It was typically hot and humid in Candler County during the summer of 1963. But it was also a special time because I was fortunate to be with a group of Metter High rising seniors working for the Pineland Telephone Co. The pay was much better than the 85 cents per hour I made the previous summer as a bag boy at Piggly Wiggly. We worked hard spraying herbicides on bushes and trimming trees that were foolish enough to grow underneath the telephone lines of the Pineland Telephone Co.
Noon was a time for lunch and play. We would often stop and eat our sandwiches underneath a large shade tree. Being teenage boys, we frequently found a way to create mischief during lunch, and, quite honestly, at any other time.
One day we found ourselves having lunch in a rural area, under a large pecan tree. The pecan tree was located beside two old, faded sheds and a fenced area about one-half acre in size. Toward the center of this cleared, fenced area was its only tree, an old oak. Sleeping underneath the oak were the pen’s only residents — the largest sow I had ever seen and her eight little pigs. The pigs were sleeping with one at each teat. The smallest pig, the runt, was sleeping at the last teat.
Someone in our group noticed the sow and her pigs, and we began to discuss them. At some point, the question was posed as to the possibility of successfully climbing the fence, sneaking up to the pigs, grabbing one and getting back over the fence before the sow could catch you. Of course, the sow would not technically “catch” you. She would probably bite off part of your calf or Achilles tendon. The conversation rapidly evolved to the ultimate question: Would anyone in our group be willing to do such a thing?
I don’t remember if I had been challenged or if I volunteered, but I freely agreed to be the invader of the pen. I climbed the old wire fence and began quietly, very quietly, walking toward the obvious choice, the runt of the litter. When I reached the sow I carefully bent down, placed my right hand 1 inch from the runt and, at the same time, made certain that my feet were lined up to go toward the fence at the closest possible point. I knew that when I grabbed the pig it would squeal and awaken the sow, and at that moment all hell would break loose.
I grabbed the runt, and it squealed. I could hear the sow and see her out of the corner of my eye rapidly getting up, but I was already on my way to the fence as fast as I could run, while holding the squealing pig high overhead in my right hand. As I was running I could hear the sow behind me. I didn’t look back because it didn’t matter how close the sow was; I could run no faster. However, it did seem as though she was gaining on me.
As I approached the fence, I had the sudden realization that I didn’t have time to climb it. I had to jump the fence while running full speed, holding the squealing pig overhead in my right hand. I didn’t have a choice.
The fence was now upon me. It was time to leave the earth. I lifted my left leg as high as possible while pushing off with my right leg with all of my strength. As I cleared the fence, I remembered to lift my trailing foot so that it would not get caught in the fence. I had grown accustomed to having a right foot and was concerned that my running days would be over if the sow could get to it in the fence.
Upon landing safely, I immediately turned back and looked for the sow. The fence had done its job. The sow had stopped at the fence, digging up much of the soft, black dirt right where she had come to an abrupt stop. She was not happy.
Everyone took turns holding the little pig. After a few minutes the sow calmed down, and I gently put the pig back over the fence.
As I was lying in bed that night I thought of the sow, and I imagined that she was thinking of me. I envisioned her sleeping with one eye open, because she had learned what every mother understands: You just never know what a 16-year-old boy might do next.
Ben Bowen, a Georgia Tech grad, is an Atlanta real estate investor.
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