The summers of Oregon, once seemingly idyllic, were now fraught with danger. It all started because of a train ride… a train ride from Klamath Falls to Portland. Klamath Falls itself was one of the smallest towns I have ever had the pleasure to visit, where the population was so reserved and the weather was so dreary that when one asked at the hotel front counter what there was to visit or see in the town, they are temporarily rendered speechless with both confusion and shock. From this town we traverse to Portland, Oregon, a town which is far more well known and has many more sights to see. The population of Portland was by far the more extreme, seeming like a whole new species of bearded and plainly weird people.
But this story didn’t start in Klamath Falls or Portland, it starts on the train ride between these two places. My mother and I were both reading our respective books on the seemingly unending train ride, and mindlessly snacking on all sorts of junk and “attempted healthy” food, when she turned to watch the vibrant green plains of grass and spacious farms that lazily stretched over the hills.
“We should buy a farm, you know?”
“Ummm…. ok?”
“I think it would be an interesting experience,” she justified.
I could not help but grin at the thought back then, my mother and I running a farm, and thought it was a joke. So, like an idiot, I said, “If you want to, it’s fine with me.”
I had not realized, however, that my mother was a woman of her word. The day after the promotion ceremony, my mother told me to pack enough heavy duty clothes for three months, and board a train with her. Curious but excited by this suspicious behavior, I agreed and found myself on the 9:30 train to Portland. I had the weird sense, however, that something was about to go wrong, as it often does when one boards impromptu trains to unknown areas with just one’s mother for company. Having all but forgotten the prior conversation, I laughed when we once again passed the long stretch of land and farms, populated mainly by jaded cattle and a few suspicious horses. I was more surprised and amused however, when I found that this was our stop.
“Why are we getting off here?”
“Remember that farm that I told you we were going to buy,” my mother probed.
A slow feeling of dread sinked into my heart as I realized what is going on. Still, I had to make sure, so I asked, “Yes…why?”
“Because we are going to stay with one the whole summer! It’s going to be so much fun, don’t you think?”
After I got through my initial, paralyzing shock, the first few days were surprisingly easy. Simple rotations of oats and hay and bringing water to the animals.
Our noses gradually adjusted to the scent of animals and wet hay, though it took us a bit longer to adjust to waking up at ungodly hours every day of the week. We learned where to find the ropes, vegetables, and other equipment needed to maintain these animals within a large, creaky, old wooden shack, and how to stumble our way around the farm to find things we needed. Thankfully, there was no heavy gardening involved, so we just followed the orders of the farmer-in- charge and cluelessly bumbled around the stables and pens. Being vegetarians, the more gritty tasks were saved for the only legitimate farmer in the group. However, after two days of a simple peace, the real trouble started.
It was time for one part of our simple rotations that everyone cringed away from. The mucking of the stables. It would have to fall to either me or my mother. Actually, knowing my mother, it would have to fall to me.
Honestly, I liked the horses best out of any of the animals in the farm, out of my short sojourn there so far. They were well-mannered most of the time, and their soft, wet, snuffling noses and nickers always seemed to make me laugh. But there is a huge difference between brushing out a horse’s mane, and shoveling out their feces.
Obviously, the farmer-in- charge, Dave, was very kind about the whole thing, laughing and taking off his weather worn brown cowboy hat when he saw who was sent for this duty, but no amount of kindness could justify prolonged exposure to horse feces. I found myself cursing under my breath and promising that this nullified any moral obligation I had with my mom so I was totally justified in murdering her in her sleep after I got done with this.
Wait, what had he just said? Pay attention to this, you do not want to do this twice if you mess up the first time. Dave slowly demonstrated a simple enough scooping motion, and cleared up one section of the stable for me.
“Here, you try.”
Actually, those were the words that should have been written on my grave.
I reached for the shovel/rake-like thing and attempted to imitate the motion that Dave had shown me. I did it correctly enough the first few times that he was confident to leave me with my smelly and painstaking chore while he assigned my mother to do something probably awesome, like showing her the secret stash of unicorns or getting the day off. I furiously shoveled out another scoop of dung and hay, recoiling away as I lifted it with the rake. Immediately, I knew I was doing it wrong. My arm twinged as my elbow bent out at an awkward angle. My scoop was all out of order, and when I attempted to toss the lump of hay and dung out, it flew into the pig pen.
I watched with horrified eyes as it collided with one of the biggest and meanest pigs at the farm, and could only gasp as it hit him with a disgusting squelch. The pig slowly turned around. He looked at me. His eyes were like those of the devil. Have I ever mentioned how truly terrifying pigs are? I was locked in place. Suddenly, he screeched out a high pitch growl, or battle cry, or maybe an opera version of an eagle’s mating call. I could then only watch, paralyzed in fear, as the pig sprinted through the open pen door (by the way, it was my mom’s job to ensure that the pigs were locked in). Its tiny, stubby feet pushed themselves toward me as I started to run in pure fear. It continued to screech and scream like a tortured cat as it glared at me with eyes of flame. I was running at a flat out sprint, and as I ran I considered changing my diet from vegetarian to vegetarian that makes exceptions for bacon. Another scream of terror drew my attention back to the mud covered pig from the depths of the underworld. Nearly stumbling over my own feet in the haste for shelter, I dove heroically into the shed where the ropes and other equipment were held and cowered amongst gardening hoes as the pig sniffed at and kicked the feeble wooden door.
And that, my dear friends, is how I was found two hours later in the rickety shed full of gardening tools, crying hysterically, hiding from the pig of death.