Pass the Pig

With the recent move came a change in my commute scenery.  Winding country roads now led to the interstate.  There was a road with a very short span that I now took briefly.  A barely paved country lane with grass, dandelions and other impressive weeds lined the edges, broken only by a couple of farms.  There was no speed limit sign but common sense dictated a slow tempo.  Each morning I would pass a solitary pig happily rooting in the sun at the back of his pen.  This pig was grand.  Two shades of brown that matched the Georgia red clay.  He had a shelter constructed of plywood and a field of grass, dirt and wildflowers. 

This pig reminded me of another pig from years ago in an infamous jewelry shop in Aiken, SC.  The only time I visited Porky Bradberry’s shop was in the early nineties.  It was a small glass structure in a hexagonal shape.  I was completely aware of the rumors swirling around the owner and the unsolved murder of his wife.  Small towns have a hard time forgetting sordid tales, especially when they believed someone had gotten away with a crime.  As I completed my transaction, I was startled by the enormous pet pig that freely wandered the store.

Each evening on my drive home, I once again looked for the pig, this time on my right, and I was glad to see him in a large fenced area instead of a tiny small town jewelry shop.  I think that if I had any visitors, part of my southern directions would include “once you pass the pig, slow down for the very sharp curve…”