Not in Kansas Anymore

We were walking home after school today on the path just before our house. Owen was up ahead while I was stopped to talk with our local coconut seller, Nyoman, and his wife, Nyoman. I am not making this up. Suddenly, a group of about fifteen Balinese men came down the path holding a bamboo pole the size of a telephone pole with a squealing pig hanging from it by the legs (sorry, this happened too fast to get a picture). The pig was pony-sized, and a little upset. I ran ahead to find Owen and make sure he handled it well. He reported the sight, was awed by it and also dismayed. "I'm a little sad, Dad. They're not gonna hurt it, are they?" (Okay, should I tell him the truth and risk jeopardizing bedtime with a trembly-lipped boy or go with a white lie?) So I told him they were probably taking him to the pig doctor, as they would have gutted him at home if they were going to eat him, to avoid carrying all that weight. He took that in stride and we went home for a swim. As Owen hopped in the pool and I sat on the veranda eating a bowl of cereal, gathering my troops for the evening tasks of parenting, the air was abruptly filled with the haunting death screams of the pig from across the rice paddy adjacent to our villa. Owen didn't notice, but it went on and on for what seemed much longer than reasonably possible. All that and the damned Packers lost to the Giants. I was all set to watch a Niners/Packers game in Bali. We're finding our way, and more happens in each day than I can process emotionally. The kids seem to be settling in and figuring out the rhythm of our days. We're pretty wrung-out by the time we get them to sleep.