Pickled Pigs' Feet

Something I haven't thought about for many years. Until a couple of months ago, when I saw jars of same in the "Hispanic" foods section of the market. (Grocery store to you, market to me.)

And so now, of course, I want some. I haven't bought any, because the jars are big. But I'm thinking about it.

It's my dad. He liked pickled pigs' feet, and he said, as he said many times, "Try it. It's good. You'll like it." Or words similar. Often he said, "It's good for you." But I don't know if he could have said that about pigs' feet. Anyway, I tried it, and I liked it.

Not like tongue. Yuck. Still have a hard time with that, not that you could find tongue at any meat counter I've seen lately.

Oysters. I wouldn't dream of eating one then. My mother always said Daddy liked to eat them raw so they could crawl down his throat. Crawl, I think, was the wrong word. Slide would have been more like it. But she said crawl, and it sounded right to me, the little girl who also never dreamed that when she grew up she would like oysters. Raw, even.

I don't know if any of the other kids, my siblings, liked pickled pigs' feet. I mean, it sounds like something you're not supposed to eat--the feet of pigs. And I wonder if they, the feet of pigs, would be as good today as I would want them to be.

Know what I mean?

Oh Daddy. I may have to find out.

It's About Death. Sorry.

In the world of the university there are distances. For instance, there is a notable and noticeable distance between a  full professor--one who has been chair of the department, let's say, who is a world recognized scholar on George Eliot, much published and quoted, etc., etc.--and a part-time adjunct instructor. Yes, I taught for more than 15 years, but I was considered part-time all that time. Which tells you which of the two I have mentioned I am.

And while we share the same first name, such a commonality does not shorten the distance between us. Not in academia, as some folks like to call it. Not on your life.

And while formerly I have called the wind The Great Equalizer because of how it makes us all look alike, I now know the truth.

Death is The Great Equalizer. That truth was underscored for me recently.

The full professor has had that unhappy experience now. The one where her husband dies and she is suddenly something she never wanted to be. A widow.

Last Saturday she and I happened to be washing our hands next to each other in the restroom during intermission of the Boise Philharmonic concert.

Me: Hello, Carol.
Carol M: (Surprised, of course. I mean, it's the bathroom after all.) Oh, hello.
Me: How are you? How do you like being a widow? (Yes, I really said that, but the tone of my voice and the look on my face made it a legitimate and not unkind question. Trust me.)
CM: Oh, it's hard.

I have to say that she does not look good.

CM: I think I'm starting to be, to know what to do, or how to just live with it.

It has been 5 1/2 months since Lonnie died. He was 81 and had been ill for a while

Me: Not the way you planned it.
CM: No.
Me: Soon after I became a widow someone told me, "You never get over it."
CM: No. You don't.

By now we were moving out of the restroom. She was behind me.

CM: We were close. (It was like a protest against death and a wish that we could talk about it for another minute--before returning for the rest of the concert.)
Me: (Feeling sad for her. Wishing I could help.) I know you were. (Holding my fingers together) You were like this.
CM: Yes.
Me: Besides, he was fun.
CM: Yes, he was very fun.

See what I mean? No distance between us. Sorry that she is suffering. Sorry.
Fully aware, though, that death often brings people together.