I got a text from Richard yesterday saying that he was sick in bed and he wouldn't be able to make it to market on Sunday. At this time of year, we are piecing together the market crews using whoever is still here, and since we all know how to do it, it doesn't really matter what the combinations are. Only there weren't any combinations left for Sunday except Hana and Jon. We haven't been to market with just the two of us since I don't know when. Maybe never or at least before we had kids. Anyway, we were scraping the bottom of the barrel and we came up with us. Well, if we are the bottom of the barrel, this place is doing pretty well.
So then I had to find someone to do my regular job of setting up the CSA room on Sunday. Carrie has been easing back to work, a little bit here and there, so I decided it would be okay to ask her if she would watch the room for me in the afternoon, and I would set it up before Jon and I left for market. She said of course.
At 6:00 this morning, Robert and I were working with the lights on, behaving as if it were three hours later in daylight. He just got to work on the bagging and I went right to the room and started setting up the shelves. After an hour my mother joined Robert and by 7:30 we were pretty much done. Jon loaded the market truck by himself (95 crates, a hefty load) and then we jumped in and left.
We drafted two fellow vendors to help us unload (I am not proud) and then we put up the tarp and set up, barely finishing by the time the bell rang. It wasn't really very busy but we did our best to squeeze as much money as we could out of each transaction. I spent all my time puttering around, rearranging, getting things out of the sun, and Jon took all the money. It was hard for both of us to stand up for so long, on pavement, but of course we did it. Loaded up (with help from Michelle who dropped by, bless her) and closed the van door at 2:33. I took a quick nap on the way home.
When we got home, Forrest was pretty much finished with his book signing event. He said it had gone well. Hard to tell what that means, but he said he sold some books. Mom was the right person to be here to host, since she is the real reason anyone would come to the book signing (she is the subject of the first chapter).
After unloading the truck, chatting with Carrie, checking the room, doing my daily homework of figuring out what we need to do tomorrow, writing the blog, making the chart, we went out for a quick dinner with Cookie and Paul. Just as we were leaving the farm, I got a call from Bev, the farmer who loans us his pigs. He was coming to pick them up in a couple of hours. I told him to call me when he got here and I would meet him at the pigs.
These pigs have only been living here for about six weeks and they never really truly warmed up to us. They tolerate us, I think. They let us scratch their backs, they come to check out the menu, but they don't actually like us. Various people on the farm pay attention to them, but when push comes to shove it is really only my mother and me who remember to think about them every day. And when I was away overnight, they got out because they were too hungry and no one had remembered to feed them. Stephen had to run and run, catching those fast little beasts -- the rest of us tried to be helpful by blocking their path as they scooted out of Stephen's reach, but he really did all the work, catching first the little pig and then the big one, many minutes later. The second time they got out a few days later (because now they knew that was an option), Michael and I were the only ones around when I found the pigs at Blueberry Hill, and we caught them without doing any running. He walked behind them and I herded them with my golf cart and we convinced them to go back in without much argument.
My kids think that I am disproportionately attached to the pigs. That I think about them more than I think about my own children. Of course this is hyperbole. But I do like having pigs around. They are interesting and they have personalities and they enjoy eating so much of what we would ordinarily throw away. Each of my siblings has pets (in Lani's case, dozens of pets) but I don't. Like my mother, I don't want to have animals in the house. But pigs and other outdoor beings are perfectly entertaining.
Anyway, Bev called at 8:15 and I met him at the barn. We figured out our plan -- he would catch the big one and maybe I would catch the little one. He said the big one was at the very top end of the size of pig he can pick up and carry: about seventy pounds. I don't catch pigs, actually. I help other people catch pigs. I figure out how to get them back into the pen, or I lure them with food. But I don't throw myself on pigs like my nephews and son. That is a young person's sport.
I stood at the door of the stall, and Bev stood at the open end. The pigs were between us, looking pretty wary. Bev grabbed the big pig by the back legs but she squirmed away immediately. Now she really didn't trust Bev and she had her eyes on him. I was behind her so I got down on my knees and grabbed both her back legs. She wiggled and screamed and then Bev grabbed her with his whole body (the way boys do) and picked her up -- while she screeched like she was being murdered -- and carried her to his truck, climbing up on the drawbar and heaving her over the tailgate that was well above our heads. She stopped squealing immediately. Meanwhile, the other pig had taken off into the dark of the pen, not wanting any part of it. We repeated the routine, trapping her in the stall, both of us dropping to our knees and this time Bev held onto the wiggly little one. I laughed through the entire exercise, of course.
We have hosted various groups of pigs for about four summer seasons now. I am glad that these don't automatically get butchered. Bev is always breeding pigs, trying to find the ones that make the best mothers, so all the girl pigs get to be mothers at least once. They get to demonstrate their mothering potential. If they are good mothers, they get to do it again. If not, they don't.
And then I went to close up the CSA room for the last time on a Sunday night.
Another excellent day among many. This life is never boring. Tiring, yes, but boring, no.
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