Rehoboth Farm

By September of 1999 I had been working for 15 years as a systems analyst; commuting each day, dealing with clients all over the country, and problem solving technical issues. The company I work for is like most others, people talk about their lives, their wives, their children and their possessions. People will help each other with problems like how to find the right doctor, which neighborhoods have the newest houses, and where you buy the most high-tech TV.

After our previous ‘pig incident’ (see blog on "One Pig Mistake"), it would have been easy to give up. However, because of the looming Y2K issue and the fact they we had been blessed with 40 acres in which to practice not only farming but self-sufficiency, we decided to press on with our quest for pigs.

But where do you buy pigs? This is not a question that you ask at work. The small family farm is dead, and good riddance for most people. Farms are smelly, hard to work and obsolete. Oh, many people will get misty eyed as they describe their youth growing up on a farm or going to their grandparents farm; but those same people are repulsed by the thought of living and working on one themselves. Somehow, being a slave to a corporate master is deemed as respectful and secure, while working your own land is just the opposite.

It was around this time that some friends told us about the Market Bulletin. Twice a month the Georgia Department of Agriculture puts out a newspaper that consists of hundreds of classified ads, all relating to different areas of farming. One section is Swine, and thatÂ’s where we found Mr. Floyd.

Mr. Floyd is a Georgia farmer who lives on a road named after him, so you know that he has been there a long time. Mr. Floyd is in his 70Â’s, but he still raises purebred Landrace hogs like he has since the early 1960Â’s. Today he is the only Landrace breeder in Georgia. With his son he also raises over 100 acres of wheat and corn to sell and to feed to his pigs. He is a tall thin man with white hair that is always topped by a John Deere ball-cap. When he talks to you he always stands straight upright with his thumbs hooked into the straps of his suspenders. When he smiles his face wrinkles up and his eyes just become squints. He is part of a disappearing group of people, the last generation of Southern small farmers that actually derived a living off of their land.

We have met many of these people over the years and most of them have the same attitude towards our interest in agriculture. TheyÂ’re happy that there are younger people who want to carry on this type of lifestyle, but they are convinced that there is no longer any way to make a living from a small farm. Mr. Floyd points to the fact that just a couple of years ago, it was costing more to feed a hog than they were worth at slaughter time. He does it because he has always done it. He will tell you that it is more trouble than it is worth, but I believe that he just canÂ’t see his life without Landrace hogs as a part of it.

The first time I met him he was in his car-port stirring a huge steaming pot of boiled peanuts. "You the folks that’s looking for pigs?", he asked. "Yes sir", I said. "Wail, I got a bunch of ‘em if you wanna take a look". How can you resist an offer like that. As we drove our van, he led us past an electric fence and down through a rolling pasture full of curious Angus cows. At the bottom was a grove of oak and pine trees with a bare red clay floor about an acre in size. Big, pink hogs were wandering around several pens, their ears neatly covering their eyes. In one pen was a huge sow laying on her side. Mr. Floyd called to her and she sat up. Instantly, about a dozen little pink creatures jumped to their feet and then froze, each of them looking out in a different direction. Of course the children went crazy.

"Male or Female?", he asked. "Excuse me?" I said. "Yall lookin’ for a male or female?" "We’d like two females if possible", I said. He climbed over the metal panel fence, where the little critters immediately scattered to all corners of the pen. We had stopped at Wal-Mart and picked up a cheap animal cage. Of course I had no idea what you put a piglet in for transportation, but I figured this would at least get them home. Mr. Floyd trapped a few in a corner and reached down and grabbed one by a hind leg. Her squealing and shaking was a flashback to the ‘pig incident’ that we had a few weeks earlier; I started wondering if we weren’t getting ourselves into another disaster.

"Where’s she goin?" , he asked. "Oh, right here", I ran over and opened the back of the van. Opening the cage door I asked him if he thought this was good enough. "Wail", he said, "I got one lady that just puts ‘em in her back seat on the floor board, so I guess that oughta do just fine". He handed me the piglet and while I stuffed it into the cage, I was imagining somebody driving down the road with two loose pigs running around the back seat of a car, rooting the upholstery and looking out the windows.

After the two piglets were safe in their cage we stood and talked to Mr. Floyd for a while. He talked about agriculture, government and the way things used to be. We talked about home schooling, small farms and the way things ought to be. Finally we shook hands and said Goodbye and were on our way. About 10 minutes into the 90 minute drive home the piggies were comfortable enough that they ‘used’ their new facilities. Ooo!! A chorus of small voices protested the smell of self-sufficiency.