Damned Feeder Pigs!!

This is where I grew up. This is the view from the house, looking down to the barn. Dad had just cut the hay when I took this picture, and you could smell it drying. I love it here. I have so many wonderful memories that are all connected with this section of earth. I am certain that almost all of the really important lessons of life, I learned right here.

Every day after school I walked down this road to do chores. And so did Thomasina. Although I remember being somewhat less than enthusiastic about this sometimes, after I got going, it was always a wonderful release after being cooped up in a classroom all day. Sometimes Thomasina would walk down with me, and sometimes I would do my best to escape my seemingly pesky little sister and get some time to myself.

Thomasina was actually a good little sister. She could have told on me for about.....oh....I don't know........a million things. But she never did. Well. ALMOST never.

One day, when I was 11 or 12 and Thomasina was 8 or 9(Em would have been way-little, so she's not in this story) we were at the barn doing our normal chores. At that time, It was my job to milk Rosie, our milk cow, in the evenings. I had already used up any goodness that was within my wicked little self, at school that day. My friends were stressing me out big time. Stayin' cool, was hard. I STILL didn't have those Jordache jeans. It had been a rough day. Man, I was sweatin' life.

Not long after getting to the barn,I had Rosie in her stall. She was happily munching her feed. I grabbed the stool, squated down and started milking. I had hardly gotten a cup full in the bucket, when a feeder pig, scurried through. Then another. And another. HOW DID THEY GET OUT?! There were more than 5. Feeder pigs are about the size of a medium dog, and they are just full of teenagery youthfulness and mischief. They were all around Rosie's food, and then all around the milk bucket. Rosie was a good and gentle milk cow, but she'd had enough. She kicked at all the annoying pigs, and knocked over the bucket. ARGH!
I yelled. I waved my arms. I stomped around. It was no use, they totally ignored me and ran in and out from under the stall, like it was Disneyland.

I called to Thomasina, and she came running over from the hen house. "Keep these stupid pigs out of this stall so I can finish milking!"

Now, looking back.....I'm not sure how an 8 year old would be able to keep 5+ feeder pigs from doing ANYTHING. But at the time, it seemed like a reasonable request to heap upon my sibling.

Of course this was doomed to failure. And although Thom was a spry and fearless, pig-kickin' kid, the previous scene repeated itself, complete with Rosie knocking over about 1/2 a bucket of milk this time.

I snapped.

I climed over the stall wall while muttering, "I am so SICK of these DAMNED pigs!!!!!!" (gasp!) I said the "d" word! Did I say that out loud?? One look at Thomasina's wide, you're-going-to-hell-eyes, told me that yes..........I HAD said the "d" word OUT LOUD. And with a much smaller voice now, I said "Just don't tell mom, O.K?" .......... long pause.........O.K??? (silence)

I was dead meat. She was telling. She had to. Her big sister was on the path to hell for sure.

I don't remember what happened with the pigs, or with Rosie, or if I ever did get any milk in the bucket to take back up to the house. All I remember was being mortified at how dissapointed that my mom was going to be when she found out that her oldest daughter cussed like a sailor. (Which, at the time, I actually WAS doing on a regular basis at school.)

*To this day, I have never heard my mother utter a curse word. (Although my sister swears that she once heard her day, "Derned thing!"). But I didn't hear it myself, so I can't be sure.*

My mom talked to me about the whole incident. I don't remember much of what she said. Sorry, mom, I'm sure it was a good talk and all. But I DO remember her looking me straight in the eye and asking me. "Now where did you hear talk like that?"

Now...... dear readers, I had heard "talk like that" numerous times every day from my dad. Since birth. (Like a scene straight from The Christmas Story.) Dad has always had a very colorful vocabulary that meshes so nicely with his southern drawl. It's part of who he is. I had learned a whole BUNCH of curse words from my dad.

But I remember looking at my mom and blurting out between sobs, "the kids at school!"

It wasn't too long after that, that I was in private school.

There isn't much of a moral to this story. Mostly just a funny memory. The talk didn't really stick either. I still cuss on occasion. (sorry mom) Though I do TRY not to. But when I'm stressed.....you know.......it's like there are feeder pigs everywhere, again. Damn it!

And Thom, thanks for not telling Mom about all the other stuff.

g'night!

Melissa