Social Events: Butchering

Social Events

                                                                        BUTCHERING

Slaughtering hogs doesn't appear to be the kind of activity that one would identify as a social event; but I came to look forward to this annual task as a special kind of manly get-together, just as quilting was an opportunity for the women to socialize. Uncle Garland kept a few hogs, and butchered one or two each Fall, in late October or in November, mostly for his own family needs. At the time I didn't understand the crucial importance of timing this chore. The butchering had to be done on a Saturday, because both Uncle Garland and my father were off from work on weekends; but it couldn't be just any Saturday, because Uncle Orville (my mother's other brother) worked on a shift schedule, and the butchering had to be planned for his off-shift. Furthermore, the weather forecast must predict cool, dry weather - cool enough so that there would not be any opportunity for the meat to spoil, and dry because it was mostly outdoors work. Fortunately, my father and both of my mother's brothers worked at the silk mill, where they would correlate their plans, making a tentative decision on Thursday, and confirming it on Friday if the weather forecast still promised favorable conditions.

On this particular occasion - I was perhaps ten or eleven years old - the designated day was a chilly, breezy, but sunny Saturday in early November. My father quickly dispensed with the shopping chores, for meat, eggs, fruits, and vegetables at the downtown open-air market, in the morning. Then, after a hasty lunch, he and I drove out to Uncle Garland's home - a trip of no more than five or six miles. His house was located between Roanoke and Salem, in an area which at that time was mostly rural, but which is now well populated, being in the center of the Roanoke Valley metropolitan complex. The property, about two acres, was not a farm, but there was enough room for a huge vegetable garden, fruit trees, and a hog pen.

Uncle Orville was already there with his oldest son Billy, my most consistent playmate. And play we did, while the men finished building a fire to heat a vat of water for scalding the hogs. It was situated just outside the doors of a double garage behind the house. They were getting started early this year, because Uncle Garland planned to butcher two hogs. When the water had heated to the point that steam was starting to rise from its surface, it was time to slaughter the first hog. When Billy and I saw Uncle Garland heading toward the pen with a rifle, we ran around to the front of the house, because we weren't anxious to observe that part of the task. In a few moments we heard lot of shouting, a sharp crack, a short squeal, and then silence.

We continued our play, but after some time, when we were in one of our cops-and-robbers fantasies, we were summoned to help with the work. But first, Uncle Garland had to show us how to "measure the tail", a truly disgusting practical joke that he apparently tried on every novice. Fortunately, I caught on to the trick just in time and yanked my hand away; then quickly warned Billy what to expect. Finally we got down to the business of removing the hair from the hog, while Uncle Garland regaled the rest of us with anecdotes about the times his little practical joke had actually worked. He then proceeded to give Billy and me a lecture about how critical the scalding process was. If the water were too hot, or if the hog were left in it too long, it would start to cook; but if it didn't get scalded well enough, the hair could not be easily removed. This scald had been a good one, and the hair came out easily in large chunks as we grasped and pulled. It was not hard work, and it was actually rather satisfying to see the rough, hairy beast transformed into a clean, white, smooth-skinned mass of meat.

Just as we were cleaning the last hairs from around the hooves, Aunt Lillian appeared on the back porch with the announcement that supper was ready. Billy and I responded immediately, eager to wash the hairy mess from our hands, while the men tied the back legs of the hog together and strung it up in the garage, before following us into the house.

The kitchen felt cozily warm, and was filled with the tantalizing odors of hot food fresh off the stove. The sun, low in the western sky, shone through the blue and white curtains at the large windows. The table in the spacious kitchen had been set for five - Billy and I sat close to each other at one side. Apparently, Aunt Lillian had already eaten, because she just stood and chatted, asking about our family and Uncle Orville's, and refilling our glasses with tea. She was rather matronly in appearance, though not at all heavy, with eyes that were noticeably kind set in a rather round, symmetric face; and she had an unshakably pleasant disposition. She was one of those people that one could not possibly dislike.

The meal itself seemed unusual to me. It was a blend of breakfast and supper - with sausage, hot biscuits, green beans, and mashed potatoes - the sausage from Uncle Garland's hogs, and the potatoes and green beans from his garden. Aunt Lillian didn't cook sausage in the usual flat-cake style, but in the form of little balls. I suspect that Uncle Garland used some special combination of pork parts in making the sausage, and perhaps devised his own brand of seasoning, because it was the best sausage that I had ever eaten. The iced tea that Aunt Lillian served tasted strange at first, because it was very weak and very sweet, in sharp contrast to my mother's formula: strong tea with just enough sugar to break the acidity, and a bit of lemon to enhance the flavor. But after a few sips, I decided that I liked it after all and ended up drinking at least three glasses.

Then it was back to the butchering. Even though they had not even started butchering the first hog, Uncle Garland wanted to get started on the second before dark. Again, Billy and I ran around to the front yard and waited for the crack of the rifle. It finally came, but this time it was not a clean shot. The hog squealed and kept on squealing. Uncle Garland was a faithful Methodist, and it was against his religion to curse, but he shaved the line awfully close that night in his frustration, using innovative surrogates for the forbidden words, until finally he got in two shots in rapid succession, and the squealing suddenly stopped.

This time the chores were divided. After scalding the second hog, the men left the job of removing its hair to Billy and me, while they worked at butchering the first one. It was a perfect scald, and our depilatory work went smoothly, but it was a large hog, and by the time we got to the legs we felt that we would be happy never to see another hog. Finally, we finished and returned eagerly to our play. It was always more fun to play in a new place, because you could always find good hiding places. Now however, with the sun long gone, the air was not just cool, but bitterly cold. The wind swept over the hill and whipped around the corners of the house, cutting through our waist-length jackets, and chilling us to the bone. To the East we could see the bright lights of Roanoke, and to the West the lesser glow from the town of Salem; while above, the wind kept the cold white stars twinkling in the blackness of space. Our play periods became shorter and our warming-up sessions longer, until finally we just stood by the fire, watching the men work, and hoping they would soon be through.

The three of them were in great spirits. Uncle Garland like to "kid around",and tell about the funny things that people did and said. My father used to say to my mother, "Garland is always carrying on some kind of foolishness." But that night all three of them were in on it - relating one anecdote after another, mostly on the theme of hogs and other livestock, and butchering, going back to their childhood right up to the present. They had all been raised on farms, and they liked to tell stories about the inane remarks their city coworkers made about farm work.

Years later I would often recall that scene - the three of them working and joking together - and realize how little I actually knew about any of them, even my own father, at that time. My father was about thirty years old then, Uncle Orville a couple of years older, and Uncle Garland a few years younger. Later I was to learn that each of them had already survived with great difficulty a wrenching personal crisis.

As a child I had always thought of my father as being pretty much like other men, but as I grew older, I learned that his character was dominated by his strong work ethic. He came by this trait both genetically, through his German ancestry, and through early training, being raised in a family in which hard work was both a way of life and a frequent subject of conversation. It would have been nearly impossible for him to stand idly by while other men worked. He would sit for a while to eat a meal or chat with guests, but eventually he would have to go stoke the furnace, put the car in the garage, take the car out of the garage, sweep the front walk, or any of an infinite number of chores that he used to release his dynamic energy.

That drive endured into his late life. Once, when I was visiting at home, well after his retirement, my mother confided in me that she had been a bit upset with him lately.

“What is the problem?” I asked.

“He has taken over the vacuuming,” she replied, “and I have always looked on that as my job.”

I started laughing and didn’t stop until I saw that she was offended by my failure to take the matter seriously. “You know,” I explained, “Almost every day I see some kind of article, or letter to an advice column, written by a woman who complains about her husband not helping with the housework – and here you are complaining that he does help.”

For a minute I thought she was going to cry, but then a tiny smile told me that she was beginning to see the humor in the situation.

What I later learned about Uncle Garland was that he was immanently a rugged individualist. At the "silk mill" he often switched jobs - working as an apprentice brick mason, then as an apprentice carpenter, and finally as an apprentice plumber. After learning all these skills, he built this large house on the hill, doing most of the work himself. With this experience he quit working at the silk mill and became a successful building contractor. Throughout this time he continued to supply most of his family's food requirements from his own gardens and orchards.

Although Uncle Orville and his family lived just half a block up the street from our house, I hardly knew him, because his shift work at the silk mill kept him on a schedule of either working or sleeping during most of my waking hours. Late in her life, my mother spoke proudly of him - how, as a young man he had fought through many personal vicissitudes with considerable grace and had emerged a gentle mature man. He was rather stocky, but by no means a large man, and he possessed enormous physical strength. Apparently, he had come by this strength as a genetic gift, without any real effort at developing it; somewhat like Jean Valjean in Les Miserables. My mother related an anecdote about a confrontation he had had with some schoolmates while he was still in public school. He was the constant butt of jokes because of his shyness; but on one occasion when he had got his fill of teasing, he picked up one of his tormentors and threw him about twenty feet. For the rest of his school career he was never teased.

Finally, the butchering was finished, and we prepared to leave. Uncle Garland presented my father and Uncle Orville with several pounds of fresh pork for their effort, over their protests, but he insisted, and we drove home with our reward. It was past our usual bedtime when we arrived, but my mother had waited up for us, happy to see us, grateful for the gift of fresh pork, eager to hear any news about Uncle Garland and Aunt Lillian, and, in general, treating us like heroes.

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