according to my mother, circa 1981.

Let me tell you the story.

In October of 1980, my family moved from Broken Arrow, OK to Eldon, MO.

Actually, we moved to a 40 acre farm about 10 miles outside of Eldon. (Yes, directions to my house included the phrase "turn off the paved road".) The place included a cattle barn, a chicken pen, and a hog barn.

At this point, my father started collecting animals for my mother and I to take care of. He said that he was "hobby-farming". He was working 80-100 hours a week. So, he had a hobby, and mom and I were farming.

Among the various animals he collected were three sows that were, supposedly, already impregnated.

My mother named them: Faith, Hope and Charity.

My father's logic was that I would tend the sows, raise the piglets, and sell them to get the money for my first car.

After, approximately, 3 times the gestation period of a normal domesticated pig had passed, and no piglets had been born, my father had an epiphany: The sows had never been bred!

My father, then, made a decision. We would sell two of the sows, and have the third slaughtered.

Now, I could never tell the difference between any of the pigs. My mother, on the other hand, swore that she could. She maintained that Faith and Charity were the sows that we had sent to the sale barn.

A few days later, we went to the butcher and came back with a huge pile of packages wrapped in white butcher paper.

For weeks, we had chops, ham, bacon, sausage, and ribs.

Finally, one night, over a meal of pork chops, my mother pronounced: "There is no more Hope."

...

The worst part of it all is that, within a short time, the Robertson family had crapped away all Hope, for anyone, forever.