It was one of those see-nothing snows the night Hank drove our ’71 VW micro bus, the one with no heat and a lot of play in the gearshift, slowly down the steep hill on Route 112 in Worthington one night.
Hank certainly didn’t see the pig, all 500 pounds of it, until it stopped the van in its tracks and he got out to check what had happened. The pig was upright. Dead.
The pig, which belonged to Bert, brother to Ernie, it’s true, had escaped the pen and appeared to be making a break for it. White snow. White pig. The animal didn’t have a chance.
The impact tore off the spare tire mounted to the front of the VW, sending it high over the top, and then rolling down the road past the van. Hank and the two men riding with him laughed about it when they arrived at our house.
Bert, who owned a garage, sent a wrecker to tow the pig from the road. He offered half the meat. Hank declined, as we did not eat pork, but he did accept the bodywork the van required.
That happened many years ago, but Bert still joked about it whenever he saw Hank. He called him Horrible Hank the Hog Killer.
Yes, another bit for Redneck’s Revenge and other stories.