John Robbins, heir of the ice cream fortune, decided to give his attention to other things than choosing a 32nd flavor and was researching how farmers raise their pigs. He visited one farmer whose treatment of the animals could only be compared to Auschwitz. The farmer was bulky, sullen and rude.  He spoke mostly in grunts, and looked as if he were made of concrete. John did not like him. At all.

 

After inspecting the hog house, as John was preparing to leave, the farmer's wife suddenly invited him to dinner. There was a prickly silence, until the farmer gruffly blurted, "Hmmmph. The wife says come eat." John nodded nervously. 

 

He made a polite excuse about cholesterol when he was passed the plate of pork, thinking it prudent not to mention his commitment to being vegetarian. Part way through the meal, the farmer slammed his fist on the table and shouted, "You animal rights people! You have no idea how hard it is to feed my family!" His children bolted out of the room, and the farmer's wife abruptly picked up dishes, closing the kitchen door behind her. John was terrified. He took stock of how close he was to the exit, should things get ugly. 

 

Then the farmer's eyes turned misty, with a far away look. Something heavy entered the room.

 

"What is it?" John whispered, wishing he was anywhere else but here.

 

"Oh, nothing," the farmer brushed it off, even as he held his head in his hands. 

 

"No, really, I am interested." John nudged tentatively. 

 

"I just remembered something I have not thought about for a long time. I had a pet pig, once. My father was a farmer too, the kind where pigs run around and play, and I had my own pig. We would roll in the mud and go swimming in the pond. One day, I was starting to drown, and he knew it. He swam over to me so I could hang on. He saved me. He was smart."

 

The farmer sighed deeply. 

 

"But one day my father said I had to butcher my pig. I couldn't do that. He was my friend. But he said I had to or I was no son of his. So I ran away." 

 

"But it got cold and dark, and I had nowhere to go, so I went home... and I did it." The farmer looked very, very sad. Tears welled up in his eyes.

 

John was stunned. He had no idea this calloused man had such tenderness inside. The conversation continued for hours.

 

A year later, John sent his book, Diet for a New America, to the farmer, in which he had quoted the comment about pigs being intelligent. 

 

A few months later, he received a letter back. 

 

"Dear Mr. Robbins,

I got your book. I instantly had a migraine headache, which did not go away when I threw your book across the room. It did not go away when I tried to rip it in half and flush it down the toilet. My wife said maybe it would stop if I read your book. So I did. You write good."

Photo by Andy Sullivan

www.caringformarriage.org