Party Pig Not counting Republican voters, who in America can possibly accept or even condone the GOP's recent use of 9/11 as both a political crutch and bludgeon? Is it not wrong - meaning divisive, corrosive and obscene - for conservatives to automatically attack the patriotism of the majority of Americans who disapprove of the war in Iraq? Whatever. I'm not going into any of that on the last the day of June. You deserve better, even if that's what you showed up for. Besides, I'm embarking on a content strike until Web Guy reconstructs the site already. Instead of tackling any important issues, I'm giving you what you deserve as another wild holiday weekend looms: An amusing anecdote about a summer party. It was one of those ordeals wherein I had so much fun that I cannot tell you what the occasion was. It may well have been Fourth of July; I just don't know. It was definitely in the summer, because the day involved a lot of barbecue, volleyball and mosquitoes, along with the usual Michigan haze. I was living out in the country, with a friend whose grandmother let us stay in her old farmhouse. All we had to do was keep the pipes from freezing, and keep the rats out (at least the pipes never froze). Living in the country means generating much of your own food supply. Food can be grown from the soil, or hunted, or raised in a pen. We did all of the above, and the things we raised in the pen happened to be hogs. They were pretty good size at this particular party, just the three of them, grunting and rooting in that nonchalant fashion that they have. After a while, other than the smell, you hardly notice them. Honest. I am reminded of this because, in preparation for the upcoming weekend, we picked up a watermelon at the grocery store yesterday. The idea is to cut out a plug and upend a bottle of fairly expensive vodka into the hole. This is something we did at said party, a baker's dozen or so years ago. It's always a hit. Some people like to hack off a piece and go find some quiet shade, while others just want to stick straws into the thing and suck up all the juice. As the sun began to set on the festivities, the spiked watermelon seemed to have served its purpose, and became neglected. Being alert and responsible hosts, we decided to throw the melon's remains over the fence into the pigpen, which was quite sloppy at the time. Splash went the melon, and out came the very happy pigs. To the victor go the spoils, as the first pig to get to the melon was the only one to enjoy it. Watching swine eat, by the way, is an experience one can never forget. It is not clean or pretty, but it is over quickly. The entire party stopped to watch as the pig devoured a very intoxicating hunk of fruit, leaving behind only a few pieces of clean-picked rind. He looked through the fence at the crowd, blinking a few times. He looked back over at the barn with a few more blinks, each one slower than the one before. The pig then let out a heavy sigh, and collapsed face first into the mud. Only his ears were visible, just north of his bristly shoulders. The pig did not move. For a few seconds, it was pretty funny. "Pig, pig," I shouted, clapping my hands. "C'mon, pig!" No response. Others joined in: "Pig, pig! Wake up, pig!" Several large bubbles broke through the surface of the mud, and the pig's head settled in a little deeper. We shook the fence and stomped our feet. "COME ON, PIG! PIG, PIG! OH, SHIT!" Neither of us really wanted to go into the very disgusting pen to revive the beast (if possible), but such was exactly what the crowd suddenly wanted to see. The air went still. The only sound was the unending buzz of cicadas. Another pair of bubbles emerged, popping audibly. "Damn," said my friend. We looked at each other, wondering what manner of crane would be required to extract three hundred pounds of dead pork from the depths of the pen. Then, with a startled, high-pitched grunt, the pig reared his head up, mud sliding out the sides of his mouth and blasting out of his snout. The crowd applauded as the pig, seemingly embarrassed, drunkenly hauled himself back into the barn, where he slept happily through the night, and for the better part of the next day. That was pretty much the culmination of our parties there. Sure, we had people over again, for cold beer and volleyball, to talk and spit and raise the hoods of their cars. It was never the same after that, though. Eventually, all our summers draw to a close. The insects cease their racket, the leaves turn colors and slip through the breeze to become mulch for the land. Only our stories tie those incidents to the ground. Only our memories can raise them from the drunken muck of forgotten time. Paul Heller 6/30/05 << back to the archives
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