Hog Trough Dance

“And after we say our vows,” Rita Wilson told her sister Genevieve, “at the reception, I want you to do a hog trough dance.”

Genevieve blinked. “Do a what?”

“A hog trough dance. It’s an old custom from England. When a younger sister gets married before her older sister, the older sister does a dance in a hog trough.”

“Dance in a hog trough?” Genevieve repeated. “Why does she do that?”

“Just to be funny—like when I jump in the pool in my bridal dress.”

Rita had planned several events to keep people laughing at the reception. For a finale, she was going leap into a swimming pool in her wedding gown.

“Is this hog trough thing supposed to make me look ridiculous because you’re younger than me and getting married before I do?”

“Ginny,” Rita said, exasperated, “it’s supposed to be funny, that’s all. Just to get laughs. If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to.”

“Well . . . I guess I could.”

“Think about it,” Rita said cripsly. “If you don’t want to, we’ll cross it off the list.”

That night Genevieve discussed it with her boyfriend.

“I looked it up on the Internet,” she told him. “Today people have hog trough dances to be funny, but in the old days they did it to humiliate and ridicule the older sister because her younger sister beat her to the altar. Rita wants to get a laugh, but I feel like it’s insulting.”

“You told me you don’t want to get married,” he said. “So what’s the problem?”

She looked up at the ceiling above her bed.

“I’m not sure,” she replied.

Two days later, as she practiced mandolin, she decided she would defer to his sister’s wishes. Genevieve played in a bluegrass band. They were performing at the reception.

“I’ll do the dance,” she said when she saw Rita again. “My band can play music for it.”

Rita smiled cheerfully. “I’m glad. I thought you were miffed over it.”

“Not really,” Genevieve said.

***

The day of the wedding shone clear and bright. The ceremony went off without a glitch. After the banquet, her band set up in the hotel lobby her family had rented for the reception. Genevieve changed out of her bridesmaid’s dress and into an Appalachian-style frock. Barefoot, she readied her mandolin and signaled her band.

They did four standard songs, and then struck up a lesser-known tune. She sang:

I ain’t marrying’ a banker’s clerk

Spends all day long doin’ work.

I ain’t marryin’ at all, Lord,

I ain’t marryin’ at all.

Strumming her mandolin, she leaped into the wooden frame her brother had loosely tacked together that was supposed to be a hog trough. She played and danced, kicking up her heels. The crowd cheered as Genevieve pirouetted and leaped. She sang the second verse:

I ain’t marryin’ a preacher’s son

He won’t let me have no fun.

I ain’t marryin’ at all, Lord.

I ain’t marryin’ at all.

The band picked up the pace. Handing her mandolin to a bystander, Genevieve danced more furiously, twirling and jumping. She saw her sister standing at the front of the crowd, smiling and clapping in time. Rita was three years younger than Genevieve. Quiet, religious, reliable, steady, the family adored her and lauded her successes, which were many. She had just graduated from law school and was marrying the pastor of an evangelical church in town. Genevieve had bounced from job to job and boyfriend to boyfriend.

Just then, she leaped up and slipped as she came down. She remembered losing her balance and seeing stars. As she came to, she saw Rita, Rita’s new husband, and their family doctor kneeling around her. Rita, expression anxious, took Genevieve’s hand.

“Ginny, are you okay?”

She felt her head clear. “I think so. What happened?”

“The hog trough broke. You fell and hit your head.”

Their doctor, who was there as a guest, examined her and said it looked like a bad bump, nothing more. Genevieve stood up. The back of her head felt sore in one place. She grinned, raised her arms, and bent her legs in a curtsey. The crowd broke into relieved applause.

She sat down. Someone brought her a drink. Band members and friends crowded around her, expressing concern. Rita came over.

“Ginny, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.”

“It’s okay. I thought it was fun. Don’t get worked up. I don’t want to ruin your wedding day.”

“You haven’t. You’re okay, that’s all that matters.” She kissed her sister and then smiled slyly. “And the traditions say that if the hog trough breaks—which it did—you’ll be getting married soon.”

Genevieve sipped her drink. “Too bad,” she quipped.

The reception returned to normal. The band performed “Tennessee Waltz.” Genevieve felt good enough to join in on her mandolin. People danced. Afterwards, she followed a crowd of women to the far end of the hotel swimming pool. Rita climbed the diving board and, holding a bouquet over her head, plunged into the water, feet first. The guests cheered. She went under, broke the surface, swam to the shallow end, stood, and threw the water-soaked flowers to the eager knot of women, all of whom leaped and strained to catch them.

Genevieve did not reach up to snatch the bouquet. She kept her hands at her side, not certain she would ever take the plunge.

© David W. Landrum

Bio: His fiction has appeared widely in journals such as 34th Parallel, decomP, Dark Sky, and many others, including Eskimo Pie.