By Kathy Oswalt-Forsythe
In the past, I have occasionally fallen hard for an April Fool’s joke. The best ones are always timely and believable, and they get me every time.
Every April I recall an April Fool’s joke-for-the-decades, played on my dad by his life-long friend and neighbor, Bob Harper.
When we grew up in rural Kalamazoo County in the 1960s and early 1970s, many of the people who lived around us were farming the same ground as their parents and even grandparents had. And in addition to grains, many farmers also produced livestock: pigs, sheep, and cattle.
The farm a mile directly to our west was owned by Bob and Nancy Harper, and like our family, Bob’s parents and grandparents had also worked the same ground.
Bob and his sister Liz, our dad and Uncle John, grew up together and were as close as cousins. Bob and Nancy were like another aunt and uncle to us, and their home was one of those places we knew could be a shelter or an emergency call or stop if we ever needed one.
During those years, Bob and Nancy developed a registered Yorkshire hog business; their work in genetics and bloodlines was reputable in the state and region, and they produced much sought-after breeding stock.
Dad and Bob had invested in some animals together – I think they bought several outstanding boars and sows in hopes of introducing another superior bloodline in the Harper’s registered herd. Dad was feeding and caring for some of these new hogs in one of our barns, and those animals had sired some pigs that were ready for other producers to buy.
Bob and Dad were the best of friends, and I’m sure many of their regular conversations over a cup of coffee were about the potential profit they could make with these fine animals housed in our barn. Maybe they even got their pencils out and did some calculating. They anticipated a healthy return on their investment!
And on April 1, some of those pigs were ready.
In the early evening, as our freshly fed and showered Dad was settling in his chair to read and relax after a day of work, Bob called.
“Gordon, someone wants to come down and look at the hogs. He’s a really interested buyer. Can you get everything ready?”
Dad took his livestock seriously. He was on the livestock judging team in high school and at Michigan State University. He always took pride in caring for our animals, providing quality feed and shelter. He wanted to present those animals in the best way possible.
In my mother’s retelling, he raced excitedly to the barn. He hustled around and shook some fresh straw in the pens. He swept the walkway and spruced up the entrance. He grabbed a ladder and changed some burned out lightbulbs. Satisfied with his work, he waited.
And waited. And waited.
Slowly, it dawned on Dad that it was April 1st. He eventually came back across the street to the house, and I’m sure he and our mom shared a good laugh.
Bob never called him to say “Gotcha–April Fools!” Well, they had over 40 years of friendship behind them at that point. It just wasn’t necessary.
It’s a Fine Life
