my aunt and my mother’s sole sister.
“Lord, come on in,” my mother greeted her. “We’ll all be going to Mama Edmonds’ tomorrow, but you’re welcome to stay and help.”
“What’s up?” she asked, as she removed her broad-brimmed white hat, complete with a brown pheasant feather in its band. Her stylish white silk dress tweaked when she sat on the sofa to rest.
“Hog killing time! Remember?”
“Heavens, yes. I know I should have written.”
“I’ll welcome the help.”
“Oh, gads! Cutting up all that hog fat, grinding it into sausage, and rendering out lard! What a grizzly thought!”
“I’ve got an old dress and scarf you can wear. Or you can stay here in town and flirt with the cab drivers.”
“No, no! You know what will happen if I do. I’ll tag along and sweat it out.”
Hog killing time always coincided with Thanksgiving. By then the weather had turned sufficiently cold enough to kill the hogs and butcher them in the lot beside the slave cabin. Fingers would turn blue and numb, in spite of the long hours and heat from the fires.
Earl kindled one in the cabin’s hearth and swung a large kettle over its flames for rendering the fat into lard. Another fire was built outside under a huge cast iron vat. It was shaped like a bathtub. The hogs were dipped immediately into it after being shot. Uncle Everett and Jessie took turns killing them with a .22 rifle. They’d hold the gun to the hog’s head and shoot it between the eyes. The stunned animal would squeal and collapse on the frozen ground. Jessie and Albert would hoist it on a pulley and lower it into the vat, then swing it out to scrape off the hair. Hog after hog was butchered in this manner. Earl, Pearl, and several women disemboweled each animal and lifted out the heart, kidneys, and liver for puddings and whatever else. Uncle Jim oversaw the cutting up of the limbs into big white and pink segments for hams, picnic shoulders, loins, bacon, and sausage. Uncle Everett had learned from his father how to salt down the meat and pack it into large wooden casts for storage. Later it would be scraped again and hung in the smokehouse. At least, twenty-two animals were slaughtered that day, to my count. Long into the night and all of the next day saw the continuation of this process. Each tenant family was given a share of the meat for preparing it themselves into bacon, side-meat, hams, and sausage. But the rendering out of the fat into lard remained a communal effort, with its division into tins of lard coming several days later.
We did not celebrate Thanksgiving until the “operation” had concluded. That Sunday afternoon, Grandmother served oven-baked pepper-smeared ham, turkey, sweet potatoes, green beans, canned corn, pickled watermelon rind, relishes of all sorts, canned tomatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy, and biscuits with jelly.
Uncle Jim and Aunt Viola, along with Earl and Pearl, joined us at the table.
“What a blessing to have all of us together!” my grandmother chirped. “The hand of Providence has blessed us once again.”
“Please, Mama! No theology! No dogma. Don’t spoil such a wonderful day,” Uncle Everett interrupted her.
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” Uncle Jim added, in what was now his squeaky, reed-thin voice. “Who’s to say what’s providential and what’s ain’t. I miss the farm.”
“That’s enough!” Aunt Viola threatened, raising her fork. “Stop sniveling. You sound like an old man. Be grateful and count your blessings.”
“Amen!” Marion concurred. He lifted his water glass and held it in the manner of a toast. “To my new family! Its members and Quilly Hall!”
“Amen!” Uncle Everett repeated, clinking his glass against Marion’s.
I raised mine with both hands to join in.
“Ah, Mister Biggety!” my grandmother chortled. “To our brilliant scholar in school.”
School? That was the last thing on my mind.
Marion smiled and sat forward to touch his glass against mine. A water crystal gleamed on his goatee. He winked, as our eyes met. We had already formed an avuncular bond that transcended words.
Chapter Eight
The first weekend of December that year, I stayed at Uncle Everett’s. The ewes were lambing, and sometimes a ewe would die, and its lamb had to be bottle-fed if the little creature were to survive. Uncle Everett had a cabinet full of old Pepsi Cola bottles for this purpose. He, or one of his farmhands (usually one of their wives), would fill a bottle with warm milk, slip a huge rubber nipple over its lip, and feed the lamb. I loved holding the big bottles and feeling a lamb’s tug, as it slurped away. Streams of milk would drizzle out, as the lamb pulled hard on the bottle. Its little tail would wag with frenzy. That weekend, I fed four lambs each morning and again before dusk.
That Saturday night, Miles, my uncle’s foreman, came to the backdoor. Tall and lanky, of angular and weathered features, he cradled a shotgun in the crook of his left arm. He was bundled in a warm, but tattered coat. The night air felt frigid, and a cold draft entered the kitchen when I opened the door.
“Mr. Everett, bad news. Real bad!”
“What is it, Miles?”
“Dogs! Them dogs from town’s been runnin’ sheep again. They’ve done killed five ewes. I found their bodies just before dark. I got a shot at one of the dogs, but it crawled off in the brush.”
Uncle Everett drew in a long breath; the muscles in his face twitched at the news. “I’ll get my gun, and the boy and I will come with you. Step on in, Miles, till were ready.”
Miles removed his cap and entered. His baldhead was almost white in contrast to his tanned face. He waited by the door. I hurried to the hallway and pulled on my coat, cap, and gloves. Uncle Everett donned his hat—a felt Stetson—and coat, and picked up a .22-rifle that leaned against a wall. He kept most of his guns in his gun rack, but always had two or three propped up in the hall.
The night stung us with bitter cold. I pressed my cap down over my ears and ran to keep up with the two men. We skirted the barn, crossed a creek, and struck off toward the high pastureland in the direction of the Laurel Springs. The night burned bright with stars. Frost twinkled on the grass. Miles walked steadily with long, measured strides, as we climbed from hill to hill. Sheep bleated in the darkness, as their ghostly shapes loomed and waned in the night.
After a long climb, Miles began to slow his pace. He shined a flashlight on the ground. Just ahead, dark patches of blood stained a flat outcropping. Others trailed away, off into the brush. He flashed his light in their direction. Suddenly, a pair of eyes glowed in the reflection. A dog’s faint whine caught my attention. Uncle Everett approached the wounded animal and waited for Miles to join him. He motioned for me to come to his side. A beautiful salt-and-pepper freckled bird dog lay bleeding in the grass. It lifted its muzzle and whined a second time. Clots of blood had formed around an oozing wound in its side. It lay its jaw back down in the grass, struggled to crawl toward us, and, with big imploring eyes, whined again.
“Here, Miles, exchange guns with me,” said Uncle Everett, with heaviness in his voice. He handed his foreman the .22. Uncle Everett stepped back and pressed my face against his hip. He turned his body slightly to shield me from the scene. Miles raised the gun to his shoulder,
