BY THE WAY

It Would’ve Been Groundbreaking To Have A Pig At The Ceremony

By Emory Jones

When I—perhaps inadvertently— received an invitation to the recent groundbreaking ceremony for the new performing arts center up at the White County High School, my pet pig, Cunningham, naturally assumed he’d been invited, too. Turns out he was wrong.

As you know, Cunningham has a passion for art, and the only thing he likes more than breaking ground is a sweet potato. And corn. But dancing and acting are high on the list, too.

Cunningham even took oil painting lessons once. Okay, it was just one lesson, and they asked him to leave early. But I had that abstract self-portrait framed to encourage him.

I originally hung the original in our living room. But my wife, Judy, who keeps up with such things, read somewhere that the latest decorating fad is something called “Closet Art.” So, that’s where it hangs now, right over my stack of Eddie Arnold albums.

This particular groundbreaking ceremony sounded like it was tailormade for Cunningham. For days, that poor pig practiced a little dance he hoped to perform at the function.

On the morning of the big occasion, I loaded Cunningham in the truck and headed toward the high school. He wanted to ride in the back, but it was sunny, and I was afraid he might get sunburned, so I made him sit up front with me.

On the drive over, I started having pleasant memories of my school days. Back then, I wanted to study agriculture and learn about things like corn, soybeans, peanuts, and okra. But there were just too many fields to choose from.

Anyway, when we got there, I got a tad turned around on that big campus they have now and had to ask directions from a man walking by with a clipboard. He may have been the principal; I’m not sure. But when I rolled down the window to inquire, he looked at the pig and said, “the ag center is back down the road.”

“That’s good to know,” I said. “But we’re here to help break some ground for the new arts center.”

He seemed surprised. “May I please see the pig’s invitation?”

“He ate it,” I lied. “But don’t worry, I’ll vouch for him.” I felt bad about lying since he’d said please, and all.

The man peeked inside my truck. “I don’t see a hardhat. Even with an invitation, he’ll need a hardhat. A blue one. And a shovel. For the picture, you know.”

I didn’t know, but I reached behind the seat and pulled out the yellow hardhat Cunningham wore when we used to play catch. I quit playing with him because he always hogs the ball.

“Will this work?”

“It’s not blue.”

I reached behind the seat again and pulled out a can of spray paint.

“This should fix that,” I said, showing him the little blue sticker on the label.

“There’s still the matter of a shovel.”

I reached behind the seat again and pulled out the little shovel Cunningham uses to dig in the yard when Judy’s not home.

“Our shovels are painted gold. Yours isn’t even painted.”

He had me there. The only other can of paint I had was seafoam green.

By the time we got back from the hardware store, the big event was over, and all the dignitaries had left. So, with nobody in charge, I spray-painted my shovel and Cunningham’s hat their appropriate colors and let that pig break ground to his heart’s content.

Never could get him to use the shovel, though.

Emory Jones grew up in Northeast Georgia’s White County. After a stint in the Air Force, he joined Gold Kist as publications manager. He was the Southeastern editor for Farm Journal Magazine and executive vice president at Freebarin & Company, an Atlanta-based advertising agency. He has written seven books. Emory is known for his humor, love of history and all things Southern. He and his wife, Judy, live on Yonah Mountain near Cleveland, Georgia.