A bright sun, a clear blue sky, and temperatures predicted to climb into the low fifties greeted Fred and Oscar when they climbed into Oscar’s rusty old Ford pickup on a mid-April afternoon.
“Why’d you say we should go to Tamarack Corners today? Be a good day just to stand on the riverbank and watch the Tamarack hurry by,” said Fred.
“Because we’re gonna visit the museum, that’s why. I told you that yesterday.”
“You did? You sure? You sure you told me yesterday?”
“Fred, I think you’re startin’ to lose it. I for damn sure told you yesterday about what we had planned for today.”
“How come we’re visiting this museum, anyway?” asked Fred.
“’Cause there’s something I want you to see.”
“I don’t care much for museums. They remind me too much of when I was a kid.”
“What’s wrong with that? You were a kid once, weren’t you?”
“Yup, I was, but my old man had me workin’ like a man by the time I got to be twelve years old.”
“So did my old man, but that doesn’t mean we weren’t once kids. Besides it’ll do you good to see this new museum, Fred. Do you good. Take your mind off your troubles.”
“So, goin’ to this museum is gonna cure my arthritis and fix my bad back.”
“I didn’t say that. I said it would take your mind off your troubles. Make you think about something different.”
“So, now you’re complainin’ about how I’m thinkin’.”
“Nah, just come on along and see the place, and maybe you’ll learn something. Besides, I gave them one of my old hog troughs, a wooden one my dad made that we used for years to feed our pigs.”
“So, that’s the reason you’re draggin’ me along to the museum: to see that old trough you used to feed pigs. Hell, we had one just like it. Probably still sittin’ out in the shed. Probably in better shape than yours, Oscar. Ours was about four to five feet long, made out of two pieces of wood, held together in a V shape, with square pieces nailed on each end to make it sturdy.”
“Ours was just like that, and it’s in the museum and yours ain’t,” Oscar said, smiling.
“Geez, going to a museum to see a hog trough. Your old one, besides.”
“There’s more at the museum than the hog trough, Fred. Lots more.”
“Well, there’d better be. Hog troughs remind me of work, remind me of carrying two five-gallon pails of water, with a couple scoops of ground corn and oats dumped in each. Water’d spill on my pants when I walked from the pump house to the hog pen.”
“Yup, I remember doin’ the same thing. Especially remember how heavy them two pails was. My pa said carryin’ two was easier than one. When you carried two, you were balanced—one hanging on the end of each arm. That’s what he said. I expect he really just wanted me gettin’ the work done faster.”
“Something else I remember about our old trough,” said Fred, the cobwebs in his mind receding into the shadows.
“What was that?”
“Them pigs of ours was always hungry, and when I came carrying them pails of slop they’d come a-runnin’ from the far end of the pen—we had about twenty of ’em. Ran like bats outta hell they did. When I started pourin’ the slop into the trough, they’d fight and bite and squeal. You had to stay out of the way, or you’d git yourself bit.”
Oscar smiled when he heard the story. “Yup, same thing on our farm. Our pigs did the same thing. They’d bite each other’s ears, push and shove, do the best they could so they’d be first at the trough. Every damn one of them wanted to be first.”
“Something else I remember,” said Fred. “The smell. God, do I remember the smell. Nothing stinks worse than pig manure. Mix a little mud in with it, and some spilled pig slop, and you got yourself a smell that lingers, stays with you down through the years. Never forget the smell of a pig pen. You just never do.”
“I agree with you there, Fred. Which reminds me. Did you read the piece in the Farm Country News about that big hog farm in Iowa?”
“I did. That’s the same outfit that’s planning to put up a hog farm here in the valley. Pretty interesting story. That reporter guy, Wittmore, got himself inside one of their big operations. Sounds like Nathan West knows what they’re doin’ though. Remember what he wrote about how the pigs don’t fight over what’s in the trough, because there ain’t no pig troughs, just a fancy feeding place where they git to eat, one at a time.”
“I’m still not too sure we want one of them big operations here in the valley. Remember, we just had twenty or so pigs on our farms. They’re planning to raise thousands of them,” said Oscar. “And none of them ever gets to set foot outside. They never get to see the sun and the blue sky like we’re seeing today.”
“Oscar, you sound like you’re stickin’ up for the pigs. The only reason them pigs is on this earth is so we can eat ’em. That’s all there’s to it.”
“Maybe so. But there’s still something kinda nice when you see a bunch of pigs, maybe ten or a dozen or so, out in a green pasture with their little ones runnin’ along behind ’em. Sight to see. Yup, a sight to see.”
“Oscar, sometimes I wonder about you. You want our taxes to not keep goin’ up, or not? You want people to have work so they can pay your bills? This is a new day. A new day. People are doin’ things different from when we were kids. Them Nathan West folks appear to take good care of their pigs.”
“Maybe so. But I’m still worried about all this. Worried where the country is headed with these big operations, these big factory farms jumpin’ up all over the place,” said Oscar.
The two old men drove on toward the museum in Tamarack Corners, neither saying anything. There was one other car in the small parking lot.
“Well, you ready to see my old hog trough?” Oscar asked, a big smile spreading across his face.
“Damn old hog trough. Seein’ it will bring back a bunch of bad memories.”