By the time we got around to Corrine, we were not only willing to attach our name to this maddness, we were willing to commit ourselves to labeling it an annual event as well. Of course by then, I think everyone had already made the assumption we were committed--or ought to be. And of course it rained. What's a Parker Pig Pickin' without a little rain? After an unusually dry season, the sky bottomed out Friday morning, dumping a steady torrent of rain directly over our house. It never did slacken, but stopped suddenly in the early afternoon. The downpour wasn't nearly enough to dampen spirits though, and shortly after dark folks began arriving for the pre-pickin' festivities.

An incredibly amazing thing happened that night. Everyone thought to bring food! And I sat among my friends and neighbors pondering the phenomenon ... Could it be that we had managed to bond on some unseen psychic level? ... That our need for momentary escape from the world had somehow brought us together, making us one in the universal scheme of things? ... Was it that food and fellowship go naturally hand in hand? ... Or was it simply that nobody had thought to eat supper before coming out here?

Whatever the cause, it made for a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Our Pitmaster, Tracy, manned the grill, keeping us fed with the most delicious barbecued smoked sausage you could imagine, and Becky Cowan brought a wonderful homemade dip that nobody could leave alone for very long. Potato chips, popcorn, peanuts and pork rinds passed among the the crowd of about thirty, and the laughter of children toasting marshmellows and lighting sparklers replaced the lost twinkling of stars in the overcast night. And thanks to our friends Heidi and Doug Watts--who got new patio furniture this year, and thoughtfully donated their old stuff to the occasion--there was plenty of seating available around the pit, so we didn't have to rely on water soaked bales of hay.

Friends of Connie and Ed Bostic, Suzanne Marshall and Mike Marvinny, came all the way from Alabama to join us this year. Mike got a kick out of being one of the pallbearers, but showed a serious breach of etiquette by telling frog jokes, and not even appologizing for his lack of hog humor. Everyone politely chalked it up to his being from Alabama, and he was promptly forgiven. And Rick and Patty Richardson, our neighbors from down the street, surprised us by dropping in this year; regulars to the Saturday event, it was their first time joining us around the pit. Even our local architectural historian, Richard Thornton, took time from his busy world to relax and enjoy. Shortly before midnight we blessed the fire and put Corrine to rest, and not long after that the crowd began to thin out as people began making their way home in anticipation of the morrow.

There were plenty of first-timers to the pig pickin' this year, and more than a few of them kept pressed up tight against the wall, their eyes wide, as Corrine made her entrance. Tracy worked on removing the ribs while I cut and offered pieces of skin basted with his special sauce. There were a few takers, but for the most part, though they seemed intrigued at the idea of eating pig skin--and the whole process in general--most refused to budge from their comfortable hold on the wall until the rest of the crowd started moving slowly foreward.

Bob and Angie Wilson, friends of ours from the historical society were among the newcomers. Angie surprised me with a beautiful homemade grapevine wreath studded with hydrangea and eucalyptus which I immediately thought to display in my newly renovated dining room, and which remains there to this day. And Linda Cochran, our chairperson for the Etowah Valley Family Tree Climbers and columnist for the Daily Tribune News --a first-timer-- also surprised me with a beautifully handcrafted birdhouse which no mere description could do justice to, and a Yuletide decoration she made herself which I intend to display in my bathroom. (It's cute and it's a hoot, and you've just got to see it to believe it.)

David doesn't often strike up relationships with his students, but when he does find a particularly gifted and talented student--as soon as the opportunity presents itself to do so without fear of conflict of interest-- he will extend a hand of friendship to someone he now considers beyond the formalities of student/teacher relationships. Enter Shanna Futral and her husband Chris. I admit they may have been just a tad put off when they were late in arriving and David greeted them at the door with, "What time did I tell you to be here?" And then again, when I finally caught sight of them in the crowd and blurted out, "Who are you?" But eventually they seemed to settle right into the pace of our relaxed state of being, and Chris didn't even seem to mind too very much when I insisted he couldn't have the last piece of chocolate cream pie, but had to split it with me. (Not very hostess-like, I know, but it's a chocolate thing, and you had to be there. Besides, it was waaay more than just a piece; it was a piece and a half if I ever saw.)

Come two o'clock, we held the drawing to find out who killed Corrine, and as I made my way through the house letting everyone know it was just moments away, there was at least one person in every room who insisted, Oh I know who killed Corrine. Even as we all gathered in the front hall, with people spilling out the front door and up the stairs, the mutterings continued. Everybody knew, but nobody was talking. Well, it was Justin Duckett, the Pitmaster's own, who we finally fingered. Sweet little eight year old Justin, who claimed to have slain poor Corrine with a BBgun! He won a musical pig for his murderous spree, and we all applauded him thankfully for his effort in bringing about this years pig pickin'. Later, when everyone had gone and I was cleaning up, I found a note from Christen Engels, a classmate of our daughter's--after thanking us for her invitation and commenting on my Halloween decorations, Christen bravely confessed that it was really she who killed the pig. I'll be honest, I'm not sure what to make of all these people who would stand in line, jumping up and down with their hands in the air claiming to be pig killers.

I guess I've been reluctant to report that Corrine did not turn out perfect. At about six-thirty that morning, there fell another heavy rain which put out the fire in the pit and thoroughly soaked the coals we were keeping at the ready. There was simply nothing that could have been done about it, and the downpour set back the cooking time by almost an hour. Rather than inconvenience the crowd, and thinking she was just about done anyway, we brought her in. Well, she was still a little pink around the bone, but Ed stayed clear of it while carving, and there was still plenty enough for everybody. It's always discouraging when something like that happens, and all we can hope is that it didn't put anybody off from coming back next year.

The rest of the food was excellent though. Margaret Henderson brought the macaroni and cheese, and wasn't that good! There was yellow rice, baked beans, potato salad, macaroni salad, yuuummmy cole slaw ... you name it, we were eating it at my house that day! Miss Ellen Thomasson made a broccoli casserole that smelled just scrumptious, and wouldn't you know, I didn't get a single lick of it! She's promised to make it again for next years bash, and by golly I'm going to hold her to it. Luckily for me, when it came to dessert, most people thought to bring chocolate. There was chocolate cake, chocolate brownies, chocolate cupcakes, chocolate cheesecake, chocolate pie, chocolate pie with chocolate chips, chocolate chip cookie ... Mmmm-mm-mm-mm-m. I thought I'd died and gone to hog heaven. It was all simply wonderful. Everything was. And so was everybody.

You know, friends, faith is a wonderous thing. It can move mountains, so I'm told. But I don't believe for one minute that faith in God alone is enough. As I'm fond of saying: With all the millions of people crowded into this world, if we aren't here for each other, then why on Earth are we here. You have to believe in people, and in the kindness of strangers. You just have to. And you have to put your faith in each and every one you meet, the same way God puts his faith in each and every one of his blessed creations. Life is good, and if someone calls you friend, it's because they hold you in their heart, and sometimes that's as near to God as we can hope to get in this life. So if the sky should ever bottom out over your house, and you just can't seem to scrape the mud off your shoes, gather your friends around you for a time, lift each other up, and celebrate. You may still have mud on your shoes when the day is done, but I promise you won't seem to mind it nearly as much.