Upon the death of a dear friend, I began thinking about the nature of life and death. Death brings my feet back to earth. My mom has often accused me of having my head in the clouds, and I readily admit it.

But losing my friend brought me crashing back down. I’ll admit that I’ve been a bit morbid over the past few weeks, since her passing, because it has come to my attention that we are all going to die. There is no other way out of here.

During the celebration of life for my friend, several people spoke of her generosity, her love of animals, her quirky nature. Many kind things were spoken then, and I thought what a beautiful tribute.

But wouldn’t it be better if we could share those kind thoughts with our friends before they die? Wouldn’t it be better to tell our loved ones how much we appreciate them, while they are still living?

Kind words are like a soothing balm to the soul. No matter what a person is going through, the kind words of friends and loved ones can calm the fires of rage, anger, or fear.

So why wait? I have said, on numerous occasions, that I plan to live to 111. I realize that by then, many of my friends and family will likely be gone. They will have gone on before me, to whatever awaits our physical death.

By then, I wonder who will eulogize me. I wonder who will be present to remember the remarkable life of an old woman, who outlived those who could speak of her life. So, the way I see it, I have two choices. I can live a remarkable life for the following 64 1/3 years, and make sure to make an impression on everyone I meet, hoping that someone will live long enough to remember me.

That is Plan B. That plan involves a lot of work, a lot of community involvement, and making friends of all ages. While that does seem like a fun way to progress through life, it also seems like a lot of work. Of course, I plan to do it anyway. Far be it from me to shy away from hard work and perseverance.

But, I have a better plan. My go to plan is to throw a big party. I’m not waiting until I’m dead to have a party. I’m going to have a party and invite all of my friends, and we will gather and talk about the beauty of life, the beauty of love and friendship. I plan to have that party when I am 55. I’m going to call it my “halfway there” party.

I plan to invite everyone I have ever known, to celebrate the gift of their presence in my life. I want to celebrate while I am still alive and cognizant. I want to thank people for their kindnesses and love, which have buoyed me through my life.

And my point, in all of this, is lets not wait. Let’s not wait to tell the people in our lives how much they mean, how much they bring, and how much they give us.

Tell them while there is still time. Once your friends are gone, it becomes too late to tell them how much you cherish them.

Of course, once people pass on, we can still speak of their goodness and kindness. It brings us together, it unites us when we face death, and it helps us heal from loss.

But so much better, is the idea of telling people of their impact and influence while it can help them.

It is never too late to tell someone how much they mean to you. If you don’t feel like saying it, then write them a note. You could even send an email. But don’t let the kind words go unspoken. Today is the perfect day to tell someone how much they mean.

Namaste, friends

This story originally appeared in the Uinta County Herald in April, 2012. It is reprinted here by popular demand. I hope you enjoy it.

The thing about humanity is this: we tend to learn from the mistakes of those who have gone before us, and we alter our behavior accordingly. To that end, I offer the following cautionary tale, regarding the dangers of the seemingly innocuous carrot. Learn from my example, and live a long and healthy life.

If you happen to order vegetables from Bountiful Baskets, and if you happen to purchase the 25-pound bag of carrots, pay special attention. If you are like most people, and you buy regular carrots from the grocery, you can still learn, so don’t stop reading yet.

If you begin to eat a carrot, and one of your children tells you a joke, DO NOT LAUGH.

This is imperative, and the first rule of surviving the dangers of carrots. If you never laugh, you can still learn a thing or two, so please, continue reading.

If you do begin to laugh, and you inhale a huge chunk of carrot into your windpipe, it could be dangerous. You might end up at the hospital on the last Saturday of spring break, and find that the surgeon who could remove the carrot from your windpipe is still at Disney World.

If the surgeon is not available, you might find yourself on a Life Flight to Utah, to have a carrot removed from your windpipe. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but apparently, if you ask to go home, or you drive yourself to Utah, and you need to be intubated, you could potentially not make it to the hospital in a timely manner. Apparently, they can intubate a person choking on a carrot, if the need arises, on Life Flight.

When you finally make it to a large hospital, the admitting doctor might tell you to try to choke it up, which you could have been trying to do for the preceding three hours. You might sarcastically say that you hadn’t yet thought to choke it up, and thank him for the great, albeit expensive advice.

You then ask to be hung from the ceiling and beaten, which reasonably sounds like a way to dislodge a stuck piece of food from the windpipe, especially if you have been choking and pounding on your own chest for several hours. If you suggest that, the doctor might laugh. You can also ask to be punched hard in the stomach, but you probably won’t find a hospital volunteer willing to perform the procedure. At least, I didn’t. You could ask your worried spouse to pound on your back, while you hang down over the bed, but be warned that it could cause the carrot to move deeper, which is extremely painful. 

Eventually, a bronchial specialist could explain that the carrot is wedged in your lungs, and needs to be removed endoscopically, or you risk infection, pneumonia or death. 

So, you choose to have a bronchiotomy, during which you are fitted with a dental guard, which strangely resembles something worn by Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs. And although you have been cracking jokes and choking for nearly four hours, it is virtually impossible to speak past the dental guard, and it might feel like a medical conspiracy intended to silence you. It is just a safety precaution to prevent you from biting down on the expensive medical equipment. 

And then, the nurse might prep you with some noxious gas that renders you quite sleepy, and unable to keep up the witty repartee of the last hours, but still cognizant of the doctors talking in the room, as they send a scope into your lungs, in search of the erstwhile carrot. 

And suddenly, you will awaken, and they will show you a large chunk of carrot pulled from your right brachial tube. And they will explain that if they had not removed it, you may have died, or become severely infected. 

And that is why you should always slice your carrots into thin strips before eating, and you should never let your children tell you jokes, especially while eating carrots. Believe me, it happened to me, it could happen to you. And that is why I have banned all laughing from our house.

Namaste, friends.

I had the pleasure of driving halfway across the country with four of my eight children recently, and I literally had a blast.

Actually, nothing blew up. It wasn’t literal at all. But that phrase was over used and misused by most of the occupants of the vehicle. Until we arrived at my older daughter’s home in Seattle, at which point, she set her siblings straight on their improper use of the word literal.

As with many popular phrases, I have been able to block out my children’s misapplication of the word “literally.” For me, it joins other popular and misused slang words such as “like” as in; “I was like, and he was like and it was like…” and “you know”. My daughter finally stopped saying, “you know” when I continually responded with, “Actually, I do know.”

So the phrase literally has been abused in our household. It has literally been misused every day.

That is, until we arrived in Seattle. Older daughter number two began sharing a story of riding an elephant while on a mission trip in Thailand, “I was so scared, I literally had a heart attack.”

Older daughter number one, “I literally doubt you know how to correctly use that word.”

Number two, “No. I was literally scared to death.”

Number one, “No. You weren’t literally scared to death, because you are still alive. You literally do not know how to use that word correctly.”

And so it went on, the two of them literally arguing for the better part of a day, over the proper application of the word ‘literally.’

The teenaged daughters got in on the act, inadvertently, by using their everyday speech.

“This water is so cold, we could literally do the ice bucket challenge.”

“I literally almost drowned.”

They were corrected by their older sister at every turn, yet remained undaunted in their speech.

Curiosity finally got the better of me and I looked up the exact definition of literally.  I literally Googled it.

One of the definitions says, “True to fact; not exaggerated; actual or factual.”

I think my kids have never been literal in their lives. Their speech is peppered with exaggeration, falsity and imagination. I could be grateful for their rich story telling capacity, but usually I find myself frustrated, not knowing whether they are telling me the truth, or exaggerating for the sake of the story.

I hate to admit it, but I have been called, by more than one of my very own children, gullible. That’s not to say I believe every story they conjure, but I do give people the benefit of the doubt, even when it is my own kids.

For many years, I naively believed that my own children would never lie to me. That is, until I caught a teenaged daughter in a bold-faced lie. I was shocked that she would ever lie, especially to me. That was eight kids ago, and although I like to believe I am no longer so naïve, my children literally prove me wrong. The master of story telling is my youngest daughter. She is the seventh of eight children. One might think that by now, I don’t believe a word that comes out of any of their mouths, but I still believe in the basic goodness of humanity. And kids are literally human.

But Lexi has a way with words. She can weave a tale, as cunning as an Indian snake charmer. More often than not, I find myself listening intently, reeled in by the story, until she laughs and says, “I was only kidding, mom.” Drat. Fooled again. The first time it happened, she was a mere kindergartner, with a story about riding horses and catching fish during recess. I looked at her, wide-eyed and amazed that the school would offer such a great thing as pony rides and fishing during recess. It’s the first time I remember hearing that lyrical laugh, followed by the words, “Mom, I was just kidding.”

Samantha has literally posted a sticky note over my writing chair, which says, “Gullible Zone.”

Talk about disrespectful. I think my kids literally laugh at me. I know I hear inexplicable laughter coming from them at odd moments, but I like to think they are laughing with me, not at me.

Needless to say, once we left Seattle and hit the road to Evanston, the word literally reappeared in the vernacular.

“Chik-fil-et literally has the best chicken in the world. Can we have lunch? I’m literally starving.”

I sighed, rolled my eyes to the heavens, and literally said a prayer of thanks that we were nearly home.

And no. I don’t believe any of my children literally starved.

Namaste, friends

The pig experience came to an exhilarating close last week, when my three youngest children finally showed and sold their pigs.

Back in the spring, we decided to raise pigs for 4-H. You may remember my recounting Spider Pig’s journey to the farm, in the back of my Subaru. It turns out, pigs don’t travel well in cars.

After a long summer of feeding, weighing, and worming pigs, fair week finally arrived.

I thought I knew a lot about pigs, up to that point, but fair week taught me how much I still don’t know.

It started with getting the pigs back to the fair grounds. When they were cute little 97-pound piglets, they could be easily hefted into the trailer, for transport to the farm.

By last week, the pigs were each pushing the 300 pound weight limit. Loading them onto the trailer was no easy task. When a 300-pound pig charges at a 97-pound girl, if she’s learned anything at all over the summer, she jumps out of the way.

My good-natured friend cheerfully herded the pigs toward the trailer, and the kids began closing in on the pigs, trying to coax them into the trailer. As one pig reluctantly climbed the ramp, another pig in the trailer saw his chance to escape. He bolted between legs, knocked down children and fled to the safety of the mud lake at the far edge of the pen. The pigs learned early on that no children would venture into the muddy morass. It was a refuge of cool water for the pigs whenever we came to weigh the pigs. Finally, after more pigs had escaped than were on the trailer, someone grabbed a few scraps of bread. The food tempted the pigs  back onto the trailer.

Once the pigs were at the fairgrounds, they had to be bathed and shaved. Once again, I found myself asking, “Who knew?”

 Someone seriously suggested we bathe the pigs in buttermilk, to soften their skin.

Pigs enjoy being bathed and shaved less than they enjoy being herded onto a trailer. After a lot of screaming, by children and pigs, the animals were clean and ready to be judged. By the time it was over, everyone was exhausted. And this was only day one.

Judgment day came on Tuesday. As I pulled into the parking lot, Gunnar bolted out to the Jeep.

“Mom! Come quick! Sissy is crying,” and with that, he ran off, expecting me to follow.

Upon entering the swine barn, I encountered a sobbing teenaged daughter, who had apparently tripped over her pig, Bill, and had chipped her tooth on the stock fence.

I wrapped my arms around Samantha and tried to soothe her crying. She was on deck to show her pig, and her agitation was clearly upsetting Bill.

I stroked her hair, “Calm down. Take a deep breath. You’re upsetting the pig.”

I chuckled as I heard myself say that. Upset the pig? It reminded me of an old saying, “Never try to teach a pig to sing. You waste your time and you upset the pig.” Although we were not trying to teach Bill to sing, he was growing more and more agitated with the chaos around him.

 Samantha showed me her tooth, broken neatly in half at a sharp angle. I stifled a surprised gasp. It was awful. I could see why she was crying so hard.

When the judges called her name, she took a deep breath, swallowed the remainder of her tears, and marched Bill down the walkway to the show ring.

I felt a lump rise in my throat as I watched my daughter put on a brave smile and lead her pig around the ring. What a great kid.

At the end of the day, Samantha and Bill placed third overall, out of a couple hundred pigs, and Samantha learned a valuable lesson about pulling your stuff together in the middle of a crisis and doing your best.

By the time Friday rolled around, the kids and the pigs were all sick of the fairgrounds. The air was electric with anticipation when the stock show began.

Chickens. Rabbits. Lambs. Steer. Pigs. Finally, the Demander kids headed into the sale ring, near the end of the auction. Having never participated before, we still had a few lessons to learn.

Apparently, the kids are supposed to present a gift to the buyers of their livestock. Who knew? Let me just say, to Wendell Fraughton, Don Pedro, and Alta Construction, “Your gifts are on their way. And thank-you.”

Without a lot of further ado, the pigs were sold. The kids were happy until Saturday, when they went to clean up the remnants of the project.

There, alone, stood Bill.

Samantha ran to her pig, wondering if he had been forgotten.

We headed to the fair office, and were reassured that Bill’s buyer would certainly be back, likely soon, to retrieve his pig.

As we headed out to the barn, Don Pedro pulled in to claim his pig.

Hating good-byes, Samantha left so she wouldn’t have to see Bill, loaded into one more trailer, for one more trip away from the fair grounds.

We laughed. We cried. We raised some pigs. When it was all said and done, there were some lessons that I’d like to pass on for all of you:

Never, ever, ever give a pig a ride in your car.

Pigs, like the rest of us, enjoy a kind word and a good snack.

Nothing beats a good back scratch.

You can always do your best, even when things around you are falling apart.

Namaste, friends.

One of the fun things about my job as a reporter is the opportunity I get to meet a lot of different people. I have fun talking to people, learning their stories and sharing some of them here, with you.

Not every story I hear gets into the paper, and not every person I meet wants their story told. I usually try to discern what category person I am talking too before I get the notebook out.

Recently, I had the pleasure of interviewing Jo Dee Messina over the phone. If, like me, you have no idea who that is, you can do a quick Google search and learn, as I did, that she is a pretty popular country music star. Hmm. Who knew?

After working through her people, we finally arranged a suitable time for the interview. When she called the Herald, she was funny and kind, two of my favorite traits. But she did ask if I was using a made-up name. “Is that your REAL name?” We chatted about kids, life and eventually, her latest album. Before she hung up she said, “Come see me after the show.”

I imagine she says that to all the reporters.

On Saturday, I attended the Uinta County Fair concert, which featured music by “Due West” and Charlie Jenkins. After they played, my friend suggested we go meet the bands.

Wait one second. Meeting bands is not something I do. I might appear bold and brash on the outside, but inside I’m pretty shy. And I don’t just walk up to people for no good reason.

She insisted I do my job as a reporter and march down onto the fairgrounds and interview those young fellows. Hiding behind my camera and under a hat, I followed her, half expecting the local sheriff’s posse to stop us dead in our tracks.

We made it all the way to the barricade, when the friendly deputies did stop us in our tracks. And, they had the audacity to laugh when I said I wanted to interview the bands.

After their laughter died down and they wiped the tears out of their eyes, one deputy said he would find out if the band wanted to be interviewed.

A long time later, I assume after he assured them that I was “legit”, he came back and said they would do it. The only problem? I had neither a notebook nor a pen. No problem. My erstwhile friend cheerfully agreed to take notes on her phone, while I did the interview.

Once the talent came over, the guys were quite nice, and the interview went well. Except when I asked them the best use for duct tape. They looked at me quizzically. Duct tape? I explained 15-questions, the Friday feature that runs in the Herald and they quickly came up with a number of good uses for duct tape, including fixing broken refrigerator shelves, guitar cases and glasses.

By then, the main act, my new best friend, Jo Dee Messina was on the stage. She played for an enthusiastic hour, bounding across the stage like a woman half my age. I’ve only got a couple of years on her, but she sure had a lot of energy. I got tired just sitting and watching her.

Once the last number had been played, my friend looked at me. “Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for?”

She wanted me to go through the torture of going back to the arena, and interviewing a star. A real star. With talent and everything.

“I think she’s probably tired,” I mumbled.

“Are you kidding me? Get down there and interview the main act. Isn’t that your job?”

Oh yeah. My job. With a deep sigh of resignation, I followed her back down the bleachers.

By now, it was mostly dark, and the people around us were mostly drunk. We walked over to the barricade, me half expecting to be arrested on the spot. To our surprise, there were no officers in site. Anywhere.

We looked around, and I wondered what to do next, when my friend began climbing the gate.

Let me set the stage. It’s dark. Two women, of questionable age and intent, are climbing a barricade. One is wearing heels. One is wearing a skirt. A short skirt. Both women reach the top of the gate, only to fall inelegantly to the other side. She lost her wallet, and I lost my dignity. What little I had left.

Fortunately, in the dark, no one saw our stealthy moves. We stood up, brushed ourselves off, and looked around.

I was expecting to be handcuffed by security at any moment. We straightened up, dusted off, and headed toward the talent. As we rounded the giant black bus, a drunken woman was being escorted rather loudly from the area. I nearly panicked and ran away, but my friend grabbed me firmly by the arm.

I think she sensed my cowardice.

We walked boldly around the bus, and there stood Jo Dee Messina.

She wasn’t surrounded by crowds, or security, or guards; she was standing there talking to someone. We politely waited our turn, and when she looked at me quizzically I stuck my hand out and said, “I’m Deborah Demander.”

She laughed. “Oh yeah. I remember talking to you. You had the made up name.”

And just like that, she broke the ice. The conversation focused on all the peculiarities she noticed in Evanston, and I asked about the duct tape. She immediately had an answer. Fixing diapers. Actually, that works. I’ve done it myself.

It was quite an adventure. We stood there talking for several minutes, and then she got on the bus with her sleeping babies and drove off into the dark.

And I was left standing on the wrong side of a barricade, in a skirt, in the dark, wondering how the heck to get over without being seen again.

And that is how I met Jo Dee Messina.

Namaste friends.

I often wonder if my kids ever listen to what I say. My lengthy lectures are usually met with rolled eyes. My angry outbursts bring glares of disapproval. When I try to share life lessons, I find my kids dozing in the back seat, lolled to a peaceful nap by the droning of my voice.

Occasionally, however, I am surprised by the wisdom of my children. In a fit of sorrow, as I cried inconsolably, my daughter patted my back and said, “Don’t worry mom, everything always works out.”

Although I continued crying, I was touched to hear my own words coming back to haunt me. Funny, they seem so much more conciliatory when I’m saying them, rather than receiving them.

My son recently began moving his Lego’s to our garage attic. He had previously used a small empty room in our basement for his Lego City, but found the confines of the room to be too containing. Often I would find myself tripping in the dark over helicopters, fire trucks and villains forgotten in the hallway.

During a momentary epiphany, I realized that we have an entire attic over our garage, mostly unused. There are a few boxes of Christmas decorations and some camping gear, but the bulk of space sits unused.

The older girls decided to make a craft room out of part of the attic, and hauled up tables, stickers, and craft supplies of all sorts. I think they finally realized that I am no help when it comes to things of a crafty nature, so they decided to find a place where I wouldn’t constantly hover over them, asking irrelevant “mom” questions.

Gunnar decided to recreate his Lego City in the attic, and to help him out, I swept all the Lego’s into a box. Much to Gunnar’s dismay, not all of his creations survived the sweeping.

I admit to being a little overly zealous in my endeavor. I am thrilled to get the Lego’s out of the hallway. I may have swept them just a little more vigorously than necessary. Some of the Lego creations may have come apart as I tossed them carelessly into the box. I’m not sure that had anything to do with it, but I am admitting to my part in the destruction of Lego City.

When Gunnar discovered his millions of Lego’s thrown haplessly into a plastic storage bin, he was less than enthusiastic about my help. He stormed out to the garage, insisting that he could get the work done himself.

About an hour later, he came into the kitchen, looking somewhat abashed.

He told me he was pretty mad when he found all his stuff broken. And he tried to devise a pulley system to pull the enormous box of toys up the attic stairs. As he hoisted the box overhead, he watched in alarm as it began to slant. Then, the box crashed to the ground, thousands of Lego’s covering the garage floor.

Gunnar said, “I was so mad when all my stuff broke. Then I thought that everything happens for a reason. So I figured I could make a bigger and better Lego City in the garage.”

With that, he happily bounded back out to the garage to begin the daunting task of sweeping up thousands of Lego’s.

I stood in wonder at the brief conversation. My eleven-year old son just repeated and applied something I preach to my kids every day. And he applied it much more quickly and cheerfully than I ever have.

Everything does happen for a reason. Whether it’s Lego’s crashing to the ground, a car breaking down, or your sweetheart breaking your heart. It is a waste of time to ask ‘why’ something happens. Instead, like Gunnar, ask yourself what you are going to create out of the situation.

You can’t control everything that happens in life. What you can control is your own response to situations. Your response is your responsibility. What can you make of the things that life throws your way?

Try looking for opportunity in the situations facing you. You might just find yourself with the biggest and best Lego City ever created.

Namaste, friends.

Busy as a Bee

Just a Thought

By Deborah Demander

Everyone I meet has a busy life. It seems like everyone is bustling around working, volunteering, and running non-stop.

Most days, I’m up by 5 a.m. and I don’t stop running until after 10 p.m. I’m not complaining, just noticing that everyone around me is as busy as I am.

At an early morning breakfast meeting, I asked a friend how he was doing.

“I’m really busy,” he replied. “Sometimes I wonder if every day is going to be a grind for the rest of my life.”

I agreed with him, but as I thought about it later, I realized that life doesn’t have to be a grind. We all have choices. We choose where to work, where to live, who to marry, what church to attend, what activities to be involved in.

Everything in your life is there as a result of choices you have made. If you don’t like where you are or what you’re doing, make a different decision. The effects of a decision stay in place until you make a different decision.

If you have made a decision and find that you don’t like where its taking you, perhaps it’s time to reevaluate.

I like having a busy life. I enjoy volunteering my time to make the community a better place, and I like my work, which generally casts me far and wide throughout the region. Last Wednesday found me driving to Kemmerer for an early morning meeting with the Governor,  attending the Kemmerer Rotary Club meeting, then driving like a crazy woman down the interstate in my Subaru (yes, the same pig-mobile) to attend another meeting with the Governor and Uinta County officials. Once that was finished, I took pictures of an event in town, then attended a parking meeting.

But I didn’t complain, because I like to be busy. Well. I may have complained a little the next morning when my alarm went off, but overall it was a fun day. If I didn’t like to be busy, I would do something else.

Many people, when I ask how they are doing, reply with a heavy sigh and a roll of the eyes, “I’m sooo busy.”

We are all busy. If you don’t like being busy, do something different. It is okay to say no to things you don’t want to do, or things that don’t match your priorities. We often loose sight of what is important in our lives, and fill our days with things we hate doing.

Stop. Don’t fill your life with things you don’t like. Life is too short to be dismal. Your day ought to be an outward expression of who you really are. If your activities don’t accurately reflect who you are, then do something different. Life is a series of choices. Choose who you will be and how you will represent yourself by the activities you participate in and the people you surround yourself with.

If those things aren’t an accurate representation, then change them.

I know. Change is hard. We all have decisions to make about the kind of life we want to have. You can decide today who you want to be, what you want to do, and what you want to have.

If you don’t want to be busy, then do something else. Say no. Stay home. Relax. There are lots of people out there willing to step in and fill the void. Although change is difficult, it’s not as hard as living a disingenuous life.

Any decision you made can be changed. You don’t have to do something drastic, such as quit your job, but you can look first for smaller changes that feel better, and more in line with your priorities. Sometimes a small shift is all it takes to feel better about life.

Deborah, in Hebrew, means bee. I like to stay busy, like the bees in the garden working. But bees still take time to smell the flowers.

When you are inundated with work and activity, don’t get frustrated. Enjoy. And if you don’t enjoy, then stop and do something else. And whatever you are doing, wherever you are, take a hint from the bees, and pause in your busyness to smell the flowers.

Namaste friends

Some life lessons linger like a foul odor in the air, a constant reminder of one wrong decision. On Saturday, my kids and I had the pleasure of selecting pigs for their 4-H program.

I am a city girl. Not really a city girl, so much as a town girl, but suffice it to say that the closest I have ever come to an actual, live pig is the cartoon version of Charlotte’s Web. I read that book as a youngster, and when I had young kids, I read it to them and we watched the movie. Pigs are cute, pink and cuddly. At least that was my impression until last Saturday.

I have heard that pigs are smarter than dogs. I don’t want to debate the relative intelligence of my dogs, but I don’t think they are the smartest pets I’ve ever owned. So I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if the pigs turn out to be smarter than the dogs. But I digress.

Saturday morning, the kids and I arrived early, along with nearly 90 other eager 4-H participants. Some of the pigs lay in a heap, trying to keep warm after their long journey from Texas. Others rooted around in the hay, and some played. I thought they were playing, until someone pointed out that one little piggy was an aggressive jerk who was attacking the others.

My good friend told me to dress “appropriately”. Whatever that is supposed to mean. I had on cute Capri pants, sandals and a Uinta County sweatshirt. It was my pig-picking outfit. She looked at me with a snicker. “That’s what you wore?” She had on boots, long pants and several thick shirts. When the pig picking began, I understood that I was not dressed appropriately.

First, the kids climbed into the pen when their name was selected. Yuck. Muddy. If I climbed in there, my sandals would definitely get ruined. Then, once the child picked out his project pig, a parent would scoop the pig up and haul it away. I nearly jumped out of my skin, when the first pig was selected. The dad strode to the animal and lifted it from behind, carrying it firmly in front of him.

The pig did not let out a gentle oink, as I was expecting. It screamed. I am not exaggerating. The pig was screaming all the way to the trailer. I stood astonished, wondering if he had accidentally pinched it or something. Nope. The next pig, and the next one, and every one after that screamed. It was actually bloodcurdling. I have never heard a bloodcurdling scream until Saturday. And then I got to hear it 90 times.

One of my kids selected a pig that turned out not to be properly castrated.

“That boar will be mounting those other pigs soon,” a wise friend informed me (we were buying nine pigs as a group). “If it were younger, I could castrate it now, but you can’t show a boar at fair, so you’ll either need to call a vet or put the pig back and pick another one.”

Of course, my child had picked out the one pig that had escaped castration. Unfortunately, she had to wait until the very end, to select from the remaining pigs. The other eight in our group decided to take the trailer and head to the farm, while Lexi and I waited for the end of the sale. My friend offered to head back with the trailer, once the other pigs had been unloaded.

I told her I’d call if we needed her to come back. We waited around as every pig was selected except “Mr. Boar” and two other pigs. One was the largest pig in the arena. The other was a tiny pig with a sway back. Lexi hemmed and hawed, and finally decided on the larger one. My son hefted it up, and it let out the customary scream. My son stood holding the pig, looking at me quizzically.

“What am I supposed to do with this thing?” Oh. Right. I had forgotten to call my friend back.

Sudden inspiration struck. “Put it in the back of the Subaru,” I suggested. After all, it’s only a short drive from the fairgrounds to the farm. Less than five minutes. How much trouble can a pig be in five minutes?

I was about to find out. The pig did not like the car ride. One hundred and fifteen pounds of pig snorted in the back of the car. Fortunately, once my son released him, Spidey (as we affectionately named him) stopped squealing. He started grunting and rooting. And peeing and pooing. The kids in the back seat were screaming. “The pig is peeing. Oh gross. Now he’s pooping. Oh gross. Now he’s eating my braid.”

Chaos ensued as Spider Pig tried to climb over the seat, his hooves now covered in fresh pig poo. He nosed the girls on the back of the neck, trying to eat their hair. The kids screamed. The pig squealed. I drove like a maniac to minimize the damage.

Five minutes can seem like a very long time when you are hauling a leaking pig. It leaked everywhere.

Pigs can’t jump. Once we reached the farm, I backed up through the gate, into the pig pen and lifted the hatch. “Okay, Spider Pig, jump out.”

The pig just stood there. He did not jump out. I waited. Spider Pig waited. We had a stare down, while I tried to coax him out of the car. He stood there and relieved himself one more time, before I finally got my son to lift him out.

As I pulled out of the pigpen and into the driveway, I wondered if the smell would follow me home.

Driving a pig around in my car was not the best idea I ever had. What I now have is a giant pig named Spider Pig and a peculiar odor whenever I get in the car. When asked why I would drive a pig in my car, I can only tell you that it seemed like a good idea at the time. But I can assure you, I have learned my lesson: I will never drive another pig home.

Namaste, friends

I was having a philosophical discussion with a good friend recently. It was the kind of conversation that could go on for hours, with no real resolution.

He wondered aloud whether we are born with certain characteristics, and whether we should surrender to them or strive to overcome our weaknesses.

I tend to be the kind of person who makes the best of things, whether it’s a job, a relationship, or my personality quirks. I don’t like to focus on my weaknesses, or the weaknesses of others. I try to encourage people to excel at what they are good at.

My friend argued that perhaps we should strive to be better at the things we aren’t good at, work harder at the things that don’t come naturally, and overcome our shortcomings.

While I do strive to improve on areas in my life that could use some work, I really believe we are all blessed with different gifts, talents, and abilities. I like to run, but I’m not very fast, so I’m not going to kill myself trying to be an Olympian. I do try to overcome my innate desire to curl up with a book by interspersing small bursts of activity into my reading time. I’m not much of a cleaner, so I exert great effort in maintaining a presentable abode. But I love to work in my garden and I could do it for hours.

This is the reason fish don’t fly.

We all have things we are good at. Fish are good at swimming. Flying? Not so much. If fish worked hard all day to fly, they would end up exhausted and frustrated. A few might get airborne, but they would be the exception rather than the rule.

We are like fish, trying to fly. We exhaust ourselves trying to force ourselves to complete tasks we hate because we think we should. Rather than try to force yourself to do something you aren’t good at, embrace those talents and gifts you have, and practice them with wild abandon. Birds fly! They love it. They soar high in the air, letting the wind carry them hither and yon. Birds don’t worry about the fish. They don’t worry about swimming, unless they want to. They execute their flight with vigor and enthusiasm. So too, we ought embrace our gifts. Rather than straining and struggling to do things that don’t suit you, discover those things that bring you joy and fulfillment. Do those things. We are here for such a short time. What is the point is trudging through life, dreading the morning. We could dance and sing our way through each day, energized by the things we love.

Of course, the house must still be cleaned. And I will clean it. But I will not let that ruin my day. I will clean it to suit myself, and then I will play in the garden. I will read and write, and sing. Those are the things that make me happy. Dishes must be done, but I don’t have to spend my life washing them. Clothes must be folded. Books must be balanced. The mundane tasks wait for attention. But what I find mundane, others derive great pleasure from doing. Some people clean houses because they like it. For all the tasks, there are people well suited to them, who enjoy the work they do.

Today, I encourage each one of you to find those things that make your heart sing. Look for the things that bring you joy and leave you feeling energized, rather than drained. If you can’t do it for a job, then do it for a moment. Our lives mustn’t be consumed by drudgery. There is fun to be had, if you know where to look.

Fish don’t fly, because their fun is in the water. Discover where your hope lies, then do things to bring you a step closer to that today. A small step, followed by another and another will lead you to the path of your greatest joy and heart’s desire.

You are a bird, so fly high!

Namaste, friends.