Just Like Nothing (else) on Earth: Frying Pan Farm Park

By Tim Jon

One of my fondest possessions is an old black and white photograph, showing an ecstatic little boy—probably around six or seven years of age, with a baby deer in his arms. You see, as a child, I was absolutely insatiable when it came to animals: birds, beasts, insects, fish, reptiles and amphibians—even dinosaurs. I can just about imagine the handful I must have presented at what must have been one of the nearly-ubiquitous “Bambi-Land’s we often visited on vacation in Northern Minnesota. Virtually any living creature was—if possible—dearly clutched to my heart: I would—undoubtedly—if given the opportunity—have taken them all home. I’ve felt this way about critters (and even people) I’ve loved for over six decades. 

So, you can imagine my delight in sifting through the recent sensory, emotional and even spiritual memories from my first-ever walk around a local gem of a place—Frying Pan Farm Park, in Herndon. This marked the first time in my life that I actually felt that the animals (bless their souls) at the facility wanted to adopt me, instead of the usual, other way ‘round. 

It started at the sheep pen, when these wooly beings ambled right over to the nearest proximity they could access, and gave me the best google eyes they could muster. It got even more steamy at the next stop—when the two baby calves did everything but crawl through—or over—the wooden partition, to most likely lick me to pieces. About all I remember seeing of them was saucer-sized eyes, tongues of which an anteater would be proud, and noses that reached so far they obliterated all hope of any useful camera shots. 

Well, the sheep and cattle racked up some high scores, but the third enclosure I walked up to was the charm: a litter of very small, all-black, baby pigs—two of whom instantly trotted over to my end of the pen, sat down on their haunches and promptly gave me … what else: the ultimate cute piglet look. The smaller of the two—perhaps the ‘runt’ of the litter of several I eventually saw— appeared quite satisfied to spend the rest of the day in this fashion. Well, so was I. And it was quite early in the morning. Not sure if I’ll ever get over that little guy. 

After I’d partially recovered from this intimate, heart-to-heart meeting, it’s probably fortunate that the goats—who next introduced themselves—were of the adult variety: they were very engaging and of course full of personality, but I’m almost grateful I got a break from the ‘maternity ward’ section of the farm. 

Now, the older, all-white billy-goat who tried to climb through the fence and gain access to—not me—his morning rations, of what looked and smelled like ground corn, probably took the showmanship prize of the morning’s creature cuteness contest. This wasn’t his first rodeo, you can be sure. 

Adjacent to this memorable barnyard veteran was a magnificent (and massive!) dun-brown draft horse—in a pasture as expansive as its resident. I’m not sure of the breed—possibly a Belgian, a Percheron or a mixture of some type—standing up close, very personal and all ready for his (or her) close-up. 

By the time I’d reached the open fields housing the adult cattle, some with partially-grown calves, I discovered my camera had been working overtime, and I’d come to the end of my digital data allotment. This doesn’t happen very often. 

From this point, it was pure enjoyment, as I could do little but savor the moments, as I pivoted, surveyed the expanses I hadn’t even covered, made a promise to return at the first opportunity, and slowly, (and, yes, at least a bit regretfully) made my way back to my new transportation unit for the ride home and the rest of my day. 

I was truly overwhelmed, in the very best sense of the word. After losing my two beloved companion dogs over the previous 18 months or so, I had just experienced more eye contact than I’d enjoyed in what seemed like lifetimes. 

Now, I like delivering mail and the morning repartee with my fellow employees, but it’s not exactly emotional or spiritual therapy—especially for one who—for years and years—lived as pretty much a real-life starving artist. A dear friend once told me, “You can have everything in life—just not all at once.” 

Yup. And, yes, I realize that my term, “baby calves,” and probably a few other abuses of the English language in the above descriptions represent redundancies. To me, they are, and will always remain, baby calves and other such lovable little guys.