on many cold spring mornings, empathizes with the piglet under the ax, and pleads with all her heart for his life to be spared. At that moment, John Arable sees and hears Fern differently, knowing that what she is proposing is no way to run a farm.

He decides that her passionate compassion is more important than business as usual. Face to face with true conviction, he recognizes it must be cultivated, unlike apathy which seems to grow like weeds. Rewarding Fern, who “...was up at daylight, trying to rid the world of injustice.” shows that, without fully agreeing with her, he places her right to change things above keeping things the way they are.

Consider this our “Why we marched,” post, because who really cares why we chose to participate in the Women's March, which turned out to be the largest worldwide public demonstration in recorded history?* Isn’t that what the signs are for?

*JKLOL free press, immigrant rights, all kinds of equality, black lives matter, public education, art, science, general civility

Much of the post-march blogtivity has criticized those who participated in that very vocal We Aren't With Him from every thinkable direction. Too idealistic, too safe, too inclusive, not inclusive enough, silly hats, you've probably read it all. As for this blog, why we marched is less important than respecting each other’s right to that very rudimentary expression of values- shouting slogans in the street with a bunch of strangers.

Even, no..especially if you don’t agree with the shouters, consider their noisy presence a vital sign of something so much more important than the farm.

Tails and Tidings: Good-bye, Hello

Inez, our beloved goat, died.  Last Saturday, Henry came in from his morning animal feeding chores and announced, "Inez is dead."  We all looked at each other, and started hugging, and crying a little.  I felt bad for Henry, to have to find her.  I pitied poor Tofu, our pig, who came from the shelter with her best buddy, the pretty little goat.  Geza and I, mostly stunned, dug a deep hole in the backyard, where Goat Mountain used to stand, and buried her under a tree.  The whole thing was surreal, because while it was sad, and we feared we could have prevented it and didn't, it was also very quiet.  And just, over.  She was already gone.

I remember how well she weathered the five hour drive down from Quilcene, Washington.  She and Tofu, exiting their barn in our backyard every morning made me feel like I was living in a children's book.  My heart melted when I heard our neighbor children call to her in Spanish, "Chivito, Chivito!" and melted even more when I heard their dad out there with them one evening.  And, when I came out to the backyard one afternoon to see our neighbor feeding her baby in a high chair parked next to our fence, facing our backyard, I knew it wasn't because she was admiring Goat Mountain.   Inez, who was called Wanda by the good folks at the Center Valley Animal Rescue, brought a special beauty everywhere she went, along with that special impish charm only goats possess.  Well, goats and Martin Short.   Inez taught us a lot, and we will miss her very much.
 

Emotionally, we have moved on quickly, all the more appreciative of the life we are living here, and the other creatures we get to share it with.  We wanted to be more involved with Tofu, to help her transition to life alone.  I made a little spot in our laundry room ready to bring her indoors, when I knew bad weather was headed our way.   I attempted to coerce her, through bribery and a whole sequence of hilarious physical antics (the likes of which can only be set to the music of a symphony of kazoos), involving delighted neighbor children, microwave popcorn, and ramps, to no avail.  The pig would not enter the building.  It was as if each time she cast her eyes around the dump that is my laundry room she declared, "THIS HOLE?  Not on your life!  And now, I shall gallop merrily around the driveway! Tra-la!"

So, there I sat with a straw-filled nook in my laundry room, and a feeling.  Then, I checked Facebook, as I am known to do now and then.  I read an urgent notice from Tillamook Animal Shelter, stating that, in the raging storm, two refugees came into their care.  One animal was a young pregnant dog, who could use a warm homey environment to finish out her pregnancy, have her puppies, and take care of them in their first weeks of life.  I talked to Geza and he agreed immediately.  I called the shelter, and they agreed to letting us take her in.  She is currently at my feet, snoozing and sighing as only a big pregnant mom can.  I should know.

 Now, I'm not one to get all Elton John on reader, but The Circle of Life has been scraping its way through my brain all day.  It's just too much that we barely mourn the passing of a dear animal companion, when another one blows into our lives?  Granted, this is a temporary situation.  She may belong to somebody nearby, who will call the shelter and be reunited with her very soon.  But, if she stays, and has her puppies here, we are all the lucky ones, because we were the right place at the right time for a soul who needed shelter.  That is a gift.  Who knows what the future holds, and who cares?  We have now.  We have each other.  Hug your chickens.