The best plans have a way of sometimes going sideways

It was like a bad omen for retiring my day. As I turned the hot water on to shower the stress away, I reached over my head to pull my shirt off. The ring-spun-cotton T-shirt that had comforted my skin for over a decade had crumbled.

Not even enough fabric to be considered threadbare, it looked more like bedding material that rats had been chewing on and fighting over. There were more holes than fabric that made up the edges. It was a cheap shirt, but it was just one more thing that had gone wrong for the day.

It all started with our decision to raise pigs, cows, chickens and turkeys on the homestead. Our plan was simple; we wanted to have an easy restful winter enjoying the bounties of our labor. In order, to enjoy our own meat through the holidays, we decided that we would have our butchering done by Thanksgiving.

Unfortunately, we didn’t coordinate our desires very well with the butcher. By the time we called the butcher to make an appointment, we were months away. The nearest date on the calendar was the following year. This meant that we would have to keep all of our animals longer. And also heat water and feed them. Instead of butchering in the fall, we wouldn’t be doing it until the middle of January.

As the day drew nearer, the excitement and anticipation grew. Soon, we wouldn’t be hauling water to the back of the property. Soon, our chores would become more tolerable — even for a disgruntled teenager with more important things to do.

But then the weather turned. For the first time since we’ve been living here, the weather seemed to resemble winter. We had snowstorms, and I actually had to plow my driveway, several times.

On the day of transport, we got hit with another snowstorm. To make things worse, our plans for borrowing a truck fell through. So did our backup, and eventually the backup’s backup. Our farming operation was beginning to look more like the Cleveland Browns’ quarterback debacle.

Fortunately, my in-laws came through and let us borrow their truck. We just had to drive an equal distance in the opposite direction to pick it up. The roads weren’t even plowed, making the trip difficult. Unwilling to turn around, we continued our journey.

When it came time to back the trailer in, I began sliding. Quickly switching between forward and reverse, I frantically cut the wheel. Eventually, I got the trailer in place. I climbed out of the truck and walked back to unload.

Opening the door, I prepared myself to say goodbye. But that’s when the butcher told me that he wouldn’t take two of the three pigs. He said that they don’t butcher that kind of pig because they’re too small.

I sat there beside myself for quite some time. It was a 6-hour trip both ways, and we still have most of our pigs. By the time I was holding threads of one of my favorite shirts, it was too late. I couldn’t even get mad. All I could do was laugh. I didn’t even know that was an option.

As the comedy of new information surrounded me in the book “Homegrown Pork,” by Sue Weaver, I read that in some parts of the world, women still breastfeed piglets taken from sows in the wild. Could you imagine selling that idea to your wife? I may be dumb, but I ain’t that dumb.