Pulling Pigs

      Since I have last blogged I have lived in two cities, Houston and now Boston. I must say, Boston is very different than any other place I have lived. Most of the cities I have lived in have been in the Midwest. Even Houston has that Midwestern feel to it even though it has a lot of other elements going, from its ethnic diversity and old south undertones. And, in all places, I was never more than 20 minutes from farmland (in Houston I lived in a southern suburb that was very close to the edge of “town”).

     In Boston, that is very different. Everything is different. I pay 40% more rent for less than half the living space I am used to. I take the train into downtown every day and am now part of that sea of people you see on TV hustling to my office. Everything is densely packed together. I could drive west until I get to a “farm.” But it would likely be a country-like estate that has been in this person’s family since 1700 and the farm is just so they can have horses, not grow corn.

I’m sure the type of farm that I grew up on exists in Massachusetts, but I think I would have to drive pretty far.

     Anyway, that’s not to say I don’t like it here. I do. It’s just very different than where I am from. And I just seem to notice that more and more, and I find myself talking about farm life more than I ever have, which is strange, because my contribution to life on the farm was minimal. I bean walked, mowed the lawn, painted fences, and chased in the occasional pig that got out. But, I’ve never loaded or vaccinated hogs, didn’t do “chores”, and never learned to drive a tractor. I can’t even drive stick. Wow, now seeing it here written in black and white, I was pretty worthless as a farmer’s daughter. What a deadbeat.

    Well, in my defense, my domain was mostly in the house with my mom. I helped with the housework, and that, of course, is how I learned to cook so well (thanks Mom). When I was in high school, I typically had one or two jobs.

    But still, I feel the need to talk about the farm and life at home, especially since most of the people I work with grew up in the city, and maybe have only visited a farm on a “field-trip” like excursion. Also, they have admitted to me that they "are not exactly sure where Iowa is", a fact that is giving me wrinkles. So, I have been known around my office to be a teller of “hog stories.” I don’t mean these stories to be particularly humorous, but I guess they come off that way.

     I was telling a story last night over drinks that makes my family sound exceptionally backwoods. I figured, if I ‘m going to play farm girl in a big city, I’m going to celebrate the role.

     My parents married and started a family during the farm crisis. While I don’t remember my parents as struggling or poor, I’m sure my parents worried about finances. I am the youngest of three kids who are very close in age, and my mom stayed home with us until I was about eight or nine, so for a long while, we were all supported solely by my dad’s farm operation.

     I was about four or five, and I was pulled out of my bed in the middle of the night. Us three kids were piled in our Buick and went to “the other place”, my dad’s other farm a mile down the road. I was sleepy, disoriented, and just not sure what was going on. We got to the other place and were pulled out of the car and into the barn. I knew something strange was going on for sure, because we were not allowed in the barn, for various reasons. The biggest reason was that my mother could not stand the way the smell of pigs completely permeated your clothing, hair, skin, etc. My parents bickered often if dad had to “check on something real quick” in the barn on the way to or from town in his nice clothes. My mom was a reluctant farmer’s wife, as referenced in some of my earlier posts (tornado season was an exceptionally hopeful time to my mom). To her, the farm was a way of life solely because she loves my dad. She was not one of those wives who would haul loads of grain into town, or throw on some jeans to clean out pens, but she would cook you one hell of a meal when you were done, smiling with her lipstick perfectly applied and serving you with manicured nails.

     So, imagine my confusion when my brother, sister and I are unceremoniously seated in front of a laboring sow, my dad giving my mom a pep talk. I don’t remember what was said, I don’t remember what we were sitting on. I think it might have been a bale of straw but that seems too quaint. What I do remember is the labored breathing of the sow, the heat of a lamp, the smell of blood, and my mom’s arm going up into this thing and pulling a squealing piglet out.

     And she kept repeating the process. I was initially horrified, then curious. Here the facts of life were unfolding in front of me, as I am seated on a bale of straw (or likely a smelly old blanket) in my Rainbow Brite nightshirt staring up the birth canal of a sow. You didn’t see that on Green Acres.

    My dad talking to her the whole time, and my mom trying to keep her cool as she pulled out several pigs. To an extent, I understood why this was happening: my father has enormous hands, while my mom’s hands are very petite, like mine. I remember thinking that my dad was super nice to have my mom do this instead. I’m sure the sow was grateful, but the look on my mom’s face was not one of gratitude.

     The process took a little while and I feel asleep, and was eventually carted back home and to bed. And this incident was never repeated. I asked mom about it and she simply said, “We didn’t want you kids waking up in the middle of the night and us not being there.” But that wasn’t the mystery. This was clearly a one-time deal, and I know that sows had difficult births often. When my brother was older, he sometimes had to sit with a sow that was having a hard labor.

     Fast forward 25 years to a bar in Omaha. My husband, my dad and I are having some beers with some of my friends. One of my friends, who grew up in the city, was saying he wanted to get into farming. Josh, my dad and I were explaining to him why this was a bad idea, in his situation. He didn’t have the money to invest in land and equipment. He didn’t know anything about livestock or crops. He didn’t know the struggles of just starting out as a farmer and how long it could take before you were financially established, if it ever happened at all. We explained the struggles and the delicate balance you go through to make sure your farm is profitable. To illustrate a point, I told him about my night of witnessing my mom pulling pigs, and I explained that my dad likely did not want to call the veterinarian to come out in the middle of the night, because that can be very costly. However, losing a sow and her piglets is also costly, so my mom had to step in.

     After telling my friend this story, I turned to my dad and said, “Hey, by the way, how did you ever convince her to do that?”

     My dad scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, let me tell you,” he said. “It took plenty of convincing. I had to promise her all kinds of things. The whole time I was talking to her. I promised her a fur coat, I promised her a new deck with French doors...yeah I promised her a lot of things.”

     That explained my dad’s constant chatter during the process, but this also created a problem, because my mom didn't have a fur coat and our farm house never had a deck with French doors.

     “You did not,” I said.

     “Well I most certainly did, how did you think I could convince her to do it?” He asked.

     “Dad! You made certain promises to your wife while she was elbow deep in a sow and  you didn’t deliver?” I exclaimed.

      Dad smirked and chuckled to himself. “No, I guess I kind of forgot about it. That’s probably why she never did it again.” Then he laughed and turned to my friends. "You what it really was? I started thinking of all the stuff I'd to buy every time, and figured it was just cheaper to call the vet."

     We were all giggling about this when my mom arrived, who had been delayed by a little shopping. Typical Mom. I told her that I was telling my friends about the time that she pulled pigs and she immediately shouted, “OH MY GOD, that was awful, and did you know your father promised me all kinds of things? I mean, I was supposed to get some new jewelry, a fur coat, and he was going to build me a beautiful deck with French doors?” She turns to my dad.  “Yeah, Mike, whatever happened to that?”

     An amazing thing had happened, my parent’s accounts on a single story had actually matched up for the most part. This was rare. Especially since my dad can’t remember what he asked me a half hour ago, or where I work, or other things. But he remembered all these exact promises that he supposedly forgot? Typical. Apparently I had revived a 25 year old argument. As amusing as it was to watch my dad squirm, I decided to bail him out. They were my ride home, after all.

    “Well dad, you guys got the house in town now, and there’s French doors to the deck right? So you delivered…eventually,” I said.

     Dad grinned at me, then grinned at my mom. She rolled her eyes and laughed, and I saw how my dad can sometimes get away with shit. He turned back to me

     “Thanks sugar,” he said. “Would you like another beer?”

     Yep, he remembered how to keep me happy, though it would take a lot of beer to get my arm up a pig. And if that ever happened, I would ask for it up front.