GOOD FRIENDS

GOOD FRIENDS "He is a very good friend," he emphasized. I didn't respond; I was trying to think what to attempt to say - in Hungarian - and was searching for a topic for which I felt I had sufficient vocabulary. "He really is", he continued, "we cut the pig together last spring."

I was jolted back to the topic at hand...cut the pig together...oh, THAT good of friend! What was he talking about?

"Would you like to come next week to cut the pig?", he asked. I'm thinking...next week - that's about four days before Christmas... what have we planned? Do I want to commit to cut the pig or are we invited for a Christmas housecall with palinka and cookies or had we planned to trim the tree? Cut the pig!! 'It's raining cats and dogs!' translates directly into Hungarian. Maybe 'Cut the pig!' is one of those phrases that just doesn't translate easily. Whatever it is - it is a sign of valued friendship to participate. I must not refuse.

"I'd be honored," I replied. Enthusiastically, he explained he'd call the morning it was to happen so that I could join him, his extended family and friends for the event. It seemed that the weather had to be just right and the day free of other problems that may arise between now and then. I had become used to somewhat vague invitations in Romania. No one planned anything definitely until the last minute. You just never knew what might happen... I supposed this was a lesson well-learned from the forty-some years of communist five-year-plans.

"Its the phone," Carolyn muttered. I awakened and climbed out of bed, it was still dark out. I glanced at the clock, seven thirty. The voice on the phone was Hungarian - my Hungarian is bad when I'm awake - it is nonexistent when I'm only half awake. The voice identified himself - "Nagy Laszlo". OK, I've been here one year and know seven different Nagy Laszlos.

"Pig... in one hour.." the voice continued. Oh, cut the pig, that Nagy Laszlo! Yes, yes I'd be there.

What do you wear to your good friend's house when going to cut the pig?

A quick shower to wake up, a cup of coffee and the tan sweater - no tie! It's nine o'clock when I arrive. Only half an hour late but that shouldn't matter. In Romania invitations are often just given mentioning the day - not even the morning or afternoon, let alone an hour. But I've missed the opening festivities - the pig is already motionless on the ground - a river of red running along the ground. The chickens are wildly squabbling over the best position for a tasty drink. I'm immediately grateful that a 160 kilo pig does not look cute whether alive or dead. Neither does it look like plastic-wrapped pork at Safeway.

As the process continues it becomes apparent that everyone has his own particular duties. The father is obviously in control but virtually no instructions are given - even to the younger children. Everyone knows their part of the job.

I'm soon aware that I'm part of a special, almost ritualistic, family activity - one that happens only twice a year for most families. At the cost of about two months salary, a pig, or I should say pork, is not affordable on a regular basis.