It was a glorious, cool, crisp summer morning. I tucked my sketch pad under my arm and headed out over the hill. I'd get a piece of charcoal from the burned-out log when I got down to my favorite sketching stump. I was sixteen, the world could be better, but this morning, life was good.

     My parents were undergoing some very difficult financial times and had shipped my three-year-old brother and me off to relatives for the summer. First we stayed with my sister for a week, sleeping on the sofa. Then we went to my aunt who had a nice big bedroom for us. Her house was beautiful and elegant, but she welcomed us with open arms and made us feel right at home. Next, we were shipped off to Colton, Oregon to stay with our grandmother on the farm miles from anywhere. Jesse, my brother, and I shared a big double bed and he often had "accidents" at night which left both of us dripping wet and smelling. I got in the habit of keeping clean sheets and pajamas in our room and would get up, strip the bed and make it in the middle of the night when needed. Many of my days began with a full load of laundry.

     Last night, Jesse hadn't had an accident so the day had started out surprisingly good already. He also was still sleeping when I got up at about 6:30. Both my grandmother and I were early risers and not infrequently shared quiet companionship and a pot of tea in the morning. This morning I had dressed and quickly slipped out of the house even before my grandmother was up, leaving a note by the teapot that I was in the "back twenty." I knew she wouldn't mind. I didn't often leave her with the care of my baby brother and she was very understanding on the few occasions that I did. Arriving at my sketching stump, I continued to the burned out log and carefully selected my days drawing implement. Back on my log, I began sketching the beautiful landscapes surrounding me.

     Faintly, at first, but with increasing loudness and a fair amount of insistence, I heard an unfamiliar noise off to my right. I tried to ignore it, but the sound kept intruding on my concentration. I listened closer and could make out the unmistakable sounds of something young. Sliding from my stump, I made my way towards the sound. I was certain now that it came from the fence row which separated the field I was in from one being leased by a neighbor. I cautiously and silently moved towards the source of the sound. I could now hear what sounded like grunts and squeals. I carefully parted the tall grass with my hand and peered down. There, much to my surprise, was a whole litter of baby pigs. They were so adorable I couldn't resist bending to pick one up. Somewhat naive in the ways of country animals, I was not prepared when, while snuggling that adorable if coarse little critter, it "pottied" all down the front of my shirt and shorts. Thrusting it away from me at arms length startled it and it emitted a high shriek I had never heard before.

     "It's all right, little guy," I said softly, returning it to the companionship of its brothers, "I wouldn't hurt you." I looked down at my clothes. I only thought I smelled when my brother had an accident. Whew! This was awful. That'd teach me not to pick up cute little pigs. I didn't want to go back to the house already, though, and give up this time by myself.

     Thus occupied in my own thoughts, I failed to see the mamma sow headed my way. I didn't notice her, in fact, until the ground shook with the thundering of her hooves. I looked up to see one of the fiercest looking animals imaginable: a mother pig whose piglet has just called her with the unmistakable message that its little life is in danger. I knew instinctively that talk was useless. Nothing I could say in any tone of voice would dissuade that sow from her goal: me! I also knew that she meant to kill me and somewhere in the back of my mind a little flag went up with this label: Pigs are Carnivorous.

     In panic, I looked quickly for someplace to take cover. My drawing stump was not only too low, it was too far away and that animal could obviously run faster than I. It was amazing, in fact, considering her weight, how fast she was closing ground. I had to do something fast or I was going to be breakfast! I dropped my sketch pad, grabbed the fence post closest to me and shinnied up. The mamma charged onward.

     At her arrival, I marveled at the height of the post itself: someone must have had horses in that field at some time and I was now very thankful. Balancing precariously, I crooned softly to the pig, but the sound of my voice further infuriated her and she assaulted my post, ramming it hard. I grabbed on for dear life and started praying. Since that didn't dislodge me, she then tried climbing. Fortunately for me, she was unable to get both front hooves on the post at the same time since the little piggies, delighted to see their mother, were distracting her by demanding their breakfast. My threat to them was even more important to her than their hunger, though.

     "Heeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!" my quavering voice barely made it above a soft yelp and disappeared on the wind. That wasn't going to do; there wasn't even anyone within shouting distance, let alone whispering distance. I mustered my courage and tried again.

     "Heeeeeeeeeeeeelp!" I managed to get quiet a bit of volume that time, encouraged as I was by the continual efforts of mamma trying to scarf up my feet. Looking at the farm yard on the hill across the road, I thought I could see someone moving. "Help! Help! Help me!" I screamed now at the top of my lungs. Someone had better hear me. The determination on the face of that pig was growing stronger even as my hopes were growing dimmer and my chances of survival even slimmer.

     The insistence of the piglets was now even too much for mamma to ignore. She finally plopped down directly at the bottom of my post to feed her babies and keep an eye on me at the same time. Every once in a while she would look me straight in the eye and snort, letting me know she had not forgotten I was there or forgiven me, either. I was keeping a close eye on her, too, hoping maybe she would doze off or something and I could make a break for home.

     "Hey, whatcha doin up there?" a voice broke into my scrutiny of mamma's closed visible eye. I nearly fell off the post and into her mouth as that same voice caused her to jump up and straight for me, mouth open, before she realized I hadn't said it. Mamma now turned her attention to the new interloper and met her match, who was well-prepared with a pig cane.

     "Get on outta there, ya darn fool pig!" the farmer's voice ordered as he whacked her a good one squarely on the snout. "Get on home where ya belong and take yer dang brood with ya!" he whacked her again and she and all thirteen (I had had time to count them while they were eating) piglets headed in the direction of the road.

     "Here, let me help you," the farmer reached up and lifted me from the post. "It's a good thing I noticed she was gone and came lookin' for her. She'd of probly killed ya," he continued. I nearly swooned in his arms before something brought me fully alert rather like the effect of an amonia inhalant.

     I looked at my salvation. Fairy tales don't always tell the whole story. Sometimes white knights come dressed in faded overalls and old straw hats. Sometimes they have on work boots covered in pig poop and sometimes . . . they smell like reality.