By any other name?

Around 11:00, wandering out to the front porch and looking to the west at the demolition being done on the old hog house, I watched as the backhoe extended for that final bite. The final post and rafter came down with a crack and I murmured “there goes the hog house.” The funny thing is; I am 47 years old and do not ever remember seeing a hog in that building.

 The roof had fallen in at several points. The 2 x 4 oak siding on the North side had been cannibalized for a roofing project on another barn a decade ago. It had become an eye sore in the town of Ingalls. A small Indiana town that knows its eye sores. Being conscientious members of the greater Ingalls community, we have long debated on the best way to remove it. I have long been a proponent of the conflagration.  The EPA said no.  It appears that if it accidently burnt down everything would be okay. But after asking permission, an accident is a fineable offense.  We had given up after 5 years of trying to create an “accident” with a lightning rod grounded down into a bucket of gasoline.  Then last week, a guy stopped by and needed some work to keep his backhoe busy for a few days.  For $950 and all of the metal that he could scrounge up around the place he would tear it down and bury it for us. Deal.

The hog house had seen better days, and while it is the outbuilding that is 200 yards from the house, its westerly location dominated glances across the farm as we looked to the horizon for weather that was coming our way. As I mentioned, I am 47 and I have never seen a hog in the hog house. Supposedly the herd was sold in my third year as Pop, my grandfather, and Dad had to reinvent themselves because of a soil borne virus that the herd had picked up.  No matter. It has always been the hog house and today as the last pole was pulled it went down as the hog house.

The hog house was where dad had to go one more time before he took mom to the hospital for my birth. Lore has it that I was almost born in the back of  Crackpot which was the name of a red Pontiac Bonneville that received its moniker after an accident on the way to kindergarten five years later. We were fine. The back quarter-panel was crinkled pretty badly, but dad drove Crackpot for another 10 years. Who knows what it would have been called if dad would have worked with that old sow another 30 minutes.  “Placenta” isn’t quite as catchy as “Crackpot”.

The hog house was where we were told to be careful because it had a slab to the south that was divided into pens. Along the south side of these pens was a 4 ft wide by 8 ft deep by 200 ft long pit that was used to hold the manure from the pens. These pits were full of water, and over the years the 2x10 planks that covered the pit began to rot away, creating a death trap that would draw curious boys like a metal flag pole draws tongues in the upper-Midwest in January.

The hog house was where a cable was stretched along its southern side by  young boys who then attached a pulley to  it. Where, during a boring Farm Bureau meeting the adults told the Sharritt, Grantham and Likens boys to go out and play. Run after successful run, the speeds continued to get faster and faster as the rust was worn off that old pulley. Then being young scientists, I ran to the house and got an oil can. Frictionless, I was doing an Austin Collie imitation as I was turned around zooming down the length of the building into a 5 ft block that was called for a personal foul. That was the first time I had ever saw stars. I was amazed that Wiley Coyote got it pretty close to correct. We knew that I passed a concussion test because I understood that I was not to let any of the grown-ups know if we ever wanted to come back out.

The hog house was where we learned about dilemmas. A corn crib had fallen down; leaving 5,000 bushels of ear corn on the ground. Throw a foot of snow on the ground and a long winter and you have the perfect storm for rat haven. Then one Saturday, dad had to go to town for some important business. That made it the perfect time to send the hired hand, a 10 year old, and 12 year old out there with some scoop shovels and a wagon. Who knew that we would learn Shakespeare? To put your pant legs inside your boot or leave them outside that is the question. Whether it is nobler to have a rat run straight up your pant leg or up the boot and then down into the boot to wiggle around. There was a lot of debate that day. BB guns were brought out. Pitchforks were thrown. And I am not too proud to admit, my cousin screamed like a little girl as he found the answer to Hamlet’s question. It is better to have a rat down in the boot, than to have it run up you pant leg to the regions that shall not be named.

Those and a hundred other things happened out in the hog house that to my personal knowledge never held a hog. But it had to be named something. Barring corporate sponsorship, the hog house is a better moniker than the building of a hundred lessons.

Take care.

Roger

Looking to the west for weather past the hog house.