PORTLAND PRESS HERALD • May 4, 2026
On Memorial Day 1960, my 8-year-old twin brother Don and I sat on the pigpen fence, having just completed our barn chores on our grandparents’ dairy farm in Mercer. Awaiting Grammy Lue’s brass-horn breakfast call, we rocked back and forth until the fence collapsed. Smeared with slop, we raced into the farmhouse and yelled, “Grammy, the pigs have escaped.” To ease the tension, Don chimed in, “But Mr. Chubby (our 250-pound boar) is no longer bunged up.” After days of constipation, Chubby took care of business in Grampa’s potato patch. Henrietta — the matriarch of our Barred Rocks — was busy digging for grubs when the pigs stampeded by. Panic-stricken, she laid an egg on the lawn. ~ Ron Joseph
