by Bobbi Phelps
“He’s ready now,” the instructor said.
“What? Two hours and he’s ready?”
“No. Not by himself. Here, take a rope and tie it around his waist. You’ll snow plow behind him. He’ll be fine.”
And that’s exactly what we did. With the tips of my skis together and the ends of my skis far apart, I snow plowed behind Matt. He built his confidence and skill, and I renewed my back muscles. Within a year, he was jumping moguls and racing with friends from the top of the mountain to the lodge at the bottom. Having Pomerelle so close to Sky Ranch made for easy access to moderate-level skiing. Having Sun Valley about two hours away made for tough skiing as it had a thirty-four-hundred-foot vertical drop, over a hundred trails, and eighteen chairlifts. Because we lived in the Rockies, that meant we had plenty of outdoor activities all year long.
* * *
When the following spring blossomed into summer, I enrolled Matt in tee-ball, a ten-week program for young children, ages five through eight. Getting to know Murtaugh people was not easy as Sky Ranch was located so far from town. As most of his classmates lived in town, playing tee-ball gave him a chance to make more friends and for Mike and me to meet socially with their parents. We assembled at the municipal park, nestled within a grouping of tall, elm trees. Mike and I carried aluminum folding chairs from his pickup and placed them in a line between home and first base. The audience cheered and clapped and filled the park with laughter. When the whistle blew, all the children, wearing shorts and T-shirts, ran onto the field. They tried to find their designated spots and ran like bumbling bees as they raced from one area to another. Frustrated coaches shouted instructions and eventually both teams were assembled in their correct positions.
Because most action took place around the infield, the three outfielders looked bored and eventually sat down. One picked dandelions, another lay on his stomach with his head resting on his hands, and the third player sat cross-legged with his back to the game. Parents yelled at their children and coaches encouraged the outfielders to stand and pay attention. When Matt came to bat, he hit a ground ball from the stationary tee and ran to first base. The next batter hit the ball and Matt ran to second. We rose and cheered as Matt began to run to third. The opposing players kept fumbling the ball. Matt had a chance to run for home. Mike stood in front of his chair and cupped his hands, yelling for Matt to keep running.
“Go Home! Go Home!” the parents of our team shouted from the stands.
Matt raced around third base and ran straight to his teammates who were sitting on a side bench. He thought that was “home.” He never touched home plate. His coach pushed him back to the playing field and pointed to home plate. Matt touched the plate well ahead of the roving baseball. The stocky volunteer umpire kindly ignored the mistake, and Matt’s team scored another run. With happy smiles we gathered our chairs and returned to the pickup. Matt’s team had won the game.
After tee-ball season, we instigated a Fourth of July celebration, and invited neighbors and family to join us at our house. Melvin, Terry, and Mike fetched a slew of fireworks they had recently purchased from a traveling vendor. For years, this salesman had peddled colorful explosives he had bought in Wyoming, selling them in Idaho where they were illegal.
As guests arrived, they carried food and folding chairs to our backyard. Mike, Christa, Matt, and I had set up a half dozen tables and placed them on the cement pad behind the garage. The visitors deposited their food, and I brought out a large bowl of punch. Mike’s son, Blaine, lugged a cooler filled with beer and ice to a side table. Chairs were assembled in a semi-circle out on our lawn, facing Smoky’s pasture with a grain field beyond and the rising foothills as a backdrop. While the women supervised the food, Terry, Blaine, and Melvin carted a wooden platform to the edge of our lawn. This would be the stage. The men assembled fireworks to be ignited in a specific order: from small to large and back to small again. At the end, they would have the grand finale.
When the sun set and the sky darkened, we took to our chairs as if a bell had rung. It was time to start the show. The first explosives went as planned, sky high with white and blue sparks falling to the ground. The bright colors illuminated our raised faces and brought cheers from the crowd. For the rest of the evening, we clapped and shouted our approval while children ran in circles and carried sparklers high above their heads. They screamed in delight whenever flashing fireworks splashed the sky with colorful glitter. During the finale, one errant rocket came screaming toward us, flying beneath our chairs. I jumped forward and immediately stamped it out.
The next one in this lively group of rockets indicated the men had lost all control. Explosives shot into the edge of the grain field. A small fire started. Everyone vaulted from their seats and ran into the field with Christa and Blaine leading the way.
“Get up!” Mike commanded everyone. “We’ve got to get this out!”
The group stamped on the sparks, and I ran for shovels and brooms. All thirty of us were in the field, children and adults stomping and shoveling. It took time as the field was exceptionally dry. Finally, the fire was out and the nearby grain field was saved. We were exhausted. The show was over, and it was time for everyone to leave. They gathered their leftovers, carried folding chairs, and headed to their cars. No way would they forget that unusual Fourth of July celebration.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Polly the Pig
In September after attending an airline reunion in California, I flew on a Sunday afternoon from San Francisco to Twin Falls with a plane change in Utah. When I checked the departure board in Salt Lake City, I saw my Delta flight had been delayed five hours.
“My, gosh. I can drive home in four,” I thought.
While waiting, I read the Salt Lake Tribune. Out of curiosity, I opened the classified section and ran my fingers down the automobile column. A two-door Cadillac was listed at a reasonable price. At a nearby payphone, I called the ad’s number. The owner answered and I told him I was at the airport on my way to Twin Falls and I was interested in his car. He said he was a physician who traded his car every two years.
“I’ll drive to the airport and show you the car,” he stated. “You can test it. I’m sure you’ll like it.”
“Great. I’m wearing black slacks and a pink blouse. You won’t miss me. I’ll be standing in front of the Delta baggage claim.” Not wanting to annoy Mike, I didn’t inform him. Since I used the Angler’s funds, I thought I’d just surprise him if the owner and I came to a decision.
When I left the area to rendezvous with the car owner, I stopped at the information booth, located at the front of the airport. The grey-haired woman behind the counter smiled as I approached.
“May I help you?”
“Yes, you can,” I nodded. “I’m leaving in a few minutes to test drive a car. If I’m not back in an hour, will you please call the police?”
“Really? You don’t mean that, do you?” she exclaimed. “I’ve never had such a request. Gosh. That scares me.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Here’s the telephone number of the car’s owner.”
As I left the airport, I turned and glanced back at her. She looked like she was going to burst into tears. She was on the phone, probably asking a supervisor what she should do.
I hope this won’t take more than an hour, I thought. Or I’ll be in big trouble.
The doctor parked in front of the baggage-claim area and waved to me as he climbed out of his car. He sported gray slacks and a navy blazer. We introduced ourselves and I walked around the vehicle. It looked brand-new. He let me drive on several nearby roads and the Cadillac functioned flawlessly.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked. “Is this something you’d like?”
“Yes, I do like it,” I said. “But let’s talk price.”
Once we decided on cost, he suggested we drive to his home since he and his wife lived close by. On his dining table in his one-story house, we wrote an agreement. The area had white carp
eting and sparkled with cleanliness. His car was just as spotless. Our handwritten contract stated my bank would wire money from my Angler’s account to his bank on Monday, the next day.
He gave me the keys to his luxurious car and I drove back to the airport, staring at the hood ornament and thinking what a great deal I had just made. Yet no money had changed hands. He trusted me enough to give me his expensive automobile with nothing more than a handshake and a piece of paper. This business transaction was another reason why I loved the Rockies. Life was good and honesty was paramount. I immediately reported to the woman at the information booth. She leaned across the counter and grabbed both my hands.
“I’m so relieved. I’ve been terribly worried,” she said. “You shouldn’t do these things. You could get into trouble. You’re lucky the owner was decent.”
I nodded, thanked her for her concern, and walked from the airport. My new car waited outside. I’d be home in four hours. This action was typical of the way I lived my life. I had seized another opportunity, another spontaneous decision.
After the purchase of this fancy car, my time lapsed into normal ranch routines. I worked weekdays upstairs in the Angler’s office and on weekends I joined Mike and Matt for fishing and camping trips. When Halloween approached, Mike took off for a week of fishing on the Clearwater River in Northern Idaho. While he was gone, I bundled eight-year-old Matt and Kellen Nebeker into the car and gathered his two older brothers. The five of us were going roller skating at Skateland in Twin Falls. After a couple of hours, I collected the four boys and watched them race back to the car. Taking the Foothills Road to Murtaugh, I pulled into the Nebeker’s driveway.
“Would you like to see our baby pigs?” Kellen asked. “They’re just born.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve never seen a baby pig.”
We walked toward the barn at the rear of the property. The boys’ father, Bill Nebeker, accompanied us into the weathered building. I was surprised to see the sow had been placed in a V-shaped, metal stockade. An enormous pink hog lay within the enclosure while a bunch of little piglets ran between her legs, each trying to get a good hold on one of her teats. The wide section of the “V” was open at the top, the bottom section was tighter but allowed the sow to lie down while nursing.
“Why’s she so locked up?” I asked Bill, who stood next to me.
“That’s so she doesn’t crush her babies,” he answered. “She’s huge, so if she went down quickly, she could smash anything below her. This way the piglets can nurse and she can’t accidentally hurt them.”
“Would you sell one?” I asked impulsively. I knew nothing about pigs and neither did Mike. The only hog farmer living nearby was Bill and he only had a few. I must have thought this little pig would be like Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web. So, I responded as I did with most things in my life—I had an opportunity and was willing to take a chance—just like the Cadillac purchase in Salt Lake City. Besides, those piglets were darn cute!
“Sure. At this stage, they only weigh eleven pounds,” he answered. “How about fifteen dollars?”
“Great. You only have one in black. May I have it?”
“Of course,” he said as he reached into the pen.
While I went back to my car to retrieve some money, Bill deposited the squalling bundle into a cardboard box and carried it to my car. It was as little as a month-old Labrador puppy. He placed the open box in the front seat and gave me a small bag of food.
“This will hold you over until you can get to town,” he said. “She’s only three weeks old but she’ll be fine without nursing. This kibble is specially made for piglets.”
Matt pushed the driver’s seat forward and climbed into the backseat. He stood, craning over the front passenger seat, staring at the squirming object in the square box.
“She’s a Yorkshire,” Bill added as I pushed two buttons on my armrest and lowered both front windows.
Once we cinched our seatbelts and waved goodbye, I backed out of their driveway. We had a few miles to go before we reached the ranch. The inquisitive piglet peaked from the box and stared out the open window. How strange to see this tiny, black pig sitting in the front seat of a Cadillac, checking out the landscape, its little ears flopping in the wind. As a child, I grew up with numerous pets: dogs, cats, parakeets, canaries, turtles, and fish. Having a piglet meant having another pet for Matt and me to enjoy. Mike wasn’t into pets. He thought, as did most farmers, that animals were useful only for food or as work animals.
On the way home, we talked about different names. We decided on Polly. After I carried her into the house, Matt made a safe spot for her in the laundry room near the backdoor. He brought in newspapers, layered them on the vinyl floor, and placed old towels at the far end. I added two bowls, one for food and another for water. In our garage, I found a large piece of cardboard and cut it to hinge into the pocket door’s gap. We could look over the two-foot-high cardboard gate and check Polly’s status. I gently lowered her onto the laundry room floor and the two of us watched her scramble from us, squealing in the process.
Once she seemed settled, I looked up Yorkshire pigs in my World Book Encyclopedia. “They are white or pink with upright ears,” the book stated. Her mother and siblings were as described. Polly was black with drooping ears. She must have been an anomaly as she certainly didn’t look like any other pigs at the Nebeker farm. The encyclopedia also said Yorkshires can live up to ten years. Obviously, that would be rare as most pigs are slaughtered between four months and a year. That is, unless they are used for breeding. Matt and I quickly learned two things about pigs: one, they are slobs, and two, their manure stinks. When we checked on Polly ten minutes later, she had shredded the newspapers, turned over the water bowl, and sprayed pig food everywhere. Her home looked like a literal pig pen.
In another hour of a whirlwind mess in the laundry room, I opened both the kitchen and back doors and let her outside to do her business. Polly went around our arbor vitae hedge, into my flower bed of orange gladiolas and purple pansies. She accomplished her mission, but from then on, all hell broke loose. She ran onto the lawn and seemed impossible to catch. I had no idea a tiny piglet could run at such a speed. With both Matt and me chasing her for twenty minutes, she finally tired enough for us to trap her. She was only three weeks old and it took all that time for us to corral her. I got an old dog collar, put it around her neck, and added a leash. No way would we ever let Polly loose again. We were absolutely beat!
The next day, I once again attached the leash to her collar and opened both the kitchen and back doors. I followed her as she went right to the same spot, turned around, and did her business. She then walked back into the laundry room. She had been house trained in one day.
Life went on as usual for another few days until Mike called to tell me about catching some steelhead on the Clearwater. Because he was in such a good mood, I thought I’d bring up the subject of my latest pet. We already had a black Labrador, a black cat, and a black horse. Why not a black pig? Obviously, this was not what he wanted to hear.
“That pig better be out of the house before I get home!” Mike roared into the phone. The line went dead.
“You’re so mean.” I whispered to empty air and slowly replaced the receiver.
“That didn’t go well,” I said to myself. I called Terry on the house phone and explained the awkward situation about my new pet.
“Can you create a partition inside the barn for the pig?” I asked. “Mike is coming home tomorrow, and I have to get her out of the house.”
“Melvin and I will come over tomorrow afternoon. I’m super busy right now,” he answered.
“Thanks. You’ve saved my hide. Again!”
The guys didn’t arrive until late in the day and didn’t have the right supplies to finish the job. Mike would be home that night and I was panic stricken.
“Is that pig out of the house?” Mike asked when he telephoned from Boise, three hours away. I explained that Polly was still in
the laundry room because Terry and Melvin couldn’t complete the job as soon as they had expected.
“They promised me it would be finished tomorrow morning,” I said. “Can you get a hotel room tonight?”
“No. I’m coming home. And I’m dead tired,” Mike answered sharply.
I knew he would be exhausted as it was at least a ten-hour drive from the Clearwater River to Sky Ranch. When he walked in the back door, I stood in front of the kitchen counter, mixing salad ingredients. I turned and faced Mike. His eyes were hard and cold. I braced myself against the force of his anger. He frowned and walked straight into the kitchen. He never looked into the laundry room, not even to glance. Not even out of curiosity. I gave him a hug and again explained the situation. He didn’t care. He just wanted something to eat and to rest on the living room couch. It was early evening and he was totally drained. While Mike brought in his suitcase, I placed his dinner on the kitchen table along with a pitcher of milk.
“It’s Halloween so you’ll have the night to yourself,” I stated after he had eaten his dinner. “I’m taking Matt and a few of his friends Trick or Treating. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Good. No one to bother me,” he said as he headed to the living room. Alone, he would be able to doze in the quiet of an empty house.
After a perfunctory hug, I left to gather Matt and some neighborhood children: Sarah, JR, and Little Mario. They huddled in the back seat and Matt sat up front. We covered at least forty miles to reach the homes and ranches around the south side of Murtaugh. Dressed as pirates with eye patches and rubber knives, they rang doorbells and returned with bags full of candy. When I dropped everyone off, Matt asked to stay overnight at JR’s house. As long as Cathy didn’t mind and the children had no school the next day, I was okay with the arrangement. As I drove into the garage, I prepared myself for another hassle. Mike waited for me in the kitchen, arms crossed, his legs planted far apart. I could tell our conversation was going to be intense.
