From my birth to age 10 I grew up across the street from a pig farm. It was my family’s fame and my uncles ran it.
My sisters and I would run an play up on the farm. I remember climbing up on the stacked hay and talking with my sisters. We would pet the goats and watch the pigs. When my uncles, dad, or another adult was around they would pick up the little piglets to let us hold them.
Even after my family moved a town over we would visit my memere and the farm. We would still play and pet the pigs whenever we visited. We had farm shoes over my memere’s house that we would wear when the farm was muddy.
One day, when I was in middle school I brought a friend over to the farm and we played in the pen with the pigs. Most of the pigs stayed away from us. We still had fun in the slippery pen. We slid and fell many times, which to a child is a fun time.
By the time we had enough fun we were both covered in what we though was mud. We cheerfully went back down the hill to my memere’s home. She informed us that it was not just mud and she hosed us off before we could enter her house to fully get cleaned. Typically, we just had to take off our farm shoes. This time was different we were too messy to be allowed in the house.
I smile at the memory still. My memere still reminds me about the time my friend and I got covered in pig manure.