My father grew up on a farm near a small town in Southern Minnesota. Apparently he had a tendency to get into mischief. My Grandmother shared the tales of some of his exploits with me...
Dad's younger sister had raised a hog for 4-H. Hogs, being generally unpleasant don't care for many people, but he REALLY didn't like my Dad. Given the family penchant for humor, Dad probably made a few too many comments about bacon.
One day the hog escaped from his pen and made a beeline straight for Dad. Having above average intelligence and being well-educated (his mother was a teacher), Dad deduced that this had the potential to end very badly for him, so he started running.
Dad's younger sister had raised a hog for 4-H. Hogs, being generally unpleasant don't care for many people, but he REALLY didn't like my Dad. Given the family penchant for humor, Dad probably made a few too many comments about bacon.
One day the hog escaped from his pen and made a beeline straight for Dad. Having above average intelligence and being well-educated (his mother was a teacher), Dad deduced that this had the potential to end very badly for him, so he started running.
Screaming at the top of his lungs, and with the hog hot on his heals, Dad ran around the farm.
All of it.
Three times.
My grandmother was working in the house when she heard the shrieks of terror. Realizing that there might be a problem, she hurried out to the porch to see what the commotion was about.
And she stayed there.
Grandmother watched, or listened to my Dad running laps around the farm with the hog straining to catch up. Occasionally his erratic path would bring him closer to the house where Grandmother would yell at him,
“Run faster Allan. Run faster.”
The hog eventually got tired.
Dad made the track team.
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