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This website is an informal communication forum for staff members of the University of Oregon Library Staff Association. Contents and opinions expressed herein or on linked personal or external pages are those of individual authors and do not represent official statements, policies, or positions of the Library, the University of Oregon, Oregon University System, or State of Oregon.

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Pig Tales

I have such memories of the summer I spent working on my grandfather's farm. None of them have to do with fresh air and wide open spaces, or wholesome, healthy physical exertion. All you have to do to dispell those romantic notions is to spend a day applying pesticides by hand in a cornfield that has been freshly sprayed with liquid manure. No, I remember the time I was nearly savaged by pigs, but escaped by the hair of my chinny chin chin. It was a life lesson every seventeen year old should have.

At the time I speak of, I was stuck. Mud is the polite euphemism for the substance which was imprisoning me. This mud was actually made by the pigs out behind the barn, out of sight of the farmhouse. The pigs were continually grooming their wallow and adding to it. It seemed a harmless pig activity, no more sinister than the steers rubbing their heads on the tops of the fence posts until the wood was satiny smooth. The wallow was supposed to be a cool oasis for the pigs on a hot day, nothing more.

I had no problem with the cattle in the feed lot. They would follow along the fence as I walked by, snuffling with excitement, like a pack of friendly dogs. If I tried to pat one, the whole herd would bolt, tails high, heels in the air, galloping clumsily, only to wander back, one by one, drawn by irresistible, dumb curiosity. The pigs, on the other hand, would stand and watch me, only their small, cold eyes moving as I passed them. If I ran up to the fence, waving my arms, they retreated a few cautious steps and stared. I felt their eyes on my back, chilling my spine as I walked away.

"Stay away from the pigs" my grandfather warned. Normally, I was only too glad to comply. Pigs stank. They fought one another viciously. Also, they ate meat. Occasionally, Grandpa would toss them a dead rat. I couldn't bear to watch their gobbling.

But, it takes a teenager in a hurry to disregard all the warnings and get into the sort of predicament I now found myself in. Just a quick shortcut, I thought, hopping over the fence. I knew that pigs were supposed to be smart, but I didn't get it until I had been stuck in the wallow for an hour: these pigs were geniuses. How long had they been preparing this trap for me?

The summer afternoon stretched ahead of me, long, hot, drowsy. The wallow had a calm, reeking, deceptive crust, undisturbed except for a few humming fly clouds. Anyone might think it only a few inches deep, anyone might have cut through the lot behind the barn. Anyone might have slipped and slithered into the exact situation I now found myself in. That's what I kept telling myself, although I couldn't exactly picture my grandfather or the hired man in this position.

I could now attest that there was easily two feet of smelly goo with a slippery bottom, sloping treacherously toward the center of the pig pen. The mud, and my Keds high tops, were conspiring to deliver me to the pigs. The Keds were a real boon to the pigs. If I had been wearing any other sort of footwear, I'd have left them in mud an hour ago. The Keds high tops anchored me like a pair of barnacles to the pavement underlying the wallow. I couldn't even reach my shoelaces; bending over brought me eye to eye with the pigs, a perspective I was desperate to avoid.

The pigs were patient. I was in the center of a little semicircle of bristly snouts. Some of the swine were having a little lie-down in the cool mud, but their eyes and snouts were directed toward me. The fly clouds drifted here and there aimlessly. They buzzed around my back, where sweat pasted my cotton shirt to my back. I could feel a sunburn blooming across the back of my neck. By contrast, my feet were perfectly cool. The pigs certainly had that part figured out, I thought bitterly. Across the field, a vague tractorish humming drifted to us as my grandfather, cultivating corn, drove farther and farther away. My Grandmother, who was a little deaf, hadn't heard my shouts or noticed my waving arms. She was now hanging laundry in the sunny part of the yard, behind the machine shed. I couldn't see her, but I could see the end of the clothes line bobble.

What a fool I was! I thought of all the moral fables I had heard as a child. What happens to the lazy child who takes a shortcut? Why, she's eaten by wolves. Or will be, unless a woodsman happens by. Actually, it was Red Riding Hood's grandmother who paid the ultimate price in that story. Would I offer up my grandmother, if I had the opportunity at this point? I didn't want to contemplate the idea.

And why were there no moral fables warning against Keds high tops? Why not something practical for a change? The pigs, smelling my despair, moved in a little closer, grunting softly so as not to arouse suspicion, snouts twitching, twisty tails writhing eagerly. Soon my strength would ebb, I would slip and fall, and they would be ready.

"What on earth are you doing out there?" boomed my grandfather's voice behind me. I tried to jump out of my Keds, but ended up doing a wild flailing arm dance in an attempt to keep my balance. "I'm stuck!" I panted lamely, my heart hammering.

Grandfather snorted. He withdrew, and moments later I heard the guttering of his "yard" tractor, a grumbly 1942 International Harvester. A minute later, he tossed me the bitter end of a rusty length of chain. I was drawn from the mud, Keds and all, to the accompanyment of loud, rude ketchup-bottle noises. The pigs dispersed sullenly.

I climbed over the fence, stiff legged with drying mud, feeling and looking pretty miserable. I had been standing in the wallow so long I couldn't smell it any longer, but Grandpa had to stand well downwind of me. A pig pushed its snout through the fence to bite at his boot. Grandpa kicked it away. He turned and gave me a long, stern look.

"Stay away from the pigs" he said.

"I will" I replied humbly.

L.R.Sexton

New Constitution Approved

Our new constitution was approved by the membership last month, with a unanimous 28 votes in favor. Thanks to everyone who participated in the revisions, comments and voting process.

We used an electronic discussion board for the first time ever. It saved everyone the necessity of a meeting, and we received some good comments. We may wish to use this method again in the future for member input on some issues. If you have any feedback about our use of the online discussion board, contact Lisa Sieracki (6-1834 or sieracki@oregon) or Chelle Batchelor (6-1918 or bchelle@oregon).

Watch the Clock

Now just sit back and get comfortable. Relax your mind and let go of all your worries. Take some slow, deep breaths. Concentrate on this clock:

You are getting sleepy, verrry sleeepy. . . Just keep looking at the clock, as you feel yourself getting more and more relaxed. Now you can close your eyes and enter a very relaxed state where you will be open to suggestion.

Ok, now you are ready. In a few minutes you will wake up with a feeling of renewed energy. You will want to connect with your colleagues around the library by joining a staff association committee. You will remember that you can pick from Program, House, Newsletter, Social, and Ways & Means. You will call Chelle Batchelor at 6-1918 and volunteer for the the one that will be the most enjoyable and rewarding for you.

Now, you feel a sense of optimism and renewed energy. Everything is easy for you. You are waking up from a deep rest. You may open your eyes.

Feel better?

FROM THE FACT FILE

Weeding the Garden