I rise from my reading chair and prepare to walk out of the house to go feed the pigs. It’s 6:30 a.m. and there is just enough light outside and just enough coffee inside me to warrant the start of the day. Earlier I spent a little time rereading the Durants’ The Lessons of History, a Cliff Notes version to their 10-volume history. (If there is any relevance of that volume to this missive, it is that our days and actions are bound, or so says Twain, to repeat or rhyme with the past. And chore time on the farm mirrors that arc: some progress, some backsliding, some things different, and some the same.)

My first stop in preparing is the refrigerator, where I make a quick assessment of what has passed the “best consumed by humans date” but is still in the edible range for the hogs. What I discover are a large container of salad and two small containers of sprouts.

Dodging the three dogs fighting over a footlong stick on the porch, I pull on my muck boots and head to the barn. The heavy rain yesterday has left as a reminder a low-hanging fog, giving the morning a closed-in feel in which the world seems small and personal. I trudge across the 200 feet of sloppy and very sticky red clay that marks our newly refurbished septic field — not the most exciting or glamorous way to spend $4,800 — and make a mental note to spread grass seed and straw later today.

In the barn breezeway where the feed barrels are stored, I add the fridge contents to three five-gallon buckets, then mix in some locally milled hog meal, followed by a gallon of whole milk into two of the buckets. The dairy addition is courtesy of a mutually beneficial arrangement with a local grocery: the store management gives me expiring milk, as well as produce, and I deliver the occasional fresh eggs and pound of sausage as a token of thanks.

The bucket without milk goes to our sow, Ginger. At 400 pounds plus, she needs to be kept in fighting trim to deal with the arrival of Jack, the boar, next week. The largest bucket goes to three feeder pigs living next to the garden. A fence made of hog panels holds the peace between them and the fast-growing greens in the hoop-house. Mostly.

Two mornings ago the pigs managed to breach the battleline. It was not a happy farmer who discovered three sated swine waiting to greet him at the garden gate … inside the garden. Moving them from their breakfasting on my collards back to their paddock was the work of a few minutes. Another few were occupied in resecuring the fence to the wooden post. I then spent most of the morning replanting my potato patch, which they had rooted up, as well as tidying up other damage from their nighttime escapades. Overall, I remind myself, it could have been worse: the flock of 40 sheep could have broken into the garden.

I take a few minutes to observe the trio once I’ve emptied the feed into their trough. The slaughter date for this group is set for June, but I’m now thinking that may be pushing it. Although the pigs are packing on the pounds, they look a little too light at this juncture to make 300 pounds by that date. I make a mental note to chat with Cindy later about rescheduling to July.

A chainsaw starts up a few hundred yards away and down the hill from the pig paddock. The neighbors are back at work on their grand fencing plan. What could be an annoying noise to some in the still of the morning is pleasing to me because it also sounds productive. I smile at the pigs and the morning in general and head back to the barn. Pausing in the breezeway, I pick up the last bucket of hog feed. This one I have to carry back across the farm and out into the woods, a distance of a few hundred yards, to the final group. These are Ginger’s piglets from her litter back in January. They are Berkshire (Jack) and Red Wattle (Ginger) crosses and are looking fat and stout at around 75 pounds. They should be right on schedule for their date with the processor in September.

As I enter the woods in the growing light, I note that the ground is mostly covered in a four-inch stand of hairy green rye and fescue interspersed with red and white clover. This area had been much abused by our practice of raising multiple groups of pigs for multiple periods that lasted longer than they should have, with no rest in between. This year I have been diligently sowing grass seed and moving brush to mend the erosion, and I am relieved to see that my efforts are now paying off. We will leave this area fallow for another 12 months and revisit with another batch of pigs. Will and Ariel Durant would understand this cycle, I think, as I pick my bucket up and head to the house for breakfast.

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