Our Worst First Job

Not his favourite picture!

It was my husband's first job following our marriage.
He was . . . excited.
Foreman of a home-building company.
Sounded prestigious.
And it would be.
Once they got the plant built.
His new boss had a plan that would cut down on initial costs significantly.
They would remodel the boss' pig barn.
It was the right size.
It was in fantastic shape.
Perfect.
It just needed a few touches.
First, and most important, the removal of the pigs.
Then, and nearly as important, the cleaning of the sewer system, still full of . . . ummm . . . sewer stuff.
For those who don't know, a pig barn has little ditches running through it. Ditches that are covered by grates and which catch all of the 'icky' stuff.
When the system gets too full, a truck is brought in.
A special truck, with a large tank and hose.
This hose is inserted at the proper place and all sewage is quickly and cleanly removed.
The truck drives away and discharges its load onto the nearest farmer's field, providing nutrition to growing plants.
Not a pleasant job.
But a necessary one.
And it needed to be done before the building of the building factory could continue.
Grant's boss brought in the truck.
The two of them made quick work of draining the sewers.
Then, the next step.
The discharge.
Normally, this would be the easiest part.
You would simply remove the hose.
Reverse the switch.
And stay upwind.
Things started out well.
Sewage was being discharged at a normal rate.
Then, suddenly, it stopped.
Oh the motor was still running strongly.
It's just that nothing was coming out.
Cautiously, the two of them leaned over to peek into the discharge valve.
"Ah!" Grant's boss said. "I see the problem. Look. It's plugged right there." He pointed. He straightened and began to walk around, kicking at the dirt.
Finally, he spotted a large stick and brought it back to where Grant was still waiting.
"I can fix it," he said, cheerfully. He poked the stick into the valve.
"No, wait . . ." Grant started.
He got no further.
Kaaaablooooie! Or words to that effect.
Let me put it this way . . . neither of them had time to get out of the way.
I'm sure I don't need to describe the scene.

There is an addendum.
It was nearly time for Grant to get home from work.
I was just checking on our evening meal when his truck pulled into the yard and ground to a halt.
Ah! Early. Good. We could have a visit before we sat down to eat.
I glanced through the window.
Just in time to see my young husband, in his underwear, leap from the truck and scamper towards the house.
I admit it. My first thought was, 'Wow! Eager!'
He whipped open the door, tossed me a brief, 'Hi!' and headed directly for the bathroom.
There was the sound of the shower, then a loud, "Ahhhh!"
Now there's something that didn't happen every day.
I walked into the bathroom. "Hard day, Honey?"
"I'll tell you about it!" he said over the sound of the water.
And he did.
I thought it was hilarious.
He didn't.
Extra note: Grant's hastily shed clothes remained in the box of the truck until weeks of weather made it possible for them to be removed to the trash.
But the memories remained.
Some things you just can't wash out.

Rodeo Pigs

Admit it . . . this looks like fun!

Okay, we weren't supposed to do it.

In fact we had been strictly forbidden.

But we were kids.

Is that an excuse?

On the Stringam Ranch, two things were understood.

Horses were for riding.

That's what they were there for.

Pigs were food.

They were to be fed and left alone so they could grow and . . . produce.

Stirring them up was something that kept them from achieving their purpose.

And riding them definitely . . . stirred them up.

But it was so much fun! (Don't tell my dad.)

One could walk into the pig pen and socialize.

Pigs are very social animals and they love to play.

And after you have played 'pull the string' or 'follow the humans around the pen' or 'scratch me', the next logical step is 'ride the pig'.

Don't you agree?

Okay, Dad didn't see it, either.

He said that it might injure their backs.

Or slow their growth.

Pffff.

What did he know?

I weighed all of 40 pounds.

And the pigs probably maxed out at 240.

No way I was going to hurt anyone's back.

And they ran around all of the time.

It was a no-brainer.

And the one thing I was naturally blessed with was the ability to function with no brain.

Moving forward many years . . .

My second son and I had just finished building the new corrals.

We had turned the cow and pig in together to mow down some of the weeds.

They had a little altercation, in fact, two of them.

But that is another story. 

Moving on . . .

Nog, the pig, was huge.

And fat.

And slow moving.

What better time to introduce my youngest son to the wonderful world of 'pig riding'?

I suggested it.

"No, Mom," he said. "I'll fall off in the poop."

"There haven't been any animals in that pen before." I pointed out logically. "There is no poop."

It took a bit of coaxing, but I finally convinced him.

I helped him straddle the broad, red back, then stood back.

"Isn't that fun?"

The pig stood for a moment, chewing.

Then decided, in usual pig fashion, that where he really wanted to be was over . . . there!

He made a sharp left-hand turn.

Right out from under my son.

It was then that we discovered one of us had been right.

About the poop, I mean.

And it wasn't me.

Huh. Dad had been telling the truth all of those years ago.

Riding pigs is hazardous.

Just not to them.