A Little Bit Like Home

Sorting Hogs

Life has a rhythm to it.

There is the beat of a song your foot finds before you notice, the morning routine that tells you how late you can walk out the door and the chant of an auctioneer after the words have passed beyond ordinary comprehension.

And then there was the rhythm of sorting hogs.

In the 1980s, we raised quite a few hogs. The pigs were weaned, moved, grouped, regrouped and eventually finished across the highway. It sounds orderly in a sentence. In real life, it involved hogs, which meant every plan came with a chance for revision.

As the pigs grew, we tried to keep them sorted by size. It helped keep smaller hogs from being bullied and helped us know who needed more time and who was ready to go to market.

Dad usually decided.

Dad and my brother Bill worked the hogs toward the wide concrete alley in front of the pens. Dad would watch each hog, point with the remnant of an old stiff whip and make the call.

“Inside. Inside. Inside. By.”

Inside meant another pen and a little more time. By meant the hog passed by the gate and joined the group headed to market.

At least, I think it was “by.” Until I started writing this, I had never considered whether Dad was saying “by,” as in pass by the gate, or “bye,” as in goodbye. Given where those hogs were headed, either spelling probably worked.

Joe and I usually worked the gate. Calling it “working the gate” may be generous, because many times it made more sense to move our bodies than to swing the gate itself. We learned to block the opening, open the opening and, when necessary, make ourselves part of the gate when a hog with strong opinions decided the space beside us looked negotiable.

A hog does not need a large opening to believe he has been personally invited through it.

When sorting went well, it went well. Dad’s voice had its own rhythm.

“Inside, inside, inside, by.”

After watching hundreds of hogs move through that alley, I developed a bit of an eye for it myself. Height mattered, but so did width, length and the general impression that a hog had spent his feed wisely. I could often tell where Dad was going to send one before he said it.

That may be why the memory feels pleasant now. The job became less confusion and more rhythm. There was satisfaction in knowing where to stand, when to move and when to get out of the way.

Of course, the rhythm did not always hold.

Sometimes Dad changed his mind halfway through the call.

“Inside, inside — no, BY! BY! BY!”

That was when Joe and I had to prove whatever athletic soundness we claimed to possess. A hog headed one direction did not always appreciate being told his travel plans had changed.

The real trouble came when a hog intended for the inside pen got by us. That broke the rhythm completely. We usually fixed the mistake right away, which meant a sort within the sort and, depending on the hog, a fresh opportunity for farm vocabulary.

Maybe those hogs knew more than we gave them credit for. Maybe they had heard the little piggy went to market and noticed he never seemed to come back.

I doubt I could sort hogs today with the same confidence. My eye would be rusty, my knees less enthusiastic and any hog with strong opinions would probably recognize my weakness immediately.

But I can still hear it.

Inside. Inside. Inside. By.

Farm work had many rhythms. Some were steady. Some were loud. Some smelled better than others. But few stay with me like the rhythm of sorting hogs, when Dad’s voice, my brothers and a pen full of market hogs all tried to decide who was going inside and who was saying bye.

Tom Brand is a St. Joseph, Missouri, writer whose latest book, “You Have To Leave If You Want To Come Back,” is available at RichardsonPress.com. He remains suspicious of any hog who looks like he has a plan.