I Smell Bush Pigs-Or an Ode to the First Editor of Changing Gears.

“I am beginning to smell bush pigs”

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh, yes I am, I have been on enough ‘adventures’ with you to know a bush pig when I smell one.”

It is Mother’s Day and I am taking a low-key walk on the sea cliffs in Scarborough, Maine with my family. Mother’s Day seems to be the only time I can really demand a Triple-F day anymore. Forced Family Fun. My adult children and their partners are willing to join me on an outing as long as I stay within certain parameters, which I am, but even so they seem to have a fair amount of trepidation.

“Jonah, this is only a five mile stroll along the coast. Easy-peasy, stop fretting.”

My 24-year-old son Jonah, has come to use “Bush pigs” as short-hand for all the times I have led my family on what was promised to be a walk in the park, but somehow morphed into something far more challenging. It was born on a hike up Granite Mountain in Prescott, Arizona over 15 years ago. I had remembered a lovely boulder scramble up the back side that I had done in college many years before and thought my four young children, my husband and I could quickly reenact it; climbing to the top in an hour or two, where we would be rewarded by, what I remembered, to be fields of tall, golden grasses, snorting javelinas and enormous, gnarly, Live Oaks.

In short, the short scramble turned into bouldering. The bouldering turned into throwing children across deep, rock crevices that were far too wide for them to jump across. The sun set and a cold desert night air filled in, chilling our tanktop-clad selves and we became completely lost. We found absolutely no Elysium fields filled with golden grasses, or any bush pigs on top. Rather, just jumbles of toe-piercing cacti, and unforgiving jagged, granite ankle-twisters.

Luckily, in the final minutes of light, blistered, cold and exhausted, we found the trail and descended down the front side of the mountain. Of course I loved it because-what a story! However, I think that was the day I lost credibility as a tour guide in my family’s eyes. My dreams and reality don’t always jibe.

Anyway, the smell of bush pigs was present on Mother’s Day only because I was unaware that dogs were not allowed on this section of the coast due to nesting sand pipers, we left late and so yes, we were again racing the light, as well as our ferry home and maybe some of us had healing injuries that made walking on the uneven, loose coastal rocks a bit painful-but it sure was beautiful. It was no epic adventure, but I believe there is some mild form of PTSD in my children whenever I get over excited about being in the outdoors and it doesn’t take a lot for them to worry.

My son Jonah, who had first smelled the pigs this day, has an uncanny ability of seeing truth. He edits not only my dream-like outing plans, but he was also my first editor for my book, “Changing Gears.” When I finished the first draft, he plunked himself down on the couch and began reading with a proverbial red pen. (He is an excellent writer)

His comments written along side of the draft, steered me with both humor and intelligence. Much like his trailside comments.

“Mama, do we need to go over apostrophe use again?”

“Mama, too many exclamation points!!!!”

“Be more creative-don’t use cliches.”

“This is NOT a word, not now, not ever.”

“Spellcheck.”

I could not be more grateful for him and all he did for me. He is probably fairly responsible for getting this book published. He keeps me grounded in reality in a gentle, direct manner. Always has-and I hope he always will. My unsung hero. I hope we continue to chase many more bush pigs together.

Check out his current project-Rock Salt Journal. It is an online bi-annual magazine focused New England Literature.