Iowa Review, Fall 2008 by Hillman, Jimmye
The horses of Achilles are said to have wept when they saw Petroklos dead, their immortal natures outraged. So why can’t a porcine sow lament her own heritage and destiny?
His eyes were sharply focused on the objects of a life-long avocation, which had, in the Great Depression, become a source of family subsistence and income. The hogs’ wary eyes reciprocated his focus. Both sides, having made their calculations, appeared content with this moment of mutual accommodation.
His cracked and callused hands shelled corn, which he had shucked at the farm crib. He tossed the empty cobs into a bucket, so they could be used later in our outhouse as the next best substitute for the Sears and Roebuck catalogue. With one strap from his Big Ben overalls unbuttoned and the bib folded open, he shelled the corn, alternately with right hand and left, scattering it in a circular pattern. The hogs were gathering, some in the bush well away from us, others in front on a grassy knoll in the clearing.
The horn of our Ford Model-A had brought the hogs arunning. The honking always started, and continued intermittently, as we descended the hill through the blackjack oaks, dodging stumps and an occasional sinkhole. The horn had replaced his vocal chords as hog-caller, penetrating more effectively into the woods and the far reaches of hog habitat. It got the attention of every hog within earshot. Sound equals food, they soon learned, for hogs are the brightest of farm animals.
That day, a Sunday afternoon in September 1935, a large herd had sensed that a good feeding awaited them. It had been a long, hot, and dry summer in Greene County, Mississippi. Wild food was scarce. We could see that several sows had brought with them their late summer pigs and spring shoats, which dodged the aggressions of two young boars. The boars fought for turf and advantage. Hogs are very knowledgeable about power, and strictly respect its use. Being semi-wild, most were cautious about coming close to us. Occasionally, he would toss a whole ear into the bush to one of the larger animals. One sow seemed to be his favorite, the one he called the “Suddy Sow.”
This is one of my most vivid images of Joseph Levi Jefferson Hillman, my father, known locally as “Bud” Hillman. (How those beautiful given names got exchanged for “Bud” I did not know and still don’t.) While feeding his hogs, he would appear almost transfixed, studying each animal, its size, shape, coloring, markings, including earmarks, even its eating habits and personality. Sunday afternoon hog feeding was part of a weekly routine that had evolved over the years for males in the clan of Charles Hillman, my grandfather. (Such feeding escaped the Victorian condemnation of Sabbath violation accorded to playing sports or shopping or going to the movies. Whenever we had to catch a hog on Sunday, my father would say, “The ox is in the ditch,” and we did it.) My father’s capacity for recording details about hogs was the keenest in the community
horse cribbing