Catching the Pig

I was laughing the other day about the stuff we did at our local fair and decided to write a little story about it.  Yep, it's kinda lengthy.

Yoop

Catching the Pig

            "Must be fair time again… Silver boys need money," said the neighbor, and she was right. Brother Gump, Bishop and I worked for $1 an hour picking rocks for them in order to attain the goal of $20 to spend at the 4 day long fair event. 

I was laughing the other day about the stuff we did at our local fair and decided to write a little story about it.  Yep, it's kinda lengthy.

Yoop

Catching the Pig

            "Must be fair time again… Silver boys need money," said the neighbor, and she was right. Brother Gump, Bishop and I worked for $1 an hour picking rocks for them in order to attain the goal of $20 to spend at the 4 day long fair event. 

            Must haves' at the fair included:  Caramel apple w/nuts; Karney nachos; day long ride wrist band ($5), Friday only; and loose change for rigged games.

            Thinking back on eating the caramel apple I wonder how many fillings I lost due to the sticky caramel and the bugger of a time I had trying to eat the apple without having either of my two top and lower teeth.

            This thought reminds me of the time Wando Maki and I were driving back from Marquette and were nostalgically reminiscing about our childhood.  We stopped at a gas station for snacks and he picked out a childhood favorite, the Oh Henry candy bar. Wando was actively devouring it when he asked me if I wanted a bite.  "No way," was my response since I knew my silver fillings could never take the abuse.  We instantly started talking about the dangers of these types of candy when I heard, "Ooohhh, ooohhh, crap," I looked over to see Wando pulling out of his mouth the teeth marked chunk of candy Heaven which had a nice piece of his tooth securely embedded in it.  "Har, har, har, har," was my sympathetic response as he rolled down the window and pitched the remainder of candy out.

            "What about the pig?," you may be wondering.  Hold on, I'm getting to it.  See a story needs a buildup to keep you reading.  Get it?  Never mind, I'll keep rambling.

            In my opinion, the fair ranked second as best things in the world to do and everyone including my Dad, Mom, friends, relatives and classmates all loved fair time.  My father especially loved it and was somewhat obsessed with presenting his home grown potatoes at the fair.  He arranged the spuds in pyramid fashion to be critiqued by bespectacled  judges, all in the hopes of getting, 'best of show' award.  We would gingerly remove the potatoes from the ground where only my Dad could wash, dry and then tenderly buff them with woolskin.   He did win once and beamed with pride, way more than when my younger brother Sprout was born.  I recently learned that his birth actually dampened our day long partridge hunt and that my Dad  went to the hospital in lieu of finishing off the day hunting grouse with us.  Crying shame I say.. Get it Sprout?  hehheh.

            Fair time was actually a chance to make some extra cash too.  We would bring vegetables, crafts and animals there in hopes of being awarded a ribbon which resulted in you getting a small amount of pocket change. 

            I sure wish there was a picture of us 4 boys, Mom and Dad in our rusted out old Ford Montego laden down with chickens, vegetables and stick art puffing into town.  The 'puffing in and out of the car' is a good depiction of the scene since my Dad chain-smoked but would politely lower the window down a tenth of an inch so we could get some air that would mix in with the carbon monoxide our car provided from burning equal amounts of oil and gas.

            Bringing crafts to the fair always proved to be a money maker.  All you had to do was go into the woods, snap some dead birch tree branches into two different sizes, with one being a little longer than the other.  Bring the sticks back into the house, find a blue weatherchecked rubber band and fasten them together to make yourself a cross.  Glue the cross to the back of an old "Nightcrawlers for Sale" cardboard sign and write in crayon under it.  JEZUS'S KROSS.  (Making sure the 'K' in Kross goes backwards)  What devout Catholic judge wouldn't give a nine year old kid a blue ribbon for celebrating Jesus?  Winner, winner, chicken dinner.  Damn we were smart.

            My buddy, Doc., had it even better at the fair since he showed a steer that would be auctioned off and the proceeds directed towards his future medical degree, which he did attain.  One time Doc and I made a huge, dollar bet that the other couldn't eat a raw egg.  We were inspired by the movie 'Rocky' and knew our toughness was equal to Sly's.  We, well 'He',  stole some eggs from the caged chickens and tried to remove most of the chicken poop off the shell.  We then quarreled over who would try swallowing it first.  Since Doc is a little more 'Sly-like' he reasoned that since he stole the eggs I had to go first.  Fair enough, (notice the play on words?) 

            I cracked the raw egg open, tilted my head back, dumped the contents into my yap and tried everything in my power to swallow.  My lips were shut vice-like and I tried all the tricks to get it to go down.  Nope, not even close as I launched it all out.  Doc took the challenge like a man and chugged the slimy mass right down.  "Crap," I swore and thought I was out a buck.  Quick thinking saved me and I sure didn't want my rock pickin' money wasted so I started tickling him which triggered the hurl effect and out came the raw egg along with some Karney elephant ear.  "No winners," I ruled.  This ruling was met critically and some 30 years later is still a source of contention between us.

            Saturday night was 'The' night at the fair, serious coin could be made.  Catch the chicken, one buck, and you get to keep the chicken.  Catch the pure white, lard smothered pig, win yourself five bucks and a chance to claim the pig.  High stakes, real high to a 9 year old boy.

            The Rotunda at the fair was equivalent to a coliseum in which the Greek Gladiators fought in, especially from a nine year olds perspective.  Alcohol fueled gawkers were 5 deep surrounding the arena and the balcony was equally packed to view, in admiration, the courageous battles of kid vs. chicken or pig.

            My brothers and I were aces at catching the chickens.  I think my Dad would even bring his own Gunny Sack since he knew we would be bringing home next Saturdays dinner.  The pig was a different story.

            I'm pretty sure the adults caffeinated  the 40 pound beast just to make it more squirrelly.  They then put about 10 pounds of Crisco on it and the games were ready to begin.  Parents would hoist their eager, and some not so eager, kids over the fence and ready themselves to laugh like hell as their pride and joy offspring tried to hold on to greased lightning.  Every try to squeeze/hold a wet bar of handsoap without it popping out of your hand?  That was how it was trying to catch the pig.  Pride was also a big motivator because if your brother, who was in a different age pig catching cagefight caught the swine and you didn't, yearlong taunts were warranted and accepted.

            My 9 year old, cotton candy inspired, fired up boy mob chased that squealing pig until we gang piled it.  The kids were yanked off the pile one by one until the lone survivor on top of Crisco critter was announced the winner. 

            It was 1977 and this was My flippin' year and I Owned This Battle AND That Pig. Like a well scripted movie, that is exactly what happened. 

            The P.A. announcer came over and asked me for my version of how I caught it.  "I, ahh, whell, chasted da pig, and afta I jumt ondit, I rappt ma legz round tit and squeezt tit rahl tite,"  was my pre-pubescent Yoopenese response. 

            A lardy 5 dollar bill was placed in my lardy hand and I put it in my lardy pocket.  This was not the end of it, not even close.  I had a chance to bring home this pig, MY pig. All I had to do was put it into a Gunny Sack by myself.  Sound simple?  No, it doesn't, does it?  Take a look into your brain and envision a 9 year old with 5 pounds of Crisco slathered on him trying to put a squirming, squealing, mad, 40 pound pig into a sack.  But wait…. for more added excitement they reCrisco the pig for ya.. nice. 

            "Ok, son, yew got 5 minutes to put  dat dare pig into dat sack, goot luck," smiled/sneered the announcer.  "Holy crap," this is big time I say to myself.  500 people screaming drunkenly and my Dad yelling at me to put that 'Sunzuva bich' into the sack.Family responsibility was dropped heavily on my shoulders, we could fatten this rascal up and feed our tribe of six for five days.  My belly grumbled at the though of pork instead of venison on the kitchen table.

              I tried sooo hard to get MY pig into the sack and finally figured out that the head needed to go in first.  I had about three quarters of the pig in when time ran out.  I lost.  Utter disappointment flowed through my 9 year old body and alligator tears welled up and started to fall leaving no traces on my face since the Crisco smooth skin wouldn't hold the tear tracks.  "Well," I said to myself, "at least I got 5 bucks."

            My dad did end up buying the pig for 20 bucks and I don't know if he paid $15 and used my $5 as earnest money, but no matter, I had MY pig and carried it to the Montego.  We drove home and I was proud and smelly.  The captured chickens cheeped and my little feet rested on the grunting pig who actually smelled somewhat better than I did.  I closed my eyes and replayed the days events as a perma-smile stayed on my face because, I OWNED that pig.