They say you always go back to your roots. I always thought that was only true for people that grew up near those roots. I guess not. I grew up in suburbia. Our idea of the country was driving to the lake and camping...in a travel trailer with only one bathroom.
We lived within walking distance of the mall, although we never walked. Except one time in sixth grade when my friend Johnna and I walked the mile and a half to shop without permission. We were in big trouble when my mom found out. Walking that distance was far too dangerous.
I know how to hale a downtown taxi, ride a city bus and toss coins in the toll booth without coming to a complete stop. I know which fork to start with, which to end with and what to do with foods like escargot and calamari.
Growing up, I never thought I would embrace the roots that my parents had left 1800 miles behind us before I was even a year old. Stories of farm life, hunting and dirt roads were distant memories for them and fairytales to me.
Then I met John “Redneck” Sonnenmoser. Happily, my life changed and over the next several years my sophisticated life evolved into the freedom that comes with simplicity and the peace that is found in a walk through the woods.
Of course, I have learned a lot of lessons as a redneck's bride. One of them involves a request for an Easter Ham, a spring pig and a less than happy butcher's wife.
I was planning Easter dinner for my husband’s huge family and asked him to stop by the butcher and pick up a ham while he was in town. When I pulled into our driveway from work there was a very odd looking cage on the back of his pick-up. As I got closer I noticed that there was a rather large hog in the cage. I asked him if he was planning to take the hog to the butcher the next morning, but he said, “No, you are.” Knowing nothing about hogs, I was a bit nervous but he assured me all I had to do was get it there and the butcher would do the rest. He was wrong.
The butcher didn't have the type of load-out used for a pick-up and a hog is not in the habit of leaping from the tailgate. So, we pushed, we pulled, we tried to lure our little piggy with some nice scraps from the butcher's own table. Nothing worked. We tried to chase him off the truck and down a makeshift ramp we made by removing the tailgate and leaning it sideways from the truck's bed. But, the hog seemed to have a much higher degree of stubbornness than our clever plan could outwit and he stopped on a dime at the very edge of the truck.
We lived within walking distance of the mall, although we never walked. Except one time in sixth grade when my friend Johnna and I walked the mile and a half to shop without permission. We were in big trouble when my mom found out. Walking that distance was far too dangerous.
I know how to hale a downtown taxi, ride a city bus and toss coins in the toll booth without coming to a complete stop. I know which fork to start with, which to end with and what to do with foods like escargot and calamari.
Growing up, I never thought I would embrace the roots that my parents had left 1800 miles behind us before I was even a year old. Stories of farm life, hunting and dirt roads were distant memories for them and fairytales to me.
Then I met John “Redneck” Sonnenmoser. Happily, my life changed and over the next several years my sophisticated life evolved into the freedom that comes with simplicity and the peace that is found in a walk through the woods.
Of course, I have learned a lot of lessons as a redneck's bride. One of them involves a request for an Easter Ham, a spring pig and a less than happy butcher's wife.
I was planning Easter dinner for my husband’s huge family and asked him to stop by the butcher and pick up a ham while he was in town. When I pulled into our driveway from work there was a very odd looking cage on the back of his pick-up. As I got closer I noticed that there was a rather large hog in the cage. I asked him if he was planning to take the hog to the butcher the next morning, but he said, “No, you are.” Knowing nothing about hogs, I was a bit nervous but he assured me all I had to do was get it there and the butcher would do the rest. He was wrong.
The butcher didn't have the type of load-out used for a pick-up and a hog is not in the habit of leaping from the tailgate. So, we pushed, we pulled, we tried to lure our little piggy with some nice scraps from the butcher's own table. Nothing worked. We tried to chase him off the truck and down a makeshift ramp we made by removing the tailgate and leaning it sideways from the truck's bed. But, the hog seemed to have a much higher degree of stubbornness than our clever plan could outwit and he stopped on a dime at the very edge of the truck.
The butcher's wife was growing impatient with our delima and with the city girl who had been sent to deliver the hog. "Didn't you know you needed ramps?" she asked in an ever so accusatory voice.
She must have noticed I was close to tears because she quickly added that she was going to give my husband "what for" the next time she saw him. "He should have taken care of this for you," she said in a newly sympathetic tone.
It took over an hour of failed attempts to separate the hog from his comfortable stance in the pick-up, including the use of a cattle prod, before we gave up. "I think I have a rifle behind the seat," I said in the most brave, country-girl voice I could muster.
Our butcher must have seen the queasiness in my eyes. The thought of trying to shoot an animal was bad enough, having to miss the gas tank and bystanders made it an overwhelming task.
"Well, I can shoot it off the truck," he said as if it were the most incredible idea either of us had ever had.
His wife and I went into the office to start writing our order. Moments later the hog was hanging in his shop. And I had chalked up life lesson number 485: If you are a carnivore, your meat was not always wrapped neatly in plastic and on display at the grocery store.
I was not very happy about our ham by the time it was over. In fact, it was a good thing John wasn't home when I got home or the second most heated argument of our marriage might have ensued. (The first was about margarine, I'll tell that story another time)
While I was fuming over the whole pork problem, God showed me the wisdom in John's redneck thinking. For nearly the same price we would have paid for a fancy ham we had several meals worth of pork chops, ribs, roasts, bacon and yes, ham. He was providing more for our family than I had asked for or imagined and all it required of me was a little trip out of my comfort zone.
I had to submit my thoughts of a honey-baked, spiral-sliced ham to his thoughts of filling the freezer with meat. It was not a cruel joke on his city girl wife, but entrusting part of the provision God had given him to his redneck bride.
When John came home that night, I threw my arms around his neck and thanked him for being such a great provider. Then, I lightly punched him in the arm and relayed the dramatic saga in detail...the butcher, the butcher's wife, a cattle prod and a redneck's bride.
Oh...and the angry butcher's wife...took pity on this city girl, becoming a dear friend and sharing our love for writing.
It took over an hour of failed attempts to separate the hog from his comfortable stance in the pick-up, including the use of a cattle prod, before we gave up. "I think I have a rifle behind the seat," I said in the most brave, country-girl voice I could muster.
Our butcher must have seen the queasiness in my eyes. The thought of trying to shoot an animal was bad enough, having to miss the gas tank and bystanders made it an overwhelming task.
"Well, I can shoot it off the truck," he said as if it were the most incredible idea either of us had ever had.
His wife and I went into the office to start writing our order. Moments later the hog was hanging in his shop. And I had chalked up life lesson number 485: If you are a carnivore, your meat was not always wrapped neatly in plastic and on display at the grocery store.
I was not very happy about our ham by the time it was over. In fact, it was a good thing John wasn't home when I got home or the second most heated argument of our marriage might have ensued. (The first was about margarine, I'll tell that story another time)
While I was fuming over the whole pork problem, God showed me the wisdom in John's redneck thinking. For nearly the same price we would have paid for a fancy ham we had several meals worth of pork chops, ribs, roasts, bacon and yes, ham. He was providing more for our family than I had asked for or imagined and all it required of me was a little trip out of my comfort zone.
I had to submit my thoughts of a honey-baked, spiral-sliced ham to his thoughts of filling the freezer with meat. It was not a cruel joke on his city girl wife, but entrusting part of the provision God had given him to his redneck bride.
When John came home that night, I threw my arms around his neck and thanked him for being such a great provider. Then, I lightly punched him in the arm and relayed the dramatic saga in detail...the butcher, the butcher's wife, a cattle prod and a redneck's bride.
Oh...and the angry butcher's wife...took pity on this city girl, becoming a dear friend and sharing our love for writing.
