Noah Nickerson's Pig

There's a first time for everything.

A young man, in his early teens or so, neatly dressed, smiling and quite polite, approached me in the drugstore and asked for $.69 for a smoothie.  He was, he assured me, really thirsty but had no money.  I was, I admit, a little suspicious and a lot surprised but he appeared harmless so I dug in my pocket and gave him three quarters.   When I thought about it later, I wasn't sure why he'd chosen me - did I have the look of any easy mark or was it just random, I found myself idly wondering - and I was even less sure why I'd complied so easily and quickly.  It'd have been more in character to turn him down and report him for panhandling in a public place.  It was an odd and unlikely encounter, I thought, and I found myself musing about what his parents would've thought of it.

Later that night there was heat lightning that lit up the sky like a far off battle.  I sat on the back deck and watched it while the dogs took their last evening walk and the crickets buzzed.  I was thinking, as I so often do, about summer nights at the edge of the ocean, about being sixteen, about the tides and the stars and the night lightning that split the proud old red pine by the schoolhouse and killed Noah Nickerson's prize pig.

The tree had been in place since as long as anyone could remember.  It sat just at the edge of the road, an old warrior about halfway between the schoolhouse and the telephone office - tall, straight, flourishing, seemingly indestructible.  The lightning was fierce that night, it crackled over the cove, flashing in long, angry streaks and, for a few seconds at a time, turning the village into a stark black and white postcard.  It felt close, as if it might strike at our very feet.  Then there was a particularly deafening crack and sizzle and we all looked toward the schoolhouse and flinched to see the old red pine crash to the ground, cut jaggedly in two and on fire.

Christ! I heard from behind me and then we were all on our feet, racing toward the smoke, the fire, and the felled tree.

It looked like a giant, backwards capital L - its limbs and leaves still rustled but its roots were peeking up from the torn up ground and its trunk was harshly divided - half at an awkward angle but still standing, half sadly horizontal.  Noah Nickerson's pig had been unexpectedly, thoroughly and prematurely turned into porkchops.  Larry and Johnny pulled the poor creature from beneath the splayed out branches just as Noah, shirtless under his overalls and barefoot, emerged from his house waving a shotgun and screaming curses.  The boys ran to intercept and disarm him - we all knew how much stock he put by the pig and were afraid the shock might unhinge him.  It was a sad and delicate moment.  

Miranda! Noah wailed bitterly and fell to his knees beside the sow, his tear stained face pale with grief.  We stood around him in an awkward circle, unsure of what to say or do.  Wake up, Miranda!  he yelled, Don't be dead!

And then, a miracle.  The pig stirred, grunted, struggled to her feet and gave us all a baleful look.  Noah threw himself around her neck and sobbed.

Tough pig, Larry said admiringly, 'Pears her hind leg's broke.

Johnny was already kneeling and running his hands over the pig's hindquarters.  'Pears so, he agreed, but it's clean. Should heal ok.  Miranda gave a disrespectful snort and tried to head butt him but he held her firmly while
Larry took off his belt and found a small but sturdy branch and together they devised a makeshift splint.  It took some doing but once Noah produced a burlap feed sack, they managed to slide it under Miranda and drag her back to the sty.  Rowena was sent for and Noah quieted.  

The pig healed, as pigs will, and was scheduled for slaughter, as pigs are.  But in the end, Ned Nickerson gave in to Noah's pleas and his own private reservations that just maybe if the Good Lord hadn't seen fit to take Miranda, then he shouldn't either.  

There is indeed a first time for everything, even if you're a pig.