Katie isn’t much of a watch dog. She isn’t much of a guard dog, and she’s a complete washout as a huntress. But I still call her the wonder dog, not because she seems struck with wonder every she watches the chipmunks munch my zucchini blossoms, but because when it counts – when I’m about to have a close encounter with a bear, for example – she can demonstrate incredible bravery (it could be stupidity, but I’m giving her the benefit here).

But for all her bravery, this little hound-mix gets no respect from the feline members of our family. They eat out of her bowl – sometimes elbowing her out of the way to get the first taste. They often torment her for sport. In short, they seem to regard her as a lovable, but moronic, escaped mental patient, and most of the time she seems to be okay with this.

But yesterday her laid back nature had an unexpected consequence.

Katie is the proverbial kid who will get in a stranger’s car for the promise of a little ice cream, only she doesn’t need the ice cream, just the car – any car – and a pat on the head. She loves people. And two days ago, after breaking out of the prison that is our house, she decided that a ride in a car was the perfect way to cap off a swim at the river.

When she got back from our neighbor’s house the next morning, she was very happy to see us again, but I was still a little strung out from worry. I ushered her in the door and ordered her to go lie down. Her tail literally between her legs, she slunk to her cushion.

Much to her consternation Chuck, the leaner, meaner of our two cats (as far as Katie is concerned), was already lying in the only spot in the house that she calls her own. She looked at me, nervously wagging her tail and then sniffed at Chuck. Completely unconcerned and unsympathetic, he lazily rolled onto his back, maintaining eye contact with her at all times. She whimpered and sidled up to me.

My sympathies were stirring, and I got up to referee, but Chuck just glanced at me before curling up in a ball and closing his eyes. Katie hung her head and walked under the kitchen table, nervously settling herself under my chair. She’s a great foot-warmer, but it was 85 degrees out so instead of resuming my spot at the table, I went over to Chuck and started petting him. He responded as any king would to a slave, angling his head and body to enhance the pleasure of being served, but I surprised him by scooping him up for a minute of what I like to call Kiddie-Kitten-cuddle (taught to me by my then-two-year-old, it involves hugging the stuffing out of an ordinarily dignified cat). I put him back down on the cushion. Clearly offended, he glared at me and sauntered to the couch for a quick claw and then found a new perch.

My meek little puppy instantly sensed what had happened and excitedly got up and went over to lick Chuck on the couch, then came back to lick my hand in homage. Then, tail wagging furiously, she scuttled to her cushion, turned thrice, and plopped down. She made a few short muffled sounds to get my attention, thumped her tail a few times and then, training her eyes cautiously on Chuck, put her head down between her paws.

Sometimes picking the right ally is as important as picking the right battle and Katie had apparently learned how to do both.

“La la la la la”

The pint-sized passenger in the backseat caught my eye in the rear-view mirror and, detecting a hint of smile, decided that at least one more chorus was in order.

It didn’t take too many refrains, however, before the La-La’s turned to LA-LA’s, and I knew the less eye contact made, the sooner he would grow bored with this tune.  I tried focusing on the road and the farms we were passing, but what he lacked in pitch, he made up for in volume, and  my head was beginning to spin.

So when we rounded a curve and I noticed a sign on the left.  I began to wonder if I had left my sanity by the road a few miles back.  Balanced on the rusting seat of an ancient horse-powered plow was a sign that said ‘Kids for Sale’.  My foot left the accelerator, and the caterwauling behind me diminished slightly.  I scratched my head.  All I could think of was that scene in  Oliver Twist with the guy singing, “Boy for sale!”  A laugh stuck in my throat as I pondered who had put up the sign.  Suddenly I remembered we had passed this farm on the way to the market, and I recalled seeing the livestock in the pasture behind the house.

“Oh,” I exclaimed, “They’re selling baby goats!”

The singing in the back was singing again, and my five-year-old didn’t miss a beat as he belted out a new song: “Let’s get a kid.  Let’s get a kid.”

I stifled a smile and, hoping my sanity had caught up to us, stomped on the accelerator.

We spread out our blanket and our dinner, a picnic hastily harvested from the garden and the farmer’s market.  We were facing west, but the sun had just dipped below the mountain at the end of the field, and a soft pink glow bathed the simple, temporary stage on the lawn before us.

It was a perfect swishing, summer night, for a quiet visit with friends before the play began, but the excitement of an evening out had already infected Thing2, our five-year-old, and threatened to spread to Thing1.  We had danced/dragged him from the car to the lawn by the old church, and he was still dancing and singing as we started popping open tupperware.  I gently reprimanded him only to be met with more singing.  Daddy reprimanded him more forcefully, but even his baritone couldn’t dampen the sing-song cheerfulness.

The chirping diminished only slightly when we pointed out the food, and we noted with relief that a few other children were responding to the atmosphere.  Still, I began to worry that one of us would be taking Thing2 home early – even outdoor theatre needs quiet to be enjoyed – but before I could execute a retreat with him, the Master of Ceremony trod out to the center of the amphitheater that had been formed by the gathered families and friends.

In a strong, deep voice he introduced the play and its history. Then he exhorted the assembled audience to put away their video cameras and cell phones and to unplug ourselves for the moment.

Thing2 instantly interpreted this last entreaty in his own way, and unplugged himself from the seemingly-cosmic source of energy that had buoyed his antics until this very moment.  He grabbed his drink and a piece of tomato and wiggled onto my lap, wrapping my jacket and arms around him.  The command seemed to have the same effect on the other small children, and, as the darkness grew and the play began they too snuggled into the closest parent.

We heard a few beeps of phones being powered-down, and then the hum of chatter ceased.  The only sound was the rustle of the trees as a few gentle gusts of wind swirled through the valley to the mountain.

And, once they were satisfied that we had truly unplugged ourselves from our gadgets and our busy lives, the company of players sounded a soft drum beat to herald the play and, with it, utter peace.

If there is one thing I’m good at it’s making bad decisions. And when I was about 20 years old my special talent nearly cost me my life.

My bad choices led me to the worst jobs for the worst reasons, they had led me into dangerous situations populated with equally dangerous people. I was building a checkered past and not certain how I would break out of that pattern when fate casually walked through the door in the form of two well armed young men.

It took five minutes for them to rob us.

When it was over, I fled first to my apartment but, discovering they had used my stolen keys, I fled again, finding refuge in the basement of a friend’s apartment.  I hid there for over a month.

For that month, my only window to the outside world was their large-screen TV, and I consumed a steady diet of news letting my fear consume and embalm me.  The cocoon became a crypt, and when I emerged I had not evolved but grown the beginnings of a sarcophagus around my soul.  Now, I couldn’t be alone or in a crowd.  I moved constantly and changed jobs just as frequently, painting my new shell in the increasingly garish colors of my bad decisions.

Ultimately, I left my home for a new city, hoping to escape bad memories and the results of my bad choices, but my shell went with me.

In the city, I needed a roommate. My aunt, an expert on these things, guided me, locating a promising ad instantly. At first it seemed like a bad find; the ad had been placed by two men, but she assured me this was common in the city and, as the man on the phone sounded like he wasn’t  “an ax murderer “, she urged me to see the apartment.

Then next day I met with with the self-described goofy-looking goon.  This giant was definitely goofy, but he was also the most incurably friendly person I have ever met.  I took the apartment that day, and my shell began to crack.

It was weeks before I became aware of the fissure.  But as the goofy-looking goon and I quickly became friends, I noticed that, despite his own recent loss, he never seemed to retreat from the world.  He greeted everyone – corporate VPs or janitors – with the same good-natured cheerfulness, and as he was wrapping the world in a bear-hug, he took my hand and yanked me back into it.

To be sure, I still have the occasional flashback, but fear no longer owns me.  And, even though I sympathize with the urge to retreat in the face of the horrors the world inflicts on us all, burying myself alive didn’t make me safer, it just made me alone.

We were talking about barns at writing group yesterday.  Two of our members mentioned that the falling-down barns that are strewn around Washington County remind them of things cast aside.  There were inevitable comparisons between the aging barns and cast-off people and, with them, a bit of sadness.  But, for me, the talk of barns revived a feeling of optimism about rural life I’d enjoyed since leaving the farmer’s market earlier in the day.

We go because my kids love the farmer’s markets.  It’s not like going to the grocery story – I don’t have to drag them there, the kids love the sights and smells, they’ll eat the vegetables because they were fun to choose, and we actually spend about the same amount of money for a week’s worth of food as we would at the grocery store.

Yesterday, as the market began to close up, a young couple in their late 20s or early 30s caught my eye.  They were packing up to go home.  At first I noticed how young they seemed to be to be interested in farming.  I realized I was watching a little act of faith in the future of rural life.  But what I noticed next was their infant daughter (the bigger act of faith).

It was hot out,but she was completely content lying in her carrier under the canopy as she listened to the hum of her parents’ conversation.  They looked tired and ready to go home, but they didn’t look frazzled or worried.  They were working hard, but both farmers/parents smiled at each other and at their daughter from time to time.  And, as I thought about the hope this farming family represented, I thought about their daughter and her future here in the country.

Few farmers are financially wealthy, and she may want things that kids in other areas take for granted.  But when she gets to that age when she’s old enough to notice what she doesn’t have, I’m betting she’ll also start to notice the things she does have.  She’ll be surrounded by some of the most beautiful scenery in the northeast.  She’ll have the freedom not to ‘keep up with the Joneses’, to breathe clean air, to live close to the land as she gets to know nature.

I know this because even though technology is always competing for my sons’ hearts and minds, their souls are in the mountains.   I see it when they emerge from the forest, filthy and full of secrets.  I hear it when they excitedly point out the wildlife in the yard.  And watching this couple nurture hope under the market canopy, felt my faith in the future of rural life renewed.