We really do try hard to please our fellow citizens, but sometimes it just plain stinks to be polite.

A few years ago, a local agency called to ask if they could bring out a family of recent immigrants to visit the farm. Sure, why not, and God Bless America. We had a pleasant couple of hours showing the family around, letting the kids sit on a horse, pet a calf, and help feed the pigs. When the interpreter thanked us for the tour, the Papa smiled, shook Ed’s hand, and said one word—“pieces”—with a huge grin on his face as he got in the car. I looked at Ed and shrugged my shoulders, thinking “pieces” must have meant “thanks” in their language. But, as we found out later, “pieces” was an alternative word for “pork.”

“HONK, HONK, HONK” is what we woke up to the next Sunday morning just after daybreak. Somehow, the immigrants had found their way back to our farm by themselves and were sitting in the car, blaring the horn.

Ed was not a very happy camper as we were smack dab in the middle of harvest and he hadn’t gone to sleep more than four hours before. I, on the other hand, poured a cup of coffee and courteously walked out to see what our visitors wanted at five in the morning. Now, sometimes I have a hard time deciphering the cooking directions on a box of Rice-a-Roni or programming a remote control, but trying to understand the immigrants’ wishes was way over my head.

After a very long game of charades, my coffee was getting cold and both Papa settler and I were having a spaz attack of frustration. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why Papa was thanking me over and over again while eating an imaginary chicken leg.

Finally, a young boy emerged from the car and spoke ever so slowly the words, “Pieces … mean … pork.” OK, so we had a bunch of dang pigs on the farm, it was nice to see you again, and please drive safely on the way back to town.

As I headed back to the house, it dawned on me like a ton of bricks what the new settlers were after: a pig!

Sending Ed out the door to deal on a prime porcine for our new friends brought to my mind just too good a picture not to tag along and see how he would manage the task. Apparently, speaking English was not on the top of the list for our local agency, but teaching the value of a dollar had sunk in very well. Watching Ed and Papa chat back and forth in a language only the two of them could understand, I stood in utter amazement.

The immigrants had Ed over a barrel in a matter of minutes with a sale price, and off they trotted to the barn to collect up a “piece.”

Curiosity kills the cat, but there was no way I was going to miss the end of this amusing morning. Following within hearing distance, I listened to Ed tell Papa a joke. Laughing hysterically, Papa returned a joke to Ed and the two of them giggled all the way into the barn.

Thinking back to grammar school, by this time I was really second-guessing myself on the language Mrs. Olson forgot to teach our class. That must have been the semester I was locked up in the coat closet for bringing my horse into the third-grade classroom for show-and-tell—he pooped beside her desk.

Papa immigrant selected a prize porcine specimen for their barbeque and placed him in the back part of the mini-van for the ride back to town. I just shook my head and reminded myself of the “don’t ask, don’t tell” rule while the settlers drove off.

Still a little confused and befuddled at Ed’s amazing hidden language talent, I was trying very hard not to look him in the eye when he started laughing with tears pouring down. It’s catchy when another person is in such good spirits, and I laughed along with him, not knowing why.

Pointing to the plowed field, Ed sat right down on the ground while wiping the tears away. The subject of his laughter was driving bumpity, bumpity at a fast pace through the field on their way back to the city. The immigrants’ country of origin must not have had very good road markers or perhaps no roads at all. After a quarter mile or so, the mini-van made a large loop and the settlers headed back our way. It was about impossible to compose ourselves by this time, but as Papa drove through the yard and onto the road, doing fishtails, he was also laughing and yelled through the open window, “Love de America, be back for more pieces!” in a language we both understood all too well spelled the end of future Sunday morning rest…