It’s just past 7:30 on a summer morning at the Napa County Fairgrounds. Inside the pavilion, arrays of banners commemorating past livestock show winners and auction buyers hang from the rafters at either end. A large, metal American flag is mounted high in a corner. I wade through aisles filled with nervous FFA and 4-H students as I look for my brother and his pigs in this city of pens, noisy with yelps and squeals. I hop over puddles of brown water, and my feet squish on a patch of wet wood shavings, the smell of sour milk and oats heavy in the air. A swaggering contestant, probably 11 years old at most, walks his impressive-looking hog past me.
I spot my brother, Charlie, brushing the belly of one of his two pigs. He’s named them Perry and Larry. Like the more than 300 other students who’ve entered the annual Napa County Junior Livestock Auction, a multiday event consisting of showmanship and market competitions as well as a bidding contest, Charlie is hoping for a little bit of glory, maybe even a blue ribbon. Contestants are between 9 and 19 years of age and come from across Napa County. In addition to hogs, the young lambs, goats, rabbits, turkeys, chickens, and cows that students have spent several months raising will be paraded before the judges and later sold to the highest bidders. In half an hour, Charlie will walk with his pigs into the ring for the showmanship contest.
This article appears in Issue 30 of Alta Journal.
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Five years ago, I was in Charlie’s shoes, a high school student and a member of the St. Helena FFA (a chapter of the organization formerly known as the Future Farmers of America). While our hometown is most often associated with California’s wine country, the Napa Valley was known for its ranchos long before its cabernet sauvignon became a thing. More than half of St. Helena High School’s 290 students take one or more of its dozen ag courses, which gives them the opportunity to participate in FFA events. At the end of my junior year, given a choice of raising, say, a turkey or a pair of goats, I opted for the pigs. They’re more lucrative than toms and cuter too. My brother wisely did the same.
“My friend told me he was making $10K per pig last year,” Charlie says. “He was like, ‘Dude, you’re going to make so much money.’ ”
In April, Charlie borrowed from our parents to come up with $4,000 to buy his pigs and pay for their feed and shelter at the high school farm until the auction. While we may live in an agricultural area, my family most definitely does not have space in the backyard for raising pigs. The school farm has a spread of 13 roofed pens next to its pumpkin vines and rows of grapes. For a fee, Charlie had access to grain, wood shavings, a scale, a practice show ring, washing stations, and enough dewormer to keep his animals safe and healthy. When they came into Charlie’s care, his barrows, as castrated male pigs are called, were a few months old. Perry weighed 65 pounds, and Larry was 60 pounds.
Charlie’s time at the school farm passed slowly. He’d make the 10-minute drive each day, dump grain in his pigs’ feeders, and, as the weeks progressed, take Perry and Larry to the practice show ring to run through how he’d handle and present them. A touch of the whip on the side meant “go”; a tap on the cheek meant “turn.” He’d practice walking each animal around a center stone, pretending it was the showmanship judge. Keeping his hog between him and the stone, he’d lean forward, chin up, eyes locked on the judge—maintaining a low and stern posture—while his right hand gently worked the whip back and forth across his pig’s sides.
SHOWTIME
In July, the auction was looming over Charlie’s head—as well as Perry’s and Larry’s—and his anxiety about turning a profit grew. He sent handwritten letters to family friends and acquaintances, trying to persuade them to bid on his animals. He wrote about who he was: a mountain biker, a basketball player, a student planning to attend college, a person who should be supported.
“You’re listening to these stories from these kids,” says Duane Hoff, the proprietor of Napa Valley’s Fantesca Estate & Winery, who would later bid on Charlie’s pigs. “When they write this to you and explain their journey to you, it really creates a rooting interest for them. You want to see them get that good price, and you want to see them do well.”
I stay with Charlie as he dotes on his pigs. He sprays a mist of “hog shine” conditioner solvent on Perry’s back, then firmly brushes the animal’s hair from head to tail. He’s creating a sleek glaze that enhances and brightens the pink of the hog’s belly and hams (its hind legs). I can tell Charlie’s nervous, but I refrain from giving him advice. If I did, it would be “Maintain strong eye contact with the judge” and “Stay in the center of the ring.” The start call is announced, and I wish my brother luck.
I hop a metal gate and climb over some hay bales to take a seat in the bleachers. Charlie is one of about a dozen FFA students who are corralling their swine into a rectangular waiting area at the mouth of the show ring. One hog escapes through a narrow opening in a side gate and darts back toward the city of pens, and an unfortunate high school kid has to chase after it. I look over at Charlie, who’s focused on controlling Perry amid the chaos. As soon as the student returns with the runner, the judge signals to open the gates.
Charlie comes out second in line, and Perry bucks and steals away across the wide circle of shavings, past the judge. But Charlie stays calm, walking after his 283-pound pig and pretending that he’s in control. The other student exhibitors filter into the ring and walk beside their charges. Only FFA seniors are in this heat; 4-H kids will come out later. Everyone is trying to get their hogs to slow down as they assume the low and stern posture: chin up, eyes on the judge. At the start of the competition, the judge stands in the center of the ring, just like the old stone at the school farm.
Perry decides to stop next to the fence. The pig refuses to move. Charlie notices that the judge is looking in the other direction, so he presses his knees into the side of his hog. Perry sputters and springs back into a walk. Meanwhile, a kid with smooth, parted hair makes a beautiful arc in front of the judge. He rhythmically taps each side of his pig with his whip to maintain a natural pace and proximity to the animal. His eye contact with the judge is broken only for a split second as he dodges an aimless pig. Charlie tries to maneuver Perry toward the center of the ring and into the line of pigs and students. The judge notices his struggle, approaches him, and, in an inaudible voice, tells him that he’s eliminated. The kid with parted hair wins the round and goes on to take the showmanship competition.
Four hours later, things go only slightly better for Charlie and Perry in the market competition, where the judge assesses, among other attributes, how well an animal walks, whether its steps are symmetrical, and whether it has an even size distribution and balance.
“That’s a wild, wild look for the profile, so flexible, so comfortable, yet the question is, Does she have enough there in her heart?” the judge asks while choosing between second- and third-place gilts, or female pigs. “I’d like her head to match her body just a little bit more.”
Perry’s performances in the show ring earn him 98th place. Larry, the more compact of the two, fares even worse. The 250-pounder finishes a distant 173rd. The pigs’ rankings determine the order in which they’re auctioned off. Higher rankings usually draw the highest bids.
GOING ONCE, TWICE
Three days later, the bleachers have been rearranged and the show ring replaced by an auction stage. Cows, turkeys, lambs, goats, rabbits, and chickens have already been sold off. Hogs are the last group to be sold, the main event. Most of them will be purchased by vineyard companies for $10 to $20 a pound, which, for a typical 260-pound pig, means between $2,600 and $5,200 for the student. So far, the bidders have been enthusiastic. A few pigs go for more than $50 per pound—that’s $13,000 from each animal for college tuition or maybe a car.
I’m seated next to my grandma in the bleachers. We’re anxiously awaiting Charlie’s turn. Five years ago, she rooted for me and my pigs, a Duroc and a Hampshire that I had named Winston and Churchill, respectively. They were lovable but stubborn, and together they netted me $5,000.
Back and forth across the stage go Charlie and his hefty Perry. “15, 15, da-lu-ru-lu-lul-u, 16, duh-duh-duh-duh-duh, 17, 17.” The bidding tops out at $21 per pound, and Charlie is elated. He pumps the auctioneer’s hand and then bounds offstage to follow his $5,943 hog.
A couple of hours later, the smaller Larry fetches a higher price per pound: $24, which means a total of $6,000. From the two pigs, Charlie has cleared a profit of $7,943. My grandmother and I clap our hands, stomp our feet, and cheer my brother’s name.
As I watch Charlie, I recall my time at this auction and how, afterward, I felt little remorse for what would happen to Winston and Churchill. Sure, I had spent every day with them that summer. But selling them off was not a big issue. I was more than happy to leave behind the tedious, never-ending labor of raising them as well as their rank odors—the sour smells of their pen had permeated my whole being. I was pleased with achieving farm-boy success, even if only temporarily, and I knew that not getting attached to my animals was part of that.
The auction ends, and I find my brother and one of his FFA friends at the St. Helena trailer. They’re discussing how much pigs like to eat watermelon. I congratulate them and decide to go visit Charlie’s hogs. He looks surprised. “I just want to look at them one last time,” I say.
From outside their pen, I watch their bellies rise and fall. They sleep in a T shape, one’s rear end nestled against the other’s big tummy, their snouts resting on a thick layer of fresh shavings. One of Perry’s hooves touches Larry’s shoulder. Is it on purpose?
I recall Charlie telling me how much he liked them. “They’re super friendly. I mean, you saw me—I was sleeping with my pigs. You can just come and cuddle with them. You can stick your hand out, and they’ll nibble on it.”
Pretty soon, it’s just me and them. All the students have left the pavilion, probably either just plain exhausted from the day or upset about the fate of the animals they’ve spent the past months raising. If they’re early enough, they’ll see them one more time in the morning before the trucks carry them off. A couple of drunks step into the pen area, and I watch them stop and tease someone else’s pigs, laughing and trying to poke them. I stand guard so they don’t come near my brother’s sleeping hogs. The drunks nod at me and pass by. I watch them exit before I say goodbye to Perry and Larry.•
Will Garrett, Alta Journal's 2024 summer intern, has written for Colorado College's Cipher magazine and the Catalyst newspaper.
