I know it's been a while...I paint goddam it, not write!

This has really been the summer from hell.

After Kay died, it was all down hill. I mean, fuck it, I only got about $90 from selling her shit at the flea market.

I was all set to write about the goddam 12 hour day trying to pawn off all her shit to the good people of our community. But, that was like four weeks ago and my heart was not in it. It sucked ass too much. Maybe I'll write about it in the fall when my seasonal depression kicks in and I need something to vomit up to keep going.

After Kay died, I was forced to move my studio. Don't get me wrong the new studio is the cat's tits. It's just that when you move, you realize how much of your work hasn't sold. Jebus, I have a ton of shit that I am seriously thinking of turning into a massive bonfire. I bet it would burn for weeks.

Anyways, the 4th of July always makes me remember my youth. In fact, the earliest memory I have is of a 4th of July spent in northern Minnesota. It is not a happy memory.

Since well before my birth, the Crowder family made it a tradition to gather upon the shores of Lake Ottertail and celebrate God's gift of life. Every summer, the entire family would rent cabins, fish, swim and do things that families do. Cousins from hundreds of miles away would meet uncles from just as far away. A few would call this a reunion. Others would call it hell.

I mean, come on, let's be honest. The majority of my distant relatives lived half a nation away and seeing them once a year ranked them just below the cashier at Wal-Mart in terms of 'strangers'. Well, regardless, as a child, I had absolutely no say in where the annual family vacation was spent. If these were to become my childhood memories, I would try to make the best of them.

Returning to my earliest memory.

While northern Minnesota is best known for it's abundantly stocked lakes of hungry walleye, our family enjoyed a mid vacation week pig roast that usually fell on the 4th. While the fried walleye were savored on Friday as grand finale, the pig was delegated to mid-week.

From what I was told, this celebration was as old as our family. We would get to 'The Lake' on Saturday afternoon and on Monday our uncle would go into Battle Lake and purchase a small young pig. I remember that Monday.

I remember him pulling up the gravel drive with a wooden crate in the back of his red pick up. The crate was made up of real thin pieces of wood. There was no need to use thick oak planks, this pig was a young'in. Between the slats of wood was bright pink flesh. Along with my brothers, I poked at the caged beast. It squealed and we laughed.

At the time of this story and for many years afterwards, I was the absolute youngest Crowder. I was the end of the genetic line. So, I found that my aunts and uncles would heed my wishes easily. That Monday afternoon, I wished to play with that baby pig.

My uncle made it so. Although there were rules like 'no taking it in the water' and 'only till 8 o'clock', I loved that pig. I don't remember ever allowing it to leave my grasp. When 8 o'clock came I was not ready to let go of my Cinnamon. I remember putting up quite a fight. I wanted to take little Cinnamon to bed and hug him like a teddy bear. My grandfather finally put his foot down...

"God Damn it, just take the fucker", he ordered.

...and they took Cinnamon from me. Cinnamon spent Monday night in his crate. I sobbed myself to sleep alone.

Tuesday morning I was greeted by the scent of pancakes and bacon. In an effort to calm my tears, the evening before, Dad had promised that he would take me fishing in the morning. I had my fill of pancakes and then ran to the dock. My Dad was loading the boat with our gear. I was so happy when he let me release the cable that dropped the boat down into water. It made me feel like a big boy.

The boat dropped, I leapt in and Dad started the motor. Cinnamon was the last thing on my mind.

We fished all morning. I don't remember catching anything, but it was fun. Around noon My Dad pulled the cord of the motor and headed for shore. Looking over the side of the boat, the reflections of the clouds on the waves made me think there were huge boulders resting on the floor of the lake. Soon we arrived at the dock and Dad helped me out of the boat. From the cabin, I could hear my mother asking if we caught anything and my dad telling her we hadn't.

Waiting for me in the cabin was a cold cut sandwich and potato chips on a paper plate. My dad then came in with our gear, kissed my mom and proceeded to tell her how bad the fishing was. Once I had finished my lunch, My mom sent me into my room for a nap..

"You don't want to sleep through dinner", she said.

I remember dreaming but cant remember the dreams. Whatever the dreams, they were interrupted by the gentle nudging of my mother..

"Topher, wake up sleepyhead"

She then asked if I was ready for dinner.

It was a little confusing because it was still very light out. The sun was not even going down and it was well before dinner. But, I got up.

"Do you want to help shave the pig", My mother asked.

At this point, I had no fucking clue what was going on. I was having problems connecting my dear Cinnamon to shaving.

"Go tell your Grandfather that you want to help", my mother added.

So that's what I did. Outside on a picnic bench my grandfather was sitting running a straight razor up and down a leather strap.

"Mom said I can help", I walked up and said to him.

"Great, you can help hold him", my grandfather returned.

I still did not have a fucking clue as to what was going on. But, in about 20 minutes my uncle walks up to the picnic table carrying the wooden cage holding my sweet Cinnamon. Following behind my uncle was every one of my relatives. They were all smiles.

My uncle placed Cinnamon's cage upon the picnic table and my cousin set down next to it a large tub of lard.

My uncle proceeded to open the small wooden box. Instantly, my Cinnamon began to put up quite a fight and my grandfather demanded that we needed to hold him down. Between my older cousins and brothers, I remember squeezing my hand through them and grasping one of Cinnamon's legs. I really thought I was helping.

My aunt then opened the tin of lard and began to slather generous portions of rendered fat all over the pig. Little Cinnamon squirmed but I never let go. My grandfather then stepped up to the table and proceeded to shave the greased pig with  his straight razor. I laughed along with my older cousins. It was like a dream.

After a few minutes my grandfather stepped back and my aunt yelled "Let 'im go!".

I think I was the last to let go. Little Cinnamon leapt from the table snorting and squealing with all the kids and adults laughing behind. That little pink pig ran, darting around the camp grounds and between the cabins. It was the kid's job to try and catch him.

I remember laughing at my older cousins stumbling over each other trying to get a handle on the pig. I was never ever close enough to catch Cinnamon. I was too little, but I tried. Finally, one of the older kids cornered the pig between a couple of cars. The chase was over.

God, my sides hurt from laughing.

When you are young you don't make connections between a greased suckling pig and hot BBQ pit. I remember the scent of charcoal light fluid that after noon, but never connected it to little Cinnamon.

My cousin proudly presented the young pig to my grandfather standing at the picnic table. There was applause.

Using the same razor he shaved the pig with, my grandfather made Cinnamon fit for eating.

I screamed like a girl. At least that's what my grandfather said.

I cried my self to sleep that night, refusing to take part in the feast.

The next morning was rainy, so no one went out fishing. For lunch my mom made me and my brothers BBQ pulled pork sandwiches with fresh coleslaw. It was pretty good.