Dinner with Friends

My child-hood home was a far cry from what most people would call coveted tourist destinations. My family owned a small orchard and made their living by selling apples and tangerines to the markets of nearby cities. Our land was quite beautiful, a sprawling tapestry of rustling trees and sun-baked grasses that gave of a soft and sweet aroma that I always associated with the smell of peace. My closest neighbor lived at the edge of the horizon, but at seven or eight years old, when the world started to take shape in memories, the house was not quite so far as it seemed to me then - perhaps a dozen acres or so.

Peter, who had only a few months on me, was my best bud in those early years, and he and I would meet halfway between our houses and race each-other to the stream that ran at the edge of our two properties. His parents also knew what it was like to know the land so intimately, as their acreage provided for the animals they raised and sold. Betty was one of their young pigs, and had taken such a liking to Peter and I that she insisted on racing down the plains with us on our carefree childish romps.

Have you ever known a pig? What animated little characters! Betty had a sparkle in her eyes and a spirit to match. She would often roll around in the dirt and, like a dog, beg shamelessly for a belly-rub. She also has quite the unusual affinity for music, flopping her pink little ears and squealing and huffing in her attempts to sing along with our silly children's songs. Her company was, for us, better than human, as she was our third companion even when we went to our "scret" river spot. Once we would reach the riverbank, she would leap into the water just to turn around again and come bounding back at us like a dog, spraying us with water as she shook out her wet, plump belly. Neither Peter nor I were exceptional swimmers, but often we would dangle precariously on tree limbs over the water and giggle furiously at Betty's attempts to follow us even there.