Herding Pigs

Gwyneth Berry
Grade 8

Pigs: What’s the point?

              Herding pigs is quite frustrating, especially when you are chasing them through the woods trying to herd them back to their pen. When we bought the swine, I was excited. They were cute little piglets that I could hold. Even though I enjoyed them when they were little, that didn't stop them from growing into big boring bulks. I was still required to feed them. I was paid, but going out in the morning before school, especially in the winter, is not what I consider entertaining or exciting any more.

            My brother chose to own pigs. He arranged everything, and we acquired them from a man at our church. We received two female piglets, which of course, at the proper age, we would butcher. Now they are full grown, and when they become hungry, they try to escape from the pen to look for food and wander wherever they choose.

            Now, our yard runs behind two of our neighbors on the right, and then passes behind maybe four or five. Seven acres are woods and the house stands on one fenced-in acre. Our pigs are kept in the woods. When they broke out for their farthest and longest trip, they had wandered into somebody's back yard. Our next door neighbor was working for this man that day. He drove to our house and informed mom and me. Trevor was away. Dad was away. My other brother was away. Thus, my mom and I set out for a long trip.

            Once we arrived at the property of this couple, we saw that our neighbor had penned them in the back yard with a feeble fence. We also saw that there was a hole in our decrepit fence where they had entered from the path which wraps around the edge of our property. So we pushed, tugged, and poked those pigs through the hole and into our woods. They did not smell too great from playing in the mud holes. We thought we could steer them left down the path that led indirectly to their pen. They decided to go right on a round-about way to their pen. But just as they started that way, they suddenly cut across the middle area that was surrounded by the paths.

            The woods are cut in half horizontally by a creek. I moaned as we followed them along the creek on the right side and walked all the way across and met the path on the other side. However, it had recently rained . . . . . and that part of the woods always floods. So the pigs though it would be nice to have a little slosh in the ditch. They grunted and snorted. Shuffled and sloshed. Sat down and played. With exasperated sighs and hopeless thoughts, mom and I poked them with our short bamboo sticks. Finally, they got up. “Oh! Mom, they're going the way we came! Stop them!” I cried. We didn't want to backtrack all the way back across the middle of the woods!

            We tried to turn them around so that they could continue to follow the path we were on. They didn't want to. They veered left, and we drove them on the same path, but heading the opposite direction. They ran while mom and I flanked them on either side. Running them down that way, we arrived at spot where they had run into the middle. They tried doing that trick again, but mom and I veered them to the left of the stream this time. Shoving and poking them through brush and trees, we traveled diagonally across the first section. The overhanging tree branches and thorny vines scratched and grabbed us. When we found that we could steer the pigs by poking them in the shoulder blades, it made it a little easier. Shoving them in the rump also helped whenever they stopped. Mom had the one that was more or less the leader so that helped whenever mine stopped and hers didn't.

        We came upon the path that ran across the middle of the first section. We brought them along to the end of the path and veered them left, over to the pen. We could almost hear their disappointed sighs as they recognized their imprisoning home. They grunted, realizing their crazy adventure was over. Dejectedly they walked into the pen, and we locked them inside. Mom and I sighed with relief. Finding where they had broken out, we blocked it up with some short logs.

            Having herded two stubborn female pigs for a little more than an hour back and forth in our back woods taught me the tricks to keeping pigs moving . . . . . until they find water. If ever you need pigs back in their pen, poke them in the shoulder blades with something relatively sharp and pointy. Either that or you can look forward to ham for Christmas dinner!

END

What I see in the mirror

When we look in the mirror we see our image reflected. That means we are not seeing ourselves as we are seen by others. We often don't like what we see. We are not content with how we look. Some are obsessed with their image, like Narcissus.

The Jewish custom at Shiva is to drape all mirrors with black cloth. Mirrors are covered in a place of mourning for two reasons. The primary reason is because prayer services take place there and one must ensure that no one faces a mirror during prayer. The other reason is to emphasize that a mourner avoids vanity during the shiva, focusing on their loved one rather than themselves during this period.

Mirror

Looking in the mirror

I see everything behind me.

I see my whole past.

The scars I see remind me.

I see everything behind me.

I see the kid inside me

And these scars remind me

Of all the nights I cried.

That kid is still inside me

His past is terrifying.

Many nights he stayed awake crying.

The scars he keeps on hiding.

My past is terrifying.

Every night I was frightened.

I can’t hide my scars, but I am trying.

My past it seems to define me.

Now every night I am frightened

So sometimes I’m still crying.

My past still defines me.

I can’t help but look behind me.

Sometimes I’m still crying

When I look in the mirror.

I can’t help but look behind me

And see no one here beside me.

I’m looking in the mirror.

I see only myself.

There’s no one here beside me.

There’s no one here to help.

I see only myself

And remember the pain I felt.

No one was there to help me

Pick myself up when I fell.

I remember the pain I felt.

I remember the tears I cried.

I remember when I fell.

Now its me, myself and I

Now I see the tears I cry.

It is painful to remember.

It hurts me, myself and I

To be looking in the mirror.

---Ethan Seevers (Grade 11)

Exotic Adventures: A descriptive essay

Libby Myers (Grade 8)

We were sitting shoulder to shoulder in the back seat, giggling and babbling uncontrollably.  As our minivan rounded the right curve on the steep mountain slope, we all flopped over leaning towards the left.  As one child squashed the other, the tinkling of a children’s laughter filled the car.  Finally, we arrived at our destination. One at a time, we jumped out with bright eyes. One, two, three, four! My brothers and I were ready to explore the sights, tastes, smells, and sounds of the exotic Bulgarian market street.  

I clung to Dad’s hand as he led me down the street of bustling activity. Like dew on the early morning grass, laughter clung to the air.  As marionettes and homemade wooden toys danced on their shelves, colors jumped out to greet us like Jack in the Boxes, and a chorus of flighty giggles broke through the dams of our lips.  Each open-air stall was a door inviting us to a new world, everyone abundant with color and smiling faces.  We readily entered.

The sizzling, crackling meat cooked inside the carnival-like restaurant. Temptingly, the savory smell wafted by my nose.  While my eager eyes darted to-and-fro, absorbing the excitement around me, Wesley was jumping around looking at everything, with Colby tagging along behind him. Honey and comb gleamed in the jars from which they were sold. The sunlight caught it in such a way that it glowed with an other worldly light.

Storekeepers grinned because we were an odd sight: four fair-skinned children, all under the age of ten, with angel hair and blue eyes. Shyly, we trundled along, returning the happy looks with bashful smiles of our own.  I gaped as we passed the Turkish Delight stand.  I glanced hopefully at my mom and was not disappointed.  Out came the wallet and soon enough I had a piece of the sticky candy within my hands.  Cautiously, my tongue darted in and out like a kitten lapping up its milk, as if someone would come up and take my treasure from me.  Soon, I had a coating of the delightful sweet around my mouth. As we started up an incline, I bounced up and down, delighted. 

As we sprang up the hill, I slipped slightly on the cobblestones, which were wet with dew, trying to match my dad’s long stride. The prattle of foreign voices faded as we climbed the slanted street. Gradually, the market behind us became merely a patchwork of jumbled colors misting away into the foggy mountain slope. Up ahead the majestic and ancient gate of the Orthodox Church rose before us in splendid glory.  As people slipped through a pair gigantic wooden of doors, we glimpsed paintings of the saints. One elderly “baba” feebly touched her lips to the painting of St. Paul, and set her lit candle into the stand beside it, which was filled with sand. As she muttered a brief prayer, her head, covered with a red and black scarf, bobbed up and down. Upon exiting, her colorful skirts rustled in the wind and she drew her coat tighter around her bulky clothes.

My mother pushed Timmy around in his stroller, and he twisted around to take everything in with his young eyes.  As I nibbled on the last bit of my Turkish Delight, I was thrilled with the flavor that frolicked on my taste buds.  We turned around.

On the way back to the car, our hearts broke for the armless beggar pleading for money.  Dismally, we wondered what accident had happened to make him this way, and whether the "accident" was intentional or not. We were depressed, but not for long. After traveling back through the “Wonderland”, which was the open-air market, we tumbled into the car and resumed our playful game of leaning against one another. We giggled as Mom passed back napkins to wipe our smiling mouths and sticky hands.  As bleary-eyed children drifted off to dreams of the sizzling of meat, the bright paint, the taste of candy, and all the other sights, smells, tastes, and sounds, the day’s adventure was drawn to a conclusion.

END