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PIG 1/4/2014 2:28:13 PM
Poke is a word that means sack or bag, originally made of cloth or canvas, but later made of paper or cardboard. It is from the Old English, corrupted from pouch, as in Shakespeare’s Henry IV when Dalphanus was describing the Saxon warriors in skirts who were bowlegged: What manner of men are these who carry their balls in parenthesis? . . .Note also how their codpieces resemble a pouch stuffed and poked out like with sausages!
Poke was first used in America at the Starling Pig Farm in the Great Smokies, near Lexington, VA, circa 1759 or 60. To buy a Pig in a Poke was to buy something unseen or unexamined, to buy on speculation with no real knowledge of what, in fact, you were buying. If you wanted to breed pigs, for example, the folks at Starling would select a piglet or two for you, place them in a poke (sack,) and hand them over sight unseen for a going price (10¢ per piglet.)
Throughout the years, to buy a pig in a poke became any transaction whereby one came into possession of something of value without ever having actually seeing the commodity purchased.
If you were to purchase a car without having driven and inspected it, for example, you’re buying a pig in a poke. Conversely, if you buy a house your wife has never seen, she could be said to be living as a pig in a poke.
Hope this helps. . . Alex and Dr. Phillip Faucette (our daughter and son-in-law, already the esteemed parents of three-year-old Hutson Faucette), gave birth to Elizabeth Anne Faucette at the birthing pavilion of the late Dr. John R. Faucette OB Center of St. Vincent’s Hospital in Birmingham, Al. She, Ellie, arrived at 5:59 am CST New Year’s Day.
We know, because we had driven there from Atlanta the night before.
The late Rev, Patricia Roberts — yes, she was an ordained Episcopal priest (I considered her my own personal priestess) and wife to my dear friend, David Roberts, Jr. with whom she resided happily for many years in Marietta, Ga, in a house she had never seen prior to Dave buying it — it was his father — by the way — who worked out the original details of my very first radio/TV job — her father-in-law — by the way — a maven of more clichés than either of us is used to — by the way — it was HE, David Roberts, Senior, who was News Editor at the time, and presided over an office in the front of our building, by the way, seven stories up from the humdrum, from the main city street below — by the way.
Without dwelling on it ad nauseum, it was a newsroom that was used more as an Announcers Lounge than it was a newsroom — by the way — because we had but one News Editor, while counting more than eight fulltime announcers and three director/producers.
Two of which were I and the not-all-that-talented Robert Trebor (which, if you cannot read — by the way — is roberT spelled backwards). One of the director/producers was named John Louther. And I mention them — by the way — because they are germane to this story.
Also, there was only one desk and one typewriter in that office, and David Roberts, Sr., the News Editor, used it — by the way.
On the day of this story, John Louther and Bob Trebor got into a terrific argument (the substance of which I cannot recall, unless it was whether my eventual progeny should be called Ellie or Elizabeth Anne) but which soon evolved — after a rough-and-tumble wrestling match on the already uncomfortable and ragged sofa — into a bona-fide fist fight with much blood and scraped knuckles.
While Louther as the shorter of the two (at 5’10”)), he weighed in at 205 lbs. Trebor, however, at 6’3” and weighing a scant 184 lbs. was an aficionado of fisticuffs and possessed a slight edge.
As the combatants flew wildly about the newsroom and ricocheted dramatically off various walls, furniture and doorways, David Roberts, Sr. kept typing and I kept trying to look at the pictures in the studio edition of Sunshine & Health magazine, which — by the way — came out only four times a year, rather than monthly, which was the norm.
It was difficult, especially when Bob caught John flush on the chin with a solid haymaker that sent a shorter fellow into one of four tall glass windows. The window did not shatter but came out in one piece that tumbled ass-over-teakettles (floated, really) all the way down seven stories to the street below.
For chrissake, knock it off! David Roberts, Sr. shouted, just as Trebor grabbed Louther’s belt to keep him from following the glass.
Jesus! they both exclaimed as the lady walking merrily on the street below went to her knees as the glass flatly banged her on the head!
The ragged and well-thumbed copy of Sunshine & Health flew out my hands — by the way — as I grabbed Trebor’s belt to keep him from following Louther out the window, and Roberts snagged onto my own belt to keep me from following Trebor.
I do not remember what exactly happened next. But I do recall F. Chase Taylor, our boss, coming in the newsroom to tell us Mrs. Fishman was unhurt and she was not going to sue. Luckily, the glass hit her flush — had it come in at an angle, it might have cut her head off — and she woulda had a lot to sue us for.
By the way — I got her to settle for $50,000, and cost of the window will be about $1,500 — I assume you guys will not object if we take it outta your pay each week. It comes to only about a grand a week. Or so.
By the way — anybody seen my copy of Sunshine & Health?
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