A Pig In The Doghouse

More than thirty-six years ago we moved to Bedford Virginia. We moved piecemeal, a load at a time. We built a 20x24 outbuilding to store furniture, stuff, and some old printing equipment. We dug a well and septic, moved into a trailer behind the job site until our new house was built.

The summer of 1977, my senior class at the Tech School where I was teaching, presented me with a twenty pound piglet to take to Virginia as a going-away present. The students brought it to the classroom and had a good laugh as they handed it to me. I was tickled to get the gift, and looked forward to providing a good home for it in Virginia.

Now, I knew about bringing an underage girl across state line was against the law. I also heard that transporting livestock across state line was not allowed.

Well, I had a dog once, who teamed up with a stray pack, got into a sheep pasture, and was shot by the farmer. His vacant doghouse made an excellent container, and decoy, to carry the pig across state line.

I drove a Datsun pickup truck at the time. I loaded the pickup with crates, tools, outdoor furniture, and the occupied doghouse. I was all packed, strapped, and raring to go. However, with the pig in the doghouse, I had to nail a board across its opening. The first challenge came just twenty miles down the road.

At Philipsburg, NJ, I had to cross the Delaware River into Pennsylvania. Slowly, I approached to the tollbooth to pay my dime to cross. I kept a lookout at the doghouse through my rearview mirror. The opening to the doghouse was clearly in view and faced the tollbooth. Just as I handed the guy on duty my 10 cents, the sow in the doghouse decided to stick its snout out the crack and let out an alleluia squeal. Like saying, "yippee, I'm in Pennsylvania!"

Oh my! Fear and trepidation struck this old boy. My German upbringing smacked me straight up-side-my-head. I pulled from that tollbooth with one eye glued to the rearview mirror. First thinking that the guard at the tollbooth will surely shoot my tires out. After a couple hundred yards, windows open, I strained for sirens to close in on me. After a mile or two, I looked for troopers to eyeball me from the other side of the highway. For a hundred miles or more, down route 22, then interstate 81, I craned my neck looking for flashing lights.

Maybe the law sent a message ahead to the Maryland boarder, I wondered? Or ahead to the West Virginia boarder? Surely, the state of Virginia will be waiting for me to confiscate my baby sow.

I was shocked at the laxness of law enforcement. Clearly I had been caught. The proof was in the squeal! So, I trucked on, staying in the right lane, making sure I not infringe on any other law.

Then I came to view a new road sign. One I had not anticipated. "Weigh Station - All Trucks Pull Over"

Well, my German regimentation gripped me again. I was not driving our station wagon, I was driving my truck. A truck! Period. Not wanting to antagonize the law any further, I dutifully pulled off, along with the eighteen wheelers, onto the weigh station.

I clearly remember, leaning way over to get a look at the fellow high up in the glass tower, to see if he will let me go on with the heavy load on my small pickup. All I saw was a guy, his head almost pressed against the glass, screaming and frantically waving his hands, motioning me on. - - I didn't know you supposed to hit the scales at forty miles per hour speed. There I sat, feeling like a roach that landed on the wrong pile.

We named the pig "Lisl." I built a shelter for her and a fenced-in lot. She wallowed and basked in the Virginia air for more than a year. At over two-hundred pounds she finally filled two shelves in the freezer.
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HORMONES ON THE PROWL

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

None of us had ever heard of a school bus. My sister walked to the same school, but she joined her own friends on the way. The closer one got to school, the more kids were seen walking. My buddy and I mostly stayed a pair.

One girl in our class, named Monika, was a cute fifth grader. She flashed large eyes and slung her curly, dark hair with a come-hither motion. We both must have been struck on her. Moreover, we were quite interested in the showing of her early development to womanhood. Every day we hustled to draw close and walk near her. We knew even at eleven years old, that men who admire the opposite sex do not walk ahead of the girls, but follow so the eye can get its fill.

As we walked close behind we’d crack snide remarks to tease her. She’d turn around and give us a chance to better ogle her noticeably developed front side.

Two young snaps are always braver than one alone. We asked her one day if she stuffed socks in her bra just to show off. Well, that did not set well with her. She got so upset at the insinuation that she approached the teacher and told of the comment we made.

The teacher called us to his desk and asked if the story was true. We confessed, thinking for sure we’d receive the warranted punishment. Keeping a stern face, he simply admonished us not to let it happen again. Monika was not angry with us, she just wanted to set the record straight.

We also trailed Monika walking home. Maybe out of habit, but certainly chemistry may have had something to do with it. We knew we would not be able to keep up an intelligent conversation with a girl that was messing with our mind. So, we stayed about five paces behind. This made us think we were with our girl, and it kept us from making fools of ourselves.

When you are infatuated, you just can’t talk of sports and trucks. The conversations we had in our minds we dare not reveal to the one for whom we had this longing. She was aware of us as we followed and most likely felt very important to have two sprouts interested in her. After she entered her building, we stayed across the street staring at her fourth floor window until she waved at us. Then we went home.
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TIME MOVES ON . . .

TIME MOVES ON . . .

Do you ponder? Do you marvel? Do you ever realize no matter how much education and experiences you’re absorbing in life, it does not make an iota of a difference on you destiny. 

From dust you came, and to dust you will return. That is a fact. If you think that fact is the end of life’s struggle, you are most pitied. So, I challenge you to ponder . . . marvel.

In my previous blog post I shared with you a small wonder of nature, titled: IT NEVER CEASES . . .. I’d like to continue with that thought.

The starlings did partake of the trees. One group at a time. They also, in their frenzy, dropped seeds to the ground. Does our Creator think this was wasteful? Consider this question: Did you ever bent down, after the ice and snows are gone, after the leaves have succumbed and had been blown into corners to make mulch, and you picked up and looked at one of those tiny dogwood seeds?

You will find that its shell had been chewed to expose the kernel on the inside of the seed. These kernels contributed to sustain the mice that do not sleep away the cold, but depend on the Lord to feed them. Even every dogwood seed that was not found, and had fallen into cracks in the soil, is in position to become a new seedling trees.

Over the years I have planted maples, redbuds, hollies, dogwoods, and poplars. All had volunteered in our flower beds just begging to be transplanted and given a chance to start a new cycle of life.

Have you ever considered the picture our Creator is giving us when the leaves turn colors, the fierce winds blow, dead branches fall to the ground and are covered by leaves? . . . The Spirit of God is the wind. It removed the dead branches from the living tree, us; our sins removed, covered by the sacrifice of Christ, the leaves.

Although the leaves are dead, the branches are dead, life continues. Termites, grubs, and other bugs feast on the fallen matter. The result is new soil to sustain the undergrowth, new vines, new trees; to feed turkeys and deer.

Nature . . . Time moves on. There is no end. Neither is there an end to your soul. Consider, ponder, marvel, . . . Give thanks.

“Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?” Matthew 6:26, KJV

IT NEVER CEASES

It never ceases to amaze me when I see the workings and discipline of nature. I believe our Creator shows us, in many ways, how we should depend on Him rather than on ourselves. I know He gave us the ability to reason, react, and perform to help to sustain, and to make a living for ourselves. However, mankind, with its selfish nature, cannot rival the harmony and balance among earth’s living creatures.

What I’m about to show is what simple nature has so powerfully revealed to me.

To line our driveway to our house, we have growing six dogwood trees, each more than twenty years old. Two weeks ago they were loaded with seeds, covered with a bright red fleshy hull, very beautiful to look at, especially when surrounded with still green leaves. 

One morning, after the sun had risen to above the tree line, I slowly walked to get the paper from the box. A cheerful clamor of high-pitched chirps fill the air. In the tops of trees, fifty yards away, an enormous assembly of starlings had gathered, readying themselves to fly south. With the brilliant pink and pale blue morning sky behind them, they flitted, hopped, and jumped trying to occupy every available inch of exposed twigs.

I’m sure they passed along a warning to keep an eye on the dude walking in the driveway.

On my way back from the paper box, having passed the first dogwood tree, I heard a sharp increase of fluttering behind me. I turned, and  began to witness one of the marvels of nature. I continued to slowly walk backward not making any sudden moves.

A small swarm, maybe three-hundred starlings, had engulfed the first dogwood and was frantically devouring the red dogwood seeds. As if by command, no more than thirty-seconds later, they all left the tree and reunited with their bothers and sisters in the trees fifty yards away. The birds had stripped all the seeds from the dogwood to within four feet of the ground. . . . I wondered why? For safety sake I suppose; predators could be lurking!

As I slowly continued walking backward, a new swarm of starlings engulfed the second tree eagerly consuming the tree’s seeds in the same manner and timeframe as the first group. The second swarm returned to the  black mass in the fencerow trees, leaving the dogwood stripped of its red berries.

I continued to inch away, giving the birds their space.

This went on, tree after tree, until all the berries of the six trees were devoured. The massive squall of birds had perfectly divided itself into smaller groups so all could partake of the feast in a mannerly way. 

Who directed these birds? Who gave these birds the compassion and willingness to share? Would humans have behaved in like manner?
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NEW BOOTS

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

                                             NEW BOOTS

During the summer of 1955, after I started working at a printing plant and earned a few dollars, I found myself in need of a new pair of shoes. If there were any discount stores then, I sure did not know about them. The only shoe store I knew about was downtown Metuchen.

My English was very limited then. Fortunately, the words Schuh and shoe were pronounced the same way in German as in English. I had a time trying to tell the salesman that I wanted to buy work boots. Work boots would do fine in summer and winter. I wanted to buy them bigger than my fifteen-year-old feet measured. I needed boots that would last and I would eventually grow into. This request seemed totally foreign to the man. He may have thought I was a bit dense. Several times I got the impression that he wished I had never come into his store.

At long last, after many gestures, looks, and waving of the arms, I settled for a pair of hefty, leather boots. By using his fingers on both hands he showed me, the cost of the selected boots was twenty-three dollars. I, in turn, showed off my English, also with the support of my fingers, that I only had eighteen dollars. He then motioned that he would keep them in a corner until next week when I then would pay him the balance.

I gestured and stammered back at him that I wanted to take the boots with me. The hardest thing for the sales clerk to understand was that I just offered eighteen dollars––total. All the money that I had to my name. It was all I was going to pay him. He then summarized the deal on a sales ticket. He asked where I worked, jotted that down, and now was ready for me to sign on the dotted line.

When I looked, I saw that he added the five dollars difference in the deal, listing it separately as a balance due. Well, I was not born yesterday. I pointed at the amount due and shook my head; a firm “No.” Taking his pen into my hand, I motioned for him to scratch out the five bucks due and he’d have a deal. In frustration, he raised his arms, then scribbled out the five on the bill-of-sale. I dug out my eighteen dollars and laid them on the counter.

What he muttered, I do not know. He most likely told me to take the blame shoes and get on out of his store. Not waisting any more time I was out of there, shoes firmly under my arm, and debt free.

ALL IS NEW

ALL IS NEW

Just imagine, you are 16 years old, you’ve just left your country of your birth, and your destination is halfway around the world. You have never been in an airport, much less on a plane. 

My son and his family have agreed to share their home with Jafar, who is from Nigeria, for  the next nine month. He will attend LCA (Liberty Christian Academy).

The young man is all smiles; a true pleasure to have around. At sixteen he is a mere 6 feet and six inches tall. He partakes in all family activities, and is all eyes and ears as this, his new experience, exposes the life in the USA.

At his first stopover in Paris, he had to change concourses at the airport. As he came off the plane he asked the first attendant how to find the predetermined gate. He was sent underground to a shuttle train. Not trusting, he asked another attendant to verify his direction. And then he asked a third. All this within a 20 minutes layover. He told my son he was frightened when the train whizzed underground to a strange new destination. He prayed he was not going downtown Paris.

After fumbling in Atlanta, then finally landing in Raleigh NC, he had spent 27 hours lost in airports and in the air. The only thing the boy ate was what was offered on the plane.

When he eventually met his new folks in America, they not knowing he hadn’t eaten a full meal, they offered him a full tube of Pringles and a Sprite, which he promptly devoured. Neither treat he had ever had before. Yum--yum!

On the way to Bedford, his new home for nine month, he was amazed by the condition of our roads. “So quiet,” he quipped, “And no one is blowing their car horns.”

The first day was all new. He, was introduced to french fries, ketchup, peanut butter, coffee, and a multitude of other American standards.

In a few more days, I will report to you of the many other new things this young man has experienced in just the first week here. My friends, we are blessed. 

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MY FIRST LOVE

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

In the winter of 1955 when I sped toward the ripe age of sixteen, I mustered up enough courage to call a girl one evening from the place of work. We did not have a phone at home. I had seen the girl only once, briefly, at a gathering of the folks Mom cleaned for.

Of course, I thought she was lovely with blond hair flowing, rosy cheeks, and a coy little smile. I lost sleep over her. I realized that I would never be good enough for her, but maybe . . . we could see each other once and just talk, well, try to talk.

I have long forgotten her name, but I clearly remember the ache in my heart whenever I thought of her. One evening, at the shop I worked at after school, I could hardly do my assigned jobs for thinking about her. I had her phone number in my wallet. Until then, it was that number in my pocket that made me feel close to her. That night a tremendous longing welled up in me. I needed to hear her voice for the first time. I practiced all evening the line I would say to her father or mother when they answered the phone. I was confident that I would be able to express myself well enough to introduce myself and then ask to speak to their daughter.

The lights in the shop were on full brightness, except the front office, which was dark. I mustered up the nerve to sit in the boss’s chair, in the dark office. My heart pounded. In the shadows of the streetlight outside, with a lump in my throat, I stared at the black telephone in front of me. Was I man enough to make the call? Make a call that might round out my life. Possibly include a new part in my life, a part outside my immediate family. A new part in my life that until now had been taken up with nothing but an all-boy school and an every day job. Yes, I was man enough to make the call!

I picked up the phone and dialed. A voice on the other end said, “Hello.” It was a sweet young voice, obviously not the mother. It was her—the girl of my dreams! The shock of her answering the phone totally scrambled my much rehearsed lines. I was speechless, literally. My heart pounded so hard, and my breathing became so labored as the seconds ticked on. I could not utter a word. All I could do was hang up. Such was the world of a young man in love.