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Father brought the runt pig home from Baldwin 's farm in a Campbell 's Soup box.
"Ed Baldwin won't mess with runts," he explained.
My sisters huddled.
"It's so cute," they said, "let's call her Clementine."
"It's a boy," father said.
"We'll call HIM Clementine," my sisters squealed.
That's how we acquired The Pig, which was: To Dad--free meat. To mom--a kitchen smell. To me--more chores. To my sisters--a pet.
After a few weeks, Clementine outgrew his soup box in the kitchen and was moved to the barn.
Pigs are smart, they say.
If it's smart to run to a slop bucket, chase a gaggle of giggling girls in the grass, to roll over for tummy scratching, then this pig was Einstein.
But I'll wager that the theys never owned a pig, never carried five-gallon pails of feed and water to a bottomless, squealing bundle of stink, who sleeps in muck, tromps feet, whacks knees, and craps like a concrete truck.
I learned a lot about pigs-mainly that pig stink loves clothing and hair. Soon, I sat alone on the school bus. My friends called me "Hog Boy". My girl returned my ring. Didn't like her much anyway, I guess.
Our old home had no inside plumbing, so I took showers at school before class.
We all grew! I grew weary. The sisters grew more in love with Clementine. The pig grew to two hundred forty pounds. The weather grew cold. My father grew hungry.
One frosty Saturday at dawn father woke me.
"It's a good day to butcher." I heard the smile in his voice.
The early sun painted our breath clouds red, as we led Clementine into the yard. Father dumped the shelled corn. The pig ate. Father got into position. A swift motion. Father's knife found the neck artery. The pig squealed once, jumped back, and then calmly returned to his food.
I watched my sisters' friendship spurt down his front legs and ooze a sluggish crimson into the dry autumn grass. Pigs are smart?
After half a minute, weary of eating and life, Clementine calmly, and, with great dignity, folded his glistening front legs under his chest, looked up at me lovingly, and went to sleep, his snout buried in the corn.
Clementine was gone.
Death's mystery suddenly overwhelmed me. I can't say why I cried, not because I loved the pig, maybe because I love life. I tried to hide the tears, but couldn't. Father patted my back.
"It's OK, son."
"I'm sorry, father," I said. I don't know why I said it.
Two sawhorses, a four-by-eight sheet of plywood, and mother's oilcloth comprised the portable table where we converted a tasteless pig into tasty pork chops.
The sisters sobbed in unison for days. They put flowers on the fading red stain in the grass, then a cross. They forced my brother to mourn, also.
Whenever mother served Clementine, I would sing:
"Oh, my darling. Oh, my darling. Oh, my darling, Clementine."
My sisters refused to eat Clementine. That meant more for me.
My life was easier, and I never let on that I missed the pig; but sometimes for several weeks afterward in the secrecy of my bed deep in the night, I thought about Clementine, and that final look, and I cried, and I'm not sure why.
Marty RicKard Bio
Marty RicKard attended William Penn College , Iowa State University and University of Southern Mississippi , from which he holds a BS degree in journalism and photojournalism. He also has a Masters Degree in photography, in addition to the Craftsman, CPP, and A-ASP degrees. Marty spent two years as a technical writer for White Motor Company, and has worked for the Charles City Press, Mason City Globe-Gazette, and Davenport Times-Democrat. He was owner of the weekly New Sharon Star, where he was twice named Iowa Master Columnist for his article, which was syndicated in twenty Iowa newspapers. For more than a decade Marty's regular column appeared in the Professional Photographer magazine. He has been published in many other magazines and newspapers, including Writer's Digest, Writer Advice, Golf Digest, Resource Magazine, Picture, Range Finder, and Darkroom. In addition to his writing credits, Marty has won numerous photography awards, has lectured in 48 states, and has traveled internationally as lecturer, and judge. He was one of thirty from the U.S. to participate in the first cultural exchange with China in 1986. He currently is a regular columnist for Lens Magazine, and a full-time writer of fiction and poetry. He is the author of two poetry books and one volume of short stories. He is an entertaining speaker.
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