Stories from the Stringam Family Ranches of Southern Alberta

From the 50s and 60s to today . . .



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Thursday, March 20, 2014

Pig-Riding

Daddy and me.
Do any of the rest of you see the irony here?
Okay I wasn’t supposed to do it.
And I knew I wasn’t supposed to do it.
But that just made it all the more fun.
Maybe I should explain . . .
On the Stringam ranch, behind the chicken *shudder*coop was the pigpen.
It was rather off the beaten track, tucked in as it was.
A destination in itself.
A perfect location for hijinks when the horses were out and everything else possible had been explored/done.
And boredom was threatening to set in.
Or one was feeling petulant and/or adventurous.
One could climb the fence. Slide into the shadow of the shelter. Perch there on an upended bucket.
And pick out a heretofore unidentified victim co-conspirator.
I should point out here that pigs are very sociable and curious creatures.
When something – or someone – is introduced into their world, they immediately converge to give it a sniff.
And a taste.
And they love to be scratched.
Back to my story . . .
All I had to do was sit there until all of the pigs swarmed me.
Scratch a couple.
And (this is the forbidden part) climb aboard one.
The pig would snort and scamper (yes, scamper) across the pen to the far side.
And, if one were lucky enough to still be aboard, back again.
Okay, yes, the fun was decidedly ephemeral (Ooh! Good word!).
One’s raging father could – and often did – appear at any time.
How did he do that?
But there he would be, with hands on hips and the heated glare that only an angry father can summon, as his newly-repentant child silently slid off the pig and exited the pigpen.
Our subsequent conversations usually went something like this:
Dad: Diane! I’ve told you and told you not to ride the pigs! You could injure them. And they get all excited and don’t gain weight.
Me: Look Dad! I fell in the poop!
Yeah. Let’s just cross future rocket scientist off that future occupations list.

Assigned six words that evoked such memories.
How does she do it?
This week's words: Petulantragingpigpenunidentifiedbucketephemeral

13 comments:

  1. Excellent take on Delores' words! Riding a pig? Brave/crazy girl!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yeah. I'm pretty much going to go with crazy... :)

      Delete
  2. But it was fuunnnnn! Whee!

    You were a lively one, weren't you? :)

    Was that a safe spot for you to sit in that picture?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. If you look closely you can see I'm hanging onto daddy's arm. I'm really brave-when dad's standing beside me....

      Delete
  3. Oh, I loved the memory on this one. I don't think I would have wanted to ride a pig but I am happy you had those moments.
    Blessings for the smile!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. You could have sat on the fence and cheered me on! :)

      Delete
  4. Landing in poop isn't the only thing that can happen if you fall off a pig. Did your Dad tell you about that?

    ReplyDelete
  5. You certainly knew how to find the fun!
    I'm just glad you never fell off and got trampled.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yeah. My guardian Angel pretty much had a full-time gig.

      Delete
  6. Dying laughing!!!! And you have the picture to prove it! Excellent post, Diane!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thank you, Marcia. So happy when I can make you laugh! But turn-about is fair play, right?! :)

      Delete

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Diane was born and raised on one of the last of the great old Southern Alberta ranches. A way of life that is fast disappearing now. Through her memories and stories, she keeps it alive. And even, at times, accurate . . .

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