I unofficially met my husband at a summer BBQ party, given by mutual friends.  Back in the day, my husband was going through a divorce, after a long separation, and at the party he was looking kind of “rough”.   He’d also had
“a few beers”, as they say in these parts.  I wasn’t too impressed as he walked towards me, hunkering over a bit, with his bad arm sticking straight out from his side.  

(John lost his arm years ago, after a conveyer belt at the Purina food company he worked for, was accidently switched on and inadvertently tangled around his arm.  John had worked on the conveyer belt before and told me once that he’d "had a premonition about someone switching it on while he worked."  He said that’s why he always worked on the belt using his non-dominant hand, in case “the worst happened”.   After the accident, his hand stayed fully intact, but his entire forearm was crushed, could not be saved, and therefore his entire arm below the elbow of his left hand had to be removed).  Needless-to-say my first encounter with John Pfleegor was a brief encounter.

I met John "officially" while working full-time at a local grocery store.  A mutual friend of mine and John’s, who worked at the same store as I, said, “Amy, I just want you to know that John is coming in tonight to talk and formally introduce himself to you” (wink, wink).  “Oh-my-god, I thought to myself:  I’m not even wearing any
mascara!”  And then, “Oh, yeah I remember John.”  John kinda scared me back then. 

I was diligently working the counter as the evening cashier, when I twirled around and there stood… JOHN?! 

He cleans up well, I thought as I gazed over his camo coat, plaid shirt, then up to his neatly trimmed beard, and finally a clean baseball cap.  And he was handsome, too!  Making eye contact John said “Hello” and asked me if I’d like to “go out” sometime.  Before I could answer he said slyly, “And I have something out in the truck to give you before you leave work here tonight”.  I was truly surprised and flattered when I found out he had brought me a huge bouquet of mixed flowers, so I said, “Yes, we have a date!”

A week later John was bringing me another huge bouquet of mixed flowers, which I squeezed into the vase that held the first one.  For me and my husband’s first date we decided to go hiking up at Ricketts Glenn State Park; which was about a 45 minute drive.  Because of his (still) impending divorce, rather than getting the brand
new $30,000+ Chevy pickup truck, he got stuck with the old Purina redneck mobile, but I didn’t care.  After
all, at first I had thought John as “very different” so why shouldn’t he have an old pickup truck, with a red and white checkerboard emblem on each side of the doors, with the word “PURINA” spelled out in all caps above it, complete with red interior?   Shrugging to myself I climbed into the cab and off we went to Ricketts Glen for our “adventure”.   

It was a cold November day at the park, but we still wanted to hike the trails.  Our goal was to hike around the waterfalls, but we never found them.  Somehow we took a wrong turn and wound up hiking through the vast
Pennsylvania wilderness.  We must have hiked around 4-5 miles out when we noticed it was starting to gently
snow.  Stopping now we both found ourselves leaning into a romantic embrace under the falling snow and just as
John was (finally) going to kiss me, we heard someone clearing their throat. 

What-the-hell?,  I thought, as I turned to find two hunters completely dressed head to toe, in hunter orange, rifles at their sides, standing there staring at us, across a small patch of wild grass, and they weren’t exactly smiling.  Awkward!  John and I managed a nod at the hunters and then decided it was probably time to get back to the truck and head home.   We got back to the truck just in time as it was beginning to get dark.

 “Shoot”, John suddenly says, “I locked my keys in the truck, but it’s ok because I can just climb through the window of the cab and get them.”   “Uh, sure no problem,” I remember answering.  Sure enough, just as John was squeezing his adult-size body through the small, now unstuck Purina-Food Truck-cab window, a park ranger; with one hand on his walkie-talkie and the other on his revolver, shows up to “investigate a possible car theft.”  Now it was time to clear my throat as I began to explain that we were innocents simply trying to get home after getting caught in the wilderness by two angry hunters, while out on our first date.  It took some convincing, but eventually
the park ranger must have believed us, as he left without even trying to help. 

What an adventure today was, I thought back then, but the best part of our first date was that when it was all said and done, those two hunters might have gotten their deer, but I got my dear as well:  John and I have been together ever since our first date and that was 14 years ago!

Years ago, John told me that he had purchased a flock of 12 sheep, and that we needed to get them and eventually bring them to their new home; our farm.  I like sheep, so I was excited about this new prospect of John’s. He was happy too, as he had been told by their previous owner that most, if not all of them, were pregnant.  

So, the goal was to house them at Pap’s more accommodating barn, first; to have their babies, and then move them to the Pfleegor family farm when the babies were stable enough.  

My gosh, after seeing the twelve female sheep for the first time, I took note how thick their fur coats were: 
Almost as if they were wearing thick wooly coats tightly buttoned up to their necks and eyeballs.  They were so pregnant that they looked like big, round cotton balls with black legs sticking out of them.  The sheep looked very beautiful with their dark muzzles, face and eyes, and their big round bodies and extended bellies.

Winters in Pennsylvania are cold with or without the snow so, I was glad to know that we were able to house the flock of pregnant ewes over at Pap’s big old white barn; as it is better suited to small animals because it shelters them more fully, compared to ours.  Plus, Pap has pens in the bottom half of it, and that’s where we all were
when the sheep starting giving birth to their tiny babies.  

It was so cold out this particular day; frigid!  Why did the ewes have to have these babies in the dead of winter, I
wondered.  It was so strange to be witnessing births at this time of year, as I had always assumed that spring was
the “usual” time for animals to birth their young.  Apparently, this is not true for animals raised in captivity.

So, it was with these thoughts that we huddled together as a family to watch and hover over the ewes. We expelled little puffs of cold air between tosses of hay to the expectant mothers.  Standing together in our own thick coats, warm mittens and baseball caps we stood and anxiously watched the ewes. 

One-by-one the ewes began having their baby lambs in the cold winter air. Those poor babies were so wet when they were born!  Both the ewes and their human family worked at drying the lambs off to help increase their chances for survival.  This was akin to midwifery for animals, I thought:  My husband was a farmer; a hunter; a provider; and now a midwife ! 

Most of the ewes gave birth to a single lamb, but a couple of ewes actually had twins.  Even though as mentioned before, it was freezing cold, it was still an exciting time to be down there in the “bowels” of Pap’s big old white barn and to be participating in this level of nature, by witnessing each birth.

Finally, now in spring (when those adorable baby lambs should have been born!) we were moving the flock of sheep two miles away from Pap’s, to their new homestead:  Our field out back, behind and adjacent to, our big red barn. 
It was much more pleasurable to oversee the flock in warmer weather.  Some of the babies had died, but others
had survived and were healthy. The growing lambs seemed to love scampering about, away from their mothers at times, to bask under the early spring sun.

I would often go out and stand in the middle of the flock and take turns petting the ewes. Their fur was still really thick so I enjoyed touching it and rubbing the ewes’ faces.  It was around this time that I noticed an ad in our local newspaper.  “FREE RAM” it said.  I couldn’t wait to tell John!  We needed a ram; after all we had 12 sheep! 
Getting a ram was just plain logical, I told John, and then I waited to see it he was going to get that she’s a city-girl “look”,  but he didn’t. 

Later that week John came home with our new ram.  I really liked him too, as he had a complete set of horns that were curled around the sides of his eyes.  He was so “cool” I thought and he mixed well with the wooly ladies.  For the first few days the ram stayed off to the side of the flock of sheep.  Minding his own business, I supposed.  Good, a ram should “know his place”.  I smiled as I made my way again towards the middle of the flock of ewes.

I had my back turned to the ram and was stroking my “pets” lovely dark faces.  Unbeknownst to me the ram was becoming agitated, pawing at the warm spring soil and lowering his head towards the one in the middle of the flock.  With a snort he took off running, head still held low and making contact he butted me with those horns--
right smack in the middle of my-- butt!  He couldn’t have made better contact then if he were trying to hit an
actual “bull’s-eye”.   In fact, he rammed me so hard he almost put my back out. 

I was stunned; were rams mean?  I wasn’t sure, but I did have an epiphany that day in the middle of a flock of sheep, I thought: This is why male sheep are called “Rams”.   When we were ready to sell the flock of sheep, I made sure we advertised them as “Flock of Sheep for Sale with FREE Ram”.   

I hate ramming rams, and now you know why.

We need to rake some hay today, John informed me mater-of-factly,
shortly after I had moved in with him on the Pfleegor Family Farm. 
“Oh ok”, I nodded.  “Are we going to have any help?”  “Yeah,”
John replied rather business like now, “There’ll be about 4 or 5 of us”.
“How much hay are we going to rake”, I asked tentatively. 
 
John eyed me now with that “look” him and his father --whom we all affectionately call “Pappy” --used to get on their faces back in the day when they were
dealing with “City Girl Meets Farm”.  

“Oh, about 15 acres”, John said, while at the same time looking at me,
apparently to see if I comprehended what he was saying.  I nodded again, while at the same time thinking “Holy crap! That’s going to take us all day”.  My mind wandered to the field with me and my rake in hand, raking hay until my hands were covered in blisters.  “Holy crap,” I couldn’t seem to stop silently repeating to myself.  

That’s going to take longer than a day, I surmised, as I calculated the amount of time in a day divided by 15 acres, divided by 4-5 people with rakes that were going to help us. “That’s going to take around a week, maybe more.  MAYBE even a month!”  

As I started in-my-mind wondering how bad my back was going to feel later on in the evening, and how many bandages I would need for my bloody, blistered hands, I noticed John had pulled up on a little red and white tractor, next to me; one of his old Internationals. 
“Hop on” he said. 

Incredulous now, I stood there wondering how the heck I would ever drive a tractor, and why I needed to in the first place.   “But, I was just going to get a rake…”  I stammered, pointing with my index finger towards the garage.  More compellingly now, John tells me to “Hop on the tractor!” 

“Hop on the tractor, why?!",  I asked John as I was simultaneously trying not to appear "confused."  "John??? Do you know what you're doing, John?" I asked silently in my head.  “Because that’s the rake!”,  He tells me in what sounded like a very exasperated, but amazingly very patient voice.   Me, now more confused than ever and blinking at the tractor, I climbed on and John explained how to drive it. 

This was my first time raking hay, or more importantly, ever driving a tractor--I had after all been born in Oregon and raised in California.  Surprisingly it didn’t take this “City Girl” long to muster that old tractor on down the road, and onto that dreaded hay field.  I must say, in my own defense that  I did a great job raking that 15 acre field of hay and keeping my rows pretty straight!   And the best part about it?  It only took a few hours, and my hands didn’t even hurt afterwards!

My husband John came home from hay bining one day, and when he walked in the door he was holding out his baseball cap to me.  I peeked inside and was surprised to find 8 baby turkeys. 
 
“I killed the Mama,” John reported stoically, and then “get a box,” he suggested.  “What happened,” John explained, was that while he was out mowing hay he had accidently rolled over the turkey hen, killing her instantly. Seeing a bunch of moving spots below the head of the hay bine John had jumped down and quickly retrieved the 8 surviving
wild turkey babies, called “chicks”.  I was touched by this hard-working-man taking time out of his busy schedule to stop farming, and to save the now motherless chicks.  I mean, who would have ever known the difference, apart from John?

I was also deeply touched that a man who hunts and “puts down” pigs to stop their suffering- if they can’t recover after disease or some other problem- was holding his cap with the baby birds so tenderly; protectively. 
It was symbolic to me, in a way, on how this farmer -this MAN- (whom his family and friends know, love, and respect) treats his family; tenderly and protectively.  

So we got a box and feed, and then housed the babies up until they were approximately eight weeks old. 
Then they were moved outside to a large chicken coop, and then raised there until they could fly. 
I was so excited the day Emmy’s father told me to go let the turkeys out:  By out, he meant that it was time to release these beautiful birds back to their natural habitat. 
 
I was happy for the birds; happy that they had survived the terrible loss of their mother, happy that they had survived in captivity and happy that they were going to be able to roam around the farm.  I envisioned these birds being so grateful to farmer John and his wife for “saving” them "housing" them and "feedling" them, that they would repay us by hanging around the homestead, and showing off how beautiful they truly are.   I was also happy when I thought about them growing old on the farm with us.  And I was also happily thinking about Thanksgiving (just kidding).  So, it was with these thoughts in mind, that I opened the door to the chicken coop and there all 8 of them were:  Standing together in a tight little group, feather to feather, just inside the door as if waiting for me!  
 
I gently walked through and told them “Here you go!  You are free!"  And then more forcefully, "Go!  Be free!
Have fun outside (on the farm) in the sunshine; eat bugs to your hearts’ content; enjoy the fresh air…” and WHOOSH!  They were gone! 

Unbelievably they had shot out of the chicken coop like small flying bowling balls with feathers, and took off over the cornfields, seemingly flying as fast as their wings would allow.  I watched in complete dismay as they flew into the distance, off towards the horizon until I could see them no more. 

Standing in the doorway of the old chicken coop that was once their home, I took solace in the fact that we had done our part to sustain the existence of a small flock of birds, and that they were only too eager to get back to the wild, and live out the rest of their lives-- AS THEY SHOULD--with or without me.

It was another absolutely beautiful day in the Susquehanna Valley
on the Pfleegor Family Farm.  I felt rested and eager to start the day. 
 
Suddenly I spotted a white, feathery head sliding past the lower kitchen window outside.  “What was that?”I wondered. 
Peeking out the kitchen door’s glass panels I looked down at the porch and to my amazement was a beautiful white Muscovy duck standing at the front door. 

Sucking in my breath, so as not to scare him, I slowly opened the door and said, “Well hello there beautiful! Where did YOU come from?” 
And in he walked, right into the kitchen. “Well, come on in” I told the rather large white bird.  I wondered to myself:  “Why
in the world would anyone EVER drop off a beautiful bird like him and then just leave him?  How awful!” I surmised. 

Now smiling at him I asked in my most friendly tone if he was hungry. 
He seemed to nod and looked directly at me with his round red ringed eyes,
so I threw a handful of dry cat food on the floor for him, as a courtesy, of course. 
He pecked at the cat food and I happily watched. 
Then he walked further into the kitchen, as if at home.  

Well, this is intriguing I thought and not really knowing what to do
I start to walk around him, towards the kitchen sink.  

Apparently he thought that was rude for when I attempted to pass him he suddenly
sprung up and bit me in the elbow. 
“Ouch, that wasn’t nice!” I hollered at him. 
Maybe too loud, as the next thing I knew he was at my elbow again trying
to chew it off.  “Dang it, get off me!”  I told him more forcefully,
but he wouldn’t stop trying to bite me and was now flapping his long white wings at me.
“Swoosh, bite, bite, swhoosh.” 

Now I was scared
and really wanting this uninvited guest to leave my house and to stop bullying
me.  At that point in time, we had an old summer kitchen on the house where I did the laundry. 
Running towards the door I grabbed a blanket off the pile of clothes and rushed through it to the summer kitchen: 
Muscovy duck right behind me at my elbow still biting and pinching me with his bill. 

I turned and threw the blanket over the crazed bird and grabbed him with a tight bear hug;
the duck flapping and squawking and fighting me now. 

I stumbled through the summer kitchen towards an outside door.  
Reluctantly letting go off the writhing blanketed bird; I reached out
with one arm and hand, and shoved the door open, to throw the “lovely” bird
back outside, blanket and all. 

I watched him again from behind the safety of my now locked door as he shook
the blanket off, turned as if to glare at me, and then he marched off back towards
the front of the house where I had first seen him.  

Suddenly the answer to my question I had when I first saw the duck became
clear and I knew why someone would drop off a beautiful Muscovy duck on the farm, and abandon him:
“He was friggen’ mean as Hell!”

Never Wear New Sandals on the Farm
I remember the day my husband John (then boyfriend) was going to give me
the grand tour of his farm.  I was so excited, that I donned my nice clean denim
jeans, a frilly top and my brand new leather sandals; I had just bought from the
mall.  I couldn't wait to get to the farm and tromp around in my highish heels,
with the light-brown-leather straps encircling my ankles.  Wiggling my toes, I
thought "Dang my feet look sexy today, girlfriend", and  I couldn't wait until
John saw me in my new sandals.  So there I was pulling into the driveway at the
Family Farm, and guess who was standing there waiting for me; my handsome boyfriend John!  "Perfect", I thought as I pushed my foot out the door of the car and wiggled my sexy toes.  John smiled as I stood, and off we went for the tour.

"This is the wood stove", he explained.  "It's what we use to heat the house and is also known as an outdoor
furnace".  I nodded as if it actually mattered and hoped John would think I was nodding because I understood how important that outdoor furnace really was to keeping the house warm and toasty in the winter or at the very least, in
providing heat for warm water to shower or bathe in (trust me that's important!).  "These are the lilac bushes", John cooed.  I must admit: They were very pretty and not only did he have the purple ones, but he had white ones too. 
"And between them", John continued cooing, "are the baby rose bushes; one pink, one white, and one red".  "Niiiice",  I said and I meant it too.  Then we meandered over to the front of the house.  John pointed to a small outbuilding made of stone.  "That's the old stone ice-house", he explained.  "It's from the civil war era and that's how the pioneers used to keep their food and meat cold", John relayed in a rather factual manner to me.  Now I was beginning to feel impressed, it was after all a very nice old stone house with fine granite stone masonry; the lilac and rose bushes were also very nice; and I became so engrossed in listening to John talk about the old stone house and its history that I no longer fixated on my new leather sandals.  So what if I step in a little bird poo; it'll wash off easy.  Smiling, we both continued on the tour and headed to the expanse at the back of the main house, and walked across the silty dirt driveway towards the cows.  I was careful not to walk too hard, after noticing that all the silt in the driveway liked to settle on my sandals: I didn't want them dusty!  They were after all, BRAND NEW!  

I walked with John over to what looked like a pile of straw, and began thinking to myself, "Now, this is appropriate, after all this is a farm.  Of course, I'm going to be walking over some straw: cows eat straw; chickens probably lay on straw; and the straw will only cling to the bottom of my shoe, so it's all good", "plus if I've stepped on any bird-poo I can wipe it off on the straw".   I was pleased with myself and my logic, so much so that I didn't even take
notice as my foot suddenly sunk right through the pile of straw and into something wet and gooey!  What the
@#$!%!! I thought as my foot continued to sink lower and lower in the muck until my lovely leather sandal straps
weren't even showing any more.  It felt like... quick sand, except that it was beginning to dawn on me as I wiggled (my sexy toes); it was very squishy, and apparently deeper than I thought.  Dang it!  Now what, I wondered as I glanced at John still walking towards his livestock, apparently eager to talk about his beef cows, now.  He hadn't really even noticed yet that I had stepped up to my ankle into the middle of a cow pie that was covered by--in my opinion--a THIN layer of straw.   This was rather rude since it was akin, in my mind, to being thirsty in a desert and thinking that one sees water, only it's actually a mirage.   Even worse, was when I attempted to slowly pull my foot and my brand new leather sandal out of the cow pie, only my foot came out with such an audible suction I almost lost my balance.  Suddenly my toes didn't feel so sexy anymore.

Horrified now, I looked down and saw my foot with squisy stuff dripping from it, as well as my toes covered in shit (let's be real here) and only the top of my leather sandal peaking back out at me from beneath a dark pile of goo.  No longer as impressed with the tour as I had been earlier, I stooped and pulled my sandal from its defacatingly (is defacatingly even a word?!) stinky embrace.  No longer smiling, I held the sandal up and realized that there must be a reason this happened, and it dawned on me that I was starting to learn a lot from John's farm tour.   First, and foremost, never EVER wear new shoes to an old farm, especially one with cows.  2nd, things are never EVER what they seem, and at first glance it all may look good, but underneath the surface it could be a whole other story.  3rd, life stinks sometimes, both in the literal sense as well as the figurative sense, at least on a farm.  And 4th, remember that wood-burning furnace I was introduced to at the beginning of the tour?  Well, it rather than my foot, became home to my brand new leather sandals.  And THAT stunk!

 

A few years back, we got a puppy-dog called a “Jug”, whom we named “Hunter”.  I thought of him as my furry little boy.  My mother-in-law picked the name and I really thought it was perfect for him.  Hunter was naturally the most precious little puppy we ever saw!  He had the most handsome brown eyes, velvet black muzzle, a reddish-tan coat, and his
chin had a patch of white on it.  His parents were a Jack Russell Terrier and a Pug:  That made him a Jug.  
  
Hunter always followed me wherever I went inside and outside of the house:  If I was in the kitchen he would be in the kitchen nearby and if I was outdoors he would be scampering about, always where I could see him.   When Hunter would look at me, his beautiful brown eyes seemed to say, “Thanks for being my non-furry Mom.”   One day I looked down at Hunter, who was right at my heel, and said, “Tell me you love me, Hunter."  To my surprise, he puppy-whined “I wuv you”.  From that point on, I truly knew he understood me (from a puppy’s perspective that is). 

Hunter soon learned other basic tricks like “sit and speak”, but the best trick was when he would ring the brass bells, which hung from the front and back door knobs in the house:  He would do this by jiggling them with his paw.  This was his way of telling us he needed to go outside.

One Mothers’ Day, John, Emmy and I were out behind the garage starting the garden that we plant every year.  Hunter was out there with us too:  Running, playing, and digging in the soil and sometimes going after the seeds we were pushing into the ground.   Suddenly, I hollered, “Why don’t you go play somewhere else?”  I
watched satisfied as Hunter ran out of the garden just as fast as he could! 

A few hours later, after the garden was finally all planted, I noticed that Hunter was no longer playfully running
around the yard, nor was he close by me like usual.  Walking around the garage anxiously, I asked Emmy if she had seen Hunter to which she told me “No”.   That evening was spent with all of us marching around the farm, looking for our little dog, and hollering at the top of our lungs “HUNTER!”  
 
“HUUUUUUNTER!  HUNTERRRR!” we all anxiously yelled out across the fields and around the farm. He was nowhere to be found. I started thinking that someone had slipped into the driveway, in the light of day even, opened their
car door, reached out and snatched Hunter, dognapping him!  Regardless of what I thought had happened, the entire next week was spent putting out signs in town, calling veterinarians and friends, and driving from town-to-town looking for our beloved little dog, but to no avail.
  
Exactly a week after the disappearance of Hunter, Emmy and I came home after spending hours looking for him that day.  We were so very sad!  We couldn’t understand where he had gone.  I felt so guilty for shooing him out of
the garden.  Then John told us the  devastating news:   John had been down in front of the house and seen something out-of-place down at the pond.  John had scooped Hunter’s lifeless body out of the water.  
 
We were overcome by sadness! I was always so careful about kids being down by the pond, but I never even imagined that Hunter would trot down there on-his-own, jump in the pond and then not be able to swim.  Since this was such a sad occasion for our family, the guidance counselor at school sent a sympathy card home with a picture of Emmy hugging Hunter close to her face; our family pets’ veterinarian sent a sympathy card signed by his entire staff; and other friends and family members mourned with us, as we learned to cope with the loss of a beloved family pet.   

I decided we should have a memorial ceremony for Hunter down at the pond.  A small group of us all walked solemnly together down the road towards Hunter’s final resting place.  Emmy’s sister Shannon, her husband and their children;  a neighborhood friend of the family’s;  and Emmy all stood together and watched as I took Hunter’s thin red leash and wrapped it around and around a white ceramic cross; slowly weaving it over and under.  Then I took the cross and pushed it into the sandy berm of the pond.  Together, facing the pond, heads bent towards the earth, friends and family took hands and said the “Lord’s  Prayer”. Afterwards I handed out dry doggy biscuits for each of us to throw in the pond, thus saying "Good-bye".  

The next day I went down to the pond to reflect and pray about no longer having Hunter in my life.  When I walked around to the other side of the pond, I happened to glance into the water.  With tears streaming down my face, I saw something that looked like it didn’t belong on the pond’s muddy floor.  (Our pond is pretty big, mind you!)  Through tears I peered closer, and still closer at the rippling water, until I realized that what I was looking at was … a doggy biscuit!  It had somehow passed completely across the pond to the other side and was lying under the water seemingly shimmering up at me, through the pond's surface. 

It was then in that moment I realized that I was receiving an answer to my prayers:  Hunter was “ok”— he was on “The Other Side” safe in puppy Heaven.