This week’s story looks to the more recent past when country music was mainstream, social gatherings were casual and for a moment, life seemed a little simpler
Fire Stories, Pig Tales and Friends
It became an instant tradition from its beginning in the late 1970’s and lasted until the early 1990’s. It was a time when we thought we were headed toward the future like a true and straight arrow. It was a time when life seemed on course and we celebrated our confidence with the Pig Picking.
Every year on a crisp March morning behind the Coggins’ home in Fort Mill, we would meet and begin by building the fire. At 5:00 am on the day of our annual pig picking, the ritual began. Eddie Weldon would arrive at the firepit with a thermos and some newspaper. I was there, and except for one never-forgiven oversleep, I would help build the teepee fire with twigs for tinder and a few pieces of fat pine split to catch quickly.
When the fire was ready to light, Eddie would reach into the pocket of his red plaid flannel shirt and with a ceremonious flourish produce a single match. Striking the match on the side of a concrete block, Eddie would touch the match to the crumpled newspapers and the flame, small at first, would catch the twigs and then the kindling. As the fire grew, larger sticks and then split logs would be added until after about an hour, the fire was raging and glowing coals began to drop below the raised logs.
The 120 pound pig had to go on the grate by 8:00 am in order to be fully done by 6:00 pm. For that to happen there had to be an ample supply of coals to heat the makeshift concrete block oven. Eddie was the head fireman and was in charge of having those coals ready and the grill hot when the pig arrived. As assistant fireman, my job was to help Eddie. In the hour or two, before the others arrived with the main course, Eddie and I would sit on hay bales beside the fire. It was the time to sit back, drink coffee and share our dreams and our opinions about life. With a good friend to talk to and a stick to poke the fire, the problems of the world were lifted away in the rising smoke.
A campfire is incomplete without stories. Perhaps our blood, infused with the genes of ancestors long forgotten, brings out stories. Campfires encourage self-reflection. Looking into the blues and reds and yellows of the flame, we assess who we are and who we believe we will become.
At about 7:00 am, Joe Bonds, Miller Coggins, Bo Palmer and Jim Rountree would meet at the Peach Stand to pick up the pig. The main course weighed in at between 100 and 125 pounds dressed. The grill would also hold ten or so pork butts. At about 7:30, Miller’s white pick-up would pull up at the fireplace and the real work would begin. We would unload the split pig and lay it on the already warming grate. Calling it a fire pit would be a misnomer in that our grill was made of five levels of concrete blocks with a strong grate just below the top. Pieces of sheet steel could be put on top and on the ends to control the heat.
Once the pork was on the fire, the cooks took over. With Chief Cook Joe in charge, Miller, Bo and Jim would grease the pig with Crisco shortening and then salt and pepper it on both sides. Then Eddie would replenish the thin line of coals along the edges and up the middle of the grill. I was always doubtful that so few coals could produce enough heat to cook so much pork. Every year I was proven wrong.
With the grill closed and the pork smoking, it was time for everyone to gather around the fire. This was the time that I had to attest to the others that Eddie had started the fire with his one and only match. Most of the time I told the truth. By 9:00 am, the serious lies would start and the bravest of us would open the first celebratory beer.
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In March, the weather can range from spring warm to bitter winter cold. There was also the real threat of a cold rain. Weather never stopped us.
With my fire duty done, and the cooks doing the bulk of the work, I became the assistant decorator. I always called Miller the “Great Overdoer”. A twenty by ten out-building was called into service for cold or rainy days. Miller secured an ancient cast iron pot-bellied stove stamped with the name “Big Joe”. It was placed in the rear center of the shed and vented through the roof. Under Miller’s direction I would pile hay bales along the walls of the shed and around the area for seating. He would also produce several potted azaleas to give the place a hint of formality. Miller always added a banner or signs to up his decorative ante from the year before.
With everything in place, the coals would be replaced every hour or half hour depending on the temperature of the pork. About noon, we would slip away, one or two at a time to go home, wash off the smoke and make ourselves presentable for the hundred and fifty or so close friends who would begin showing up about 5:00 pm. Our wives, who had the luxury of a little more sleep, were busy at home producing the side dishes like slaw and beans and cookies, and would appear off and on during the day to socialize and gently ridicule the “just so” way everything had to be done. There was lots to make fun of and endless subject matter for humor.
I have to add a sidebar here: Sandra Bonds’ Mustard Sauce. I say that with mouth-watering reverence. For me, no matter how good the pork was, Sandra’s sauce made it perfect. I begged for years and was finally granted the magic formula. No, I’m not giving you the recipe but I often keep a mixture made up in my refrigerator. It is great on anything that was ever part of a pig.
Dress at the Pig Picking was country casual. Blue jeans were the norm but sometimes blue overalls made an appearance. For the first year or so, headgear for the crew was a blue “Breeders Association” trucker’s cap secured by Miller, our agriculture teacher/farm manager. We enjoyed the puerile humor of wearing a “Breeder’s” cap. In later years, for several of us, cowboy hats were headgear of choice. We all had, as they say in Texas, “More hat than cattle”.
About 5:30, The cooks would begin their final preparations. Joe and Jim were tasked with the carving of the pig and Bo would oversee. Bo was the quiet one and I always believed he held the ultimate knowledge about all our jobs. When things would go wrong, he always provided the elegantly simple solution.
Before 6:00 the food was all set out, the decorations were up to Miller’s standards and the smell of pork filled the air. Beer was on tap or in cans and folks began to arrive. This was when the official fun began and fun it was. Lots of talk and lots of good food. Because it was the 1980’s there was too much alcohol but most of the time everyone behaved.
If the truth be known, the party itself was anti-climactic for me. Introvert by nature, I would move from one cluster of people to another, almost always on the perimeter as a listener. That’s not a whine, it is what I do. I have always been better at writing than talking.
The Pig Picking became a traditional gathering. It was a way to hold on to a magical time with friends. Despite life changes over the years, our Pig Picking routine gave us a sense of permanence. But like the arrow analogy, even the truest shot is pulled away from the target by gravity and by the winds of change. We moved on. Friendships and great memories continue but our little world of fire and food and fellowship would flicker and fade away.
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