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When I was fourteen, I lived across the road from a Mennonite family that had 15 kids.
They had a small farm that they worked, only enough farm to give the kids chores and keep them busy.
The father worked for Harrisburg Dairies, and every day he would drive home with his station wagon full of expired cartons of milk and such.
It was the kids' job to open up all the cartons and pour the milk into the trough for the pigs.
Sometimes I would help because it was so amazing. The pigs loved the stuff. Sometimes he would come home with eggnog, and I would reserve a pint of that for myself. Too good for the pigs.
The kids were not allowed to listen to radio or watch TV. They could only read the newspaper.
Their mom and dad were very nice folks though, and were thankful to me for being a friend to their lot, especially when I gave them all the little soccer balls and footballs I didn't need when I moved away after a year and a half.
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