When I was a child, there were always pigs.

 My father fancied himself a farmer, and the pigs were the first manifestation of that. Many of my earliest memories are of warm wriggling gunnysacks in the back of a car. Memories of a cardboard box beside the oil heater holding crippled piglets that had been stepped on by their mother and given to dad free by Emilio Vitali. Emilio was a boisterous Italian who sold dad Weaner pigs. With a bit of  tender loving care given by my mother, the little squeakers would be nursed back to health, grow up being fed and cared for lovingly... Then killed and eaten.

Many of my family's stories center on the pigs. You see, they were not our pigs, rather, they were my father's pigs. The rest of us were just supporting cast

My dad's first attempt at pig raising was fraught with adventure. First, he built a pig run made from page wire and held up by fenceposts made from trees found around the property. This arrangement managed to contain them for at least seventeen seconds before they discovered that they could root underneath with no effort whatever. The family's first (But by no means only) pig round-up followed soon after. The cry of "The pigs are out!!" would echo about our house every once in awhile causing all of us to disappear. My dad would always be away at a soccer practise, coaching track & field or some other such thing when this occured. The rest of us would just plain flee. The task (Like so many other unpleasnt tasks) invariably fell to my mother. My mother is a very wise and resourceful woman. She would turn to the task, knowing that like always, she was the only island of sanity and reason in this vast sea of lunacy. Using her supply of innovation and common sense, she would walk backwards with a feed bucket in front of the porker until it had been recaptured. Often this backward progress covered half a mile or more. My mother never shed a tear when the time came to butcher.

Eventually, my father made the pig run reasonably secure, but it was a never-ending struggle.

When the pigs reached maturity, it was time to ship them to Borsato's, the local killing plant. Dad was unwilling  to have them shipped any other way, as that might cost money. He was self-reliant and practical,  so he got out his tools and made something to haul pigs in. He wasn't a carpenter, but he learned from his mistakes. The lessons he learned from the fence were put to good use, the shipping crate he built for the pigs would have easily defeated an enraged bull elephant. The strength didn't come without weight, but he didn't care, it only had to be hoisted into the back of a truck, so no problem...

Shipping day came. Ken Robinson's 1947 International pickup was borrowed and  brought into the yard. The first of the pigs was brought forth and coaxed into the box. Once the alarmed pig was trapped inside there was much self-congratulation. things got a little more complicated then.

Because of the placement of the pig run in our yard, the truck couldn't get anywhere near the box., A good fifty yards separated the two. What to do... what to do. As I hadn't been born yet , he called forth my mother (Before my birth it was mom he tried to kill in various imaginative ways). Mother, beng the brave soul that she is, didn't whine or complain, didn't even tell him to perform physically impossible acts upon his person, she just got down to the job, the quicker it was over, the better.

The plan was hatched.

The shipping crate weighed 200 lbs (I mentioned that my dad made it didn't I??). The pig inside was at least 250 lbs. 450 pounds minimum, 50 yards to cover... No problem...no problem as far as my dad was concerned anyway.

They took their places,  taking  the strain, faces crimson with effort the box rose into the air between them. That much weight shared by my mother and the old man was a pretty impressive feat in itself, but what neither of them anticipated was the pig inside becoming a paniced porcine pinball. It only had a few inches of leeway inside  but it made the most of it by crashing  backward and forward, side to side. My mother noted that they looked a lot like drunks on the deck of a ship in a hurricane as they sweated, swore,staggered and herniated themselves as part B of the plan played out. Even my father would never have expected my mother to carry half of a 450 lb. load for 50 yards (Though I have no doubt that she would have) So, in deference to her feminine delicacy, he had them perch the screeching bundle on the wheelbarrow (his wheelbarrow is yet another story). With set jaw and wild eyes the old man siezed the handles, mother held the box with all her considerable might and they sprinted toward the truck. Two desperate people, one, trying to get this insanity over with so she could go back to dealing with the usual lunacy , and one trying to get this insanity over with so he could hatch the next.Both were surrounded by a cloud of enraged and terrified shrieks and squeals. It was a wonder that the windows of the neighborhood survived.

They made it to the truck. A bouncing desperate dash over uneven, rutted ground. The wheelbarrow groaning in protest, holding itself together because NOTHING dared fail the old man. God knows how, but they got there. The rest of the trip was uneventful, and, according to mother, the other two identical trips they had to make that day were also.
 

When the pork came back from the butcher, and the first roast was prepared, a long standing tradition began. My mother would place my father's plate before him and he would cut the first forkful, depositing it in his mouth with great relish, dripped fat glistening on his chin. "MMMmm...MMMMmmmbyjeezus!!!" he'd exclaim, "god DAMN! that's good pork!". He'd wipe his mouth with a paper towel and cut another piece, holding it dripping on his fork and gesturing with it to the nearest of us. He'd say, "You don't get pork like THAT at the store!". From there the monologue would continue, he'd explain how the pork you get in the store comes from feed lots where they raise cattle for sale, the pigs would run around eating the undigested corn from the cow shit. Whether it was true or not we never knew nor cared. We just came to dread the question...

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