Bliss #2 - Meet Piggy Piggy

When I posted yesterday's picture it was going to be a stand alone, no comment picture, but then I remembered Piggy Piggy. I have since found this photo (taken in the early 1970's) in one of my old photo albums - probably the only picture of her.

Her place in the kitchen was in the corner next to the old aga anthracite stove. I had forgotten that mother had even given her her own blanket. I also see that the linoleun was still in tact in her corner.

All I can say from this picture is that having "pigs in the parlour" is not romantic. When I think of it now, I can not imagine mother having a pig in the kitchen of her gracious Knysna home, in the later years of her life. If she were still alive she would be mortified by her son's revelations, because she was such a fanatical home maker - but it was a different life and a different world back then.

If you look carefully in the bottom right hand corner you will see the edge of the dog's basket and back of one of the ridgebacks. There was only one basket and it was always a race at night to see who would get it first. When they were fed at night the three would wolf their food down, as fast as they could and the winner would then make a dash for the basket, dive in and make himself comfortable and then not move for the rest of the night, if he could manage it.

When two of them finished their food simultaneously the the race was even more spectacular and a source of great amusement for the family.

If the winner climbed out of the basket one of the others would leap into it in the blink of an eye and make himself comfortable.

A load of bull and and a load of innocence

Back in the days when it was not done to talk about “the birds and the bees’, in polite company or heaven forbid tell you children about these deep dark secrets, grandpa and uncle Stanley strolled down to the cattle kraal (pen, corral). They were accompanied by Aunt Molly, who at that time was a naïve teenager.

It was dip day. Once a month all the cattle were rounded up and brought in to be dipped and examined for injuries or diseases.

Dip day was always one of the highlights on the farm, with all the hustle, bustle and activity. There is always a lot of dust and noise from the cattle milling about and bellowing. The herdsmen add to the general cacophony with their whistling and shouting and cracking of whips. Then there is the smell of fresh cow dung, mingled with the smell of the dip and the hordes of flies that feel obliged to grace you with their company.

You have to be a farmer to enjoy this. Grandpa generally carried his fly whisk. It was the end of a cows tail attached to a handle – gross but effective – which he used to fend off the flies, as they buzzed around his head.

The two gentlemen (actually they were rough, tough farmers born in the 19th century) and the young lady stood silently at the fence watching the activities. They were not the type of men to waste breath on unnecessary conversation.

After a while Uncle Stanley turned to his brother and said, “Nice bull Harry”.

Grandpa nodded and grunted his acknowledgement.

“How can you tell it is a bull?” asked Aunt Molly, sweetly.

“By the horns my dear, by the horns”, Uncle Stanley responded without hesitation.

“Oh”, said Aunt Molly, now none the wiser, “I never knew that”.

Some of grandpa's cattle in the bush. They eventaully became so wild and unruly that he stopped dipping them.
After many complaints from the authorities he invited the Animal Health Inspector to come and dip them one day. He took up the challenge, but his efforts were less than succesful and after nearly being gored to death, he stopped visiting grandpa's farm.
Grandpa's cattle were treated as game thereafter.