Hogs and the Monsters That Eat Them

Today Sylvie saw a couple of steaks that our neighbor had given us thawing out on the counter (yes, I know I'm not supposed to thaw them there . . .). She yelled, "Blood!" and pushed me into the whole "meat is animal" conversation. "What! Are we monsters?!", she exclaimed. Well, yes, I suppose we are . . .
This got me thinking about all the things she eats without any knowledge at all. I decided not to go there today. But, for whatever reason, my mind jumped to our families' associations with hogs.
I grew up for the most part on my maternal grandparents' farm in Taneytown. It was a dairy farm, and besides cats and dogs, cows were pretty much the only livestock there. But my grandmother's parents were hog farmers, originally from Poolesville, who lived down the road. My great-granddaddy Charles Poole was an incredibly intimidating person, over 6 feet tall and generally grumpy. Apparently, he scared even my Papa when he was courting Grandma. Papa told the story of how once he was visiting their farm and helping out with butchering. He claimed that while working around the huge vats of cooking lard, Papa somehow lost his watch in the hot fat. In order to . . . to be finished tomorrow . . .

Twenty-one Years of Madness

Every year on a Saturday around Thanksgiving, hoards of impassioned runners take on 50 miles of our rugged landscape in a little race called the JFK Ultra-marathon. George's dad, Dave Downin, has participated in this event for the last 21 years, and for the last several we have been at the finish line to welcome him back from surviving the madness. This year he literally carried his Mount Lock Hill neighbor Bill Moore by the arm for the last 3 miles to ensure his finish. For years Bill had said he wanted to run the JFK, and this was the year Dave held him to his goal. Dave was part of the Herald Mail's feature series on some of this year's runners. Read one article here. Another short article was written just about Dave helping Bill finish. Find it here.
The JFK is the country's oldest ultramarathon and takes participants from Boonsboro to Williamsport across the Appalachian Trail and down the C&O Canal. It begins at George's old high school in Boonsboro and ends at my current school, Springfield Middle School. Locals have varying feelings about the race, but most seem to have a sense of pride about the event. Many of our friends claim they will some day run the marathon, but very few have followed through. A few years ago, George found himself in the race at the last minute. One of Dave's registered running buddies injured his knee just before the race, and Dave dared his son to run in his stead. George did, without one day of training (he figured his bike-riding would suffice), and indeed finished in over 12 hours. He was out of commission for a good three days in pain, but it is a feat on which he often brags. The best part of the story is that he ran the race in sneakers he found along Coastal Highway on a summer trip with the boys to Ocean City.
Next year we are quite sure Dave will make his twenty-second finish. He has recently retired and looks forward to more time to train.