Killing hogs

My granddaddy raised hogs.

I still remember the last hogs he raised. I was maybe 12 years old. He let me name one of them, and I named him Tobey.

My mother still talks about how he raised and slaughtered hogs. She tells how, when it came to hog-killing time, my grandfather (actually my great-grandfather, but I knew him as my grandfather), after a hog had been killed and gutted, would immediately send the liver to the house. That delicacy would have his name on it, and would be eaten for supper after a long, hard day of slaughtering hogs.

Hogs were the prime source of meat for most families in the rural south, especially during the depression. There were a couple of reasons for this. Number one, it didn’t take a lot of land or resources to raise hogs. All that was needed was a place for a pen, some water for drinking and mud wallowing, and slop. Pig pens could be found anywhere, using most anything to keep the pig penned up; plywood, tin, fencing wire, barbed wire, whatever was available. Slop would be, well, slop. Grandaddy had a can on the back porch that "parts and leftovers" would be put in, and then carried down to the pigpen and tossed into the trough.

The second reason was even more important. There was almost no part of the hog that couldn’t be used….with the exception of the squeal. Every part of the hog had a food-use...the head, the meat, the guts, the feet, and yes, even the tail. Chitterlings, souse meat, scrapple, jowls, tounge, brain, ears, fat, and even the snout (sometimes called the "rooter") would be saved and eaten. One of my favorite "other parts of the hog" are the "cracklin's", that hard residue left in the bottom of the cast iron pot after the lard has been boiled all day and then poured into containers to harden. I love the cracklin's cooked into cornbread.

Nothing from the hog would be wasted.

My granddaddy used to say, on the first cold day of fall, that it was “cold enough to kill hogs!” That day was usually mid-October.

Come to think of it, October IS a good month for hog killing.

The way to kill hogs back then was to hit them in the head with the back of an axe or sledge hammer, or shoot them in the back of the head or between the eyes. As soon as the hog was knocked down or shot, a farmer who knew what he was doing would take a very sharp knife and pierce the jugular vein. This was called, “stickin’ him right in the goozle.”
The hog would then be scalded, scraped, cleaned, cut up, chopped, ground, cured, and smoked.

When the day was done, and the hog(s) had been slaughtered and dressed, there was always a celebration of sorts. It was a great day. Another autumn had come and there would be meat for the winter. The smokehouse was full again. All was right in the farmers world.

Saturday will be a good day to kill hogs. They will have to be hit hard and brought to their knees. There can be no mercy with the blood-letting. Auburn needs to hit them "right in the goozle".

Mid October. A touch of fall in the air. Hog killing time.

It won’t be easy, but killing hogs never is. It’s a messy job and a long day of hard work.

But the result will be worth it. Another win in the smokehouse. More meat to chew on. And at the end of the day, nothing left of the hogs except, maybe, a squeal or two.

Beat Arkansas.

Wilmore, Wesley and a Wild Turkey Win

We drove to Wilmore, Kentucky on Friday. Wilmore is the home to Asbury University (formerly Asbury College), and Asbury Theological Seminary. It is also home to some very dear friends. Bobby is a theological student in his final semester of seminary at Asbury, Phoebe, his wife, works in the Theological Seminary administrative office, and Tim is the president of Asbury Theological Seminary.

Julie, Will and I had a great visit and dinner with Bobby, Phoebe and their twin girls. Tim was in Tulsa, Oklahoma, preaching.

The purpose of our visit was two-fold. First, it allowed Julie a full weekend visit with Bobby and Phoebe, and second, it allowed Will and me to attend the Auburn-Kentucky football game.

While walking around the seminary, another couple drove up wearing burnt orange shirts very similar to the one I was wearing. They looked at us, smiled, and said “War Eagle!” Needless to say, this caused the statue of John Wesley, only a few feet away from us, to smile. The father of Methodism was holding his right hand up as though he wanted someone to put an orange and blue shaker in it.

Immediately I thought to myself, Notre Dame might have touchdown Jesus, but Asbury has “War Eagle Wesley!”

Our son was wearing an orange and blue striped Auburn toboggan. I’m sure he heard Wesley’s Auburn cry as well, for he stepped up to the statue and put the toboggan on Brother Wesley’s head. Old John was ready to go to the ballgame with us!

After walking around the campus, we decided to drive back toward Lexington to a restaurant. What should be parked out beside the Asbury campus? An R.V. with a big “War Eagle” across the side. Seeing Asbury dotted with Auburn orange and blue….along with my strong Wesleyan leanings……made me want to….well…shout "War Wesley Eagle!"

Will and I parked and tailgated with a large number of Auburn faithful who had made the pilgrimage to Kentucky. We met fans from Cullman, Opelika, Birmingham, Huntsville….I kept looking for the short man from Epworth, but I guess the head of the Methodist Movement decided not to attend the ballgame after all. Maybe he had a preaching engagement back in Wilmore. Go War Eagle Wesley!

We discovered something while tailgating. There isn’t a hamburger, chicken or taco joint within a couple of miles of the stadium. Being in Kentucky, I was certain that the Colonel would be on every corner….but NOOOO….not in Lexington. Will and I found a convenience store and purchased some 7-11 tuna sandwiches, a nuke-a-burger, and two slices of fake lemon cake.

I must admit however, prefab sandwiches taste really good while watching a bunch of chickens make the Tide roll away.

As for the tangle of two different cats….well, Auburn sure likes to make things interesting, don’t they.

Three of Kentucky’s finest were sitting beside us at the ballgame, and together they drained 750 ml of Wild Turkey. How they got the bottle into the stadium is still a mystery, but by the time Auburn got the ball with just over seven minutes to play, the amber liquid had taken its toll.
When I was in school, I learned that liquid could be changed into gas (steam), and it could be changed into solid (frozen). But what I was never taught was that liquid could be changed into language.

The now drunk Lexingtonians began cursing Cam Newton and the Auburn drive with every touch of the ball. And even though I was born in Alabama and didn’t fall off the tunip truck last night, they were using some words that even I hadn’t heard before. Must have been some sort of wild turkey call. Or maybe a wildcat’s whine when he’s cornered with no way out. Whatever it was, I told my 14 year old son to cover his ears.

I must say, though, that though they cursed with more gusto that a sailro, they had more faith in Auburn than I did.

They were certain that Auburn was going to drain the clock, drive the ball down the field, and kick the winning field goal with no time left on the clock. Maybe Wild Turkey makes one see visions of the future….I don’t know.

But every Wildcat fan around us predicted what would happen. And they did it with such colorful language that the October leaves were given a run for their money.

As for me, I kept waiting for a holding penalty.
Or an illegal motion.
Or a fumble.

But my well liquored neighbors sitting to my right had seen the vision. They had predicted the future. They had cursed their own Cat blue.

And in the end……they were right……right down to the last drop.

And as they quietly grumbled to themselves as they left the stadium, I looked up and thought to myself...."my heart is strangely warmed”.