This time of year on a farm is so full of new life, which often translates to new perspectives for me. It's a time to look forward to the future, but for some reason - especially as I grow older - springtime sends my thoughts to the past too.
Here is a short story reminiscing of a time when I learned something - something about life as well as something about people.Country Magazineshowcased it in its "The Way It Was" section back in 2012.I thank my "scary" Grampa Frank Spiekermeier for it.
This is for him.
Spring Piglets
By Julie Christen
Atdawn, I wake in the farmhouse. I sneak soundlessly from my little cot under thewindow to my suitcase where I dress without a sound into my purple corduroysand Black Stallion shirt. I am not supposed to be up. The creaky stairsthreaten to give away my early rising, but I continue down on tip-toe.
Thebox elder bugs slowly creep along the windowsill as the sun begins to brightenthe living room. The grandfather clock ticks. My feet are soundless still.
Aroundthe corner, I see the long kitchen counter span all the way to the breezeway.Grandma Olive stands in her housecoat and slippers gazing out the kitchen sinkwindow at her dewy, no-frills vegetable garden while she sips her first of manycups of black coffee.
GrampaFrank’s massive frame, dressed in pin-striped overalls swelling at the seams,sits in his spot at the end of the room on his black, vinyl-covered steelchair. His heavy boots, already muddied, grind gravel into the flooring. I seehim rustling through a shoebox full of papers and receipts. He smokes acigarette, probably not his first of the day and certainly not his last, andslurps coffee from a thermos while he listens to the tinny radio squawk aboutweather and crop prices and news.
Theyare silent. They are the past.
Ibite the side of my lip and peek into the kitchen. It is so early for littleblonde-haired girls to be up. I am up, nonetheless.
“Well.It’s our little Julie Andrews,” Grampa says then laughs a gravelly, “Heh, heh,heh,” and grunts.
Heso often finds me in the hay shed singing to the mice. “Doe, A Deer” is myfavorite.
Coughing,coughing, coughing. Juicy, croupy, gurgly coughing. Heavy wheezy breathing.“You’re up early!”
GrampaFrank has a gruff voice and a gruff demeanor. He is kind of scary. I just sidleup next to Grandma Olive.
“Let’sget you some breakfast,” she says.
She fries me anegg and sits me down at the metal kitchen table. My tiny juice glass with theorange slices on the outside is filled with freshly squeezed orange juice. Itry to strain the pulp through my teeth, but I end up politely chewing thejuice, regardless.
They have their routine,quiet and busy all at the same time. My legs are antsy to move about. I beginplaying my own kind of hopscotch on the black and white linoleum squares.
“Listen, Juliehoney,” Grandma Olive says, “can’t you do that somewhere else?”
I am underfoot. Igo to the adjacent dining room and stare out the picture window at the crabapple tree in the picket-fenced front yard. Nothing to do. Nothing to do.
“Say, Julie.” Her no-nonsensetone startles me out of my daydreaming. “Go with Grampa Frank,” Grandma Olivetells me.
So few words. Whydid they use so few words?
I swallow anervous lump in my throat. Grampa is already gone, his heavy footfallspounding mercilessly. Coughing. The screen door groans and slams in complaint.I hear “Outa the way, damn it!” and cats screeching. They sit at the doorlooking for warmth or a scrap from Gramma, but that puts them underfoot. Iknow how they feel.
I can hear Bocci’sand Brownie’s toenails scratching the garage floor as they prance around hisfeet. The big, hairy German shepherd and golden mutt are always happy to see metoo. They never think I’m in the way.
The animals compelme to go.
Following thetrail of cigarette smoke, I slip on my rubber boots and windbreaker in thebreezeway. By the time I greet the dogs, rub their bellies, and scratch theirears, I see Grampa is already lumbering to the hog barn.
Does he really want me with him? Iwonder. He doesn’t so much as say my name or turn around to motion me towardhim. He just keeps walking. This is allGrandma’s terrible idea, I think.
Stalling, I reachfor the comfort of the black barn cat sitting amongst the disaster of shoptools on the workbench. It doesn’t have a name. Barn cats are for mousing. Andthat is it.
But I hold thisone and scratch his ears while his grumbly purr soothes me, and I stare out thegarage door toward the hog barn. Brownie and Bocci are already off romping intotheir next adventure. No one would see hide nor tail of them until nightfall,unless of course, Grampa gives a whistle.
With the dogsgone, I decide that even if Grampa really doesn’t want me with him, I willhang in the shadows of straw bales and watch him work. This is far better thanbeing lonely.
Some clanging andbanging echoes from the hog barn, but I can’t make out what Grampa Frank isdoing in there. As I draw a little nearer, some thrashing and scrambling andscreaming stops me in my tracks. Horror fills my veins.
What is he doing to those pigs?
I know that lifeon the farm is very different than my life by the lake. I know it can be …harsh. Sunday dinner’s pork chops or fried chicken or roast beef doesn’t justdrop from the sky. It comes from the animals fattened in the coup and the pensand the fields.
My heart grips mychest as I wonder if Grampa is going to teach me about the harsh realities oflife today. Is he planning to show me how to toughen up? Make me learn that theworld is a nasty place, and you have to get over it if you want food on your plate?Is he going to try to show me how I can’t just daydream and sing songs andclimb around on hay bales all day?
My throat tightensas I clench my jaw and absentmindedly squeeze the black cat. But that onlymakes him meow and jump out of my arms. I am on my own for the rest of thejourney.
When I arrive, Isee my grampa leaning over a makeshift pen of straw bales. He doesn’t look atme, but I go to him. I hear snuffling and shuffling on the other side.
When I look intothe pen, I see them. Ten black and white piglets, hardly bigger than abreadbox. They’re rummaging and rutting around exploring their new space. Ilook up, up, up to my grampa’s face and find that he is now looking at me witha toothless grin.
He shoves his caphigh on his forehead and asks, “What do you think? Do you want one?”
“Want one?” Iwhisper.
“Sure. To playwith today. You pick out your favorite, and I’ll shoo out the rest of these.”
“Just for me? Like… he’s mine?”
Coughing. “Yep.Just like he’s yours.”
We analyze all tendiscussing their markings and determining which ones have the bestpersonalities. It’s the longest conversation I have ever had, and will everhave, with my grampa.
At long last, Ipick out one piglet with a particularly interesting pattern of spots and arambunctious personality. I name him Spot. Grampa Frank stays with me while Ichase my piglet around and try to teach it tricks. He laughs his “heh, heh,heh” laugh in between coughs while he leans against the gate.
“Can I pick himup, Grampa?” I ask.
“Sure, you can.Just don’t go dropping him. He’s damn wiggly, that one.”
“I know it,” Imanage to say while I strain to get Spot into my arms. “I’ll tame him, though.”
“I’d like to seethat,” he says pushing his bushy eyebrows up high.
The piglet squirmswith all his might, but I manage to set him down gently before he falls.
Grampa Frankgrunts then says, “Go get him again there, little Julie Andrews,” as he wagglesa beefy finger at me. That makes me laugh for some reason, and I am off aftermy pig in the dust and the straw.
As the morningwarms, I play, and Grampa watches. I can tell that there is no ulterior motiveto educate me on the cruel realities of the world today. Nor will there everbe. He sees me for who I am, and he is enjoying a little frivolous time withhis youngest granddaughter. For the time being, I don’t recall his gravelly,scratchy nature. In fact, I wonder how I ever could have thought him scary.
I do not know, ofcourse, that in two short years, Grampa Frank will be gone. Something aboutthose cigarettes and that nagging cough of his. And though it will matter sovery much in two year’s time, it does not matter at this moment. This is mymorning with my grampa and the piglet he has given me for a day.
Grampa Frank's Spotted Poland China Piglets
