Hog-Killin' 101

Last week I experienced one of the most inspiring days I’ve had in a long time, and it happened in a very unlikely place: a ol’ fashund hog-killin’ (proper West Kentucky grammar). Now, you may be wondering…what could possibly provoke me to be a better person by attending such an event? I’ll just start from the top.

Last year, my father and I purchased a mix breed pig to raise and slaughter (Yorkshire and Hampshire mix, black with a white stripe down the middle…pertiest pig you ever seen). Seth Grogan (my best friend since birth) also purchased a pig from the same litter, and they both lived it up within the confines of a 15 acre pasture on the Grogan farm. However, no dream lasts forever…as their days were numbered for slaughter. Their happy existence of eating rotten corn and rummaging through the ground for buried acorns were to come to an end on Friday, January 7, 2011.

I arrived at the Sykes’ property early that morning, and 20+ trucks belonging to various members of the community of Hazel, KY were already lining the driveway (stretching around to the back of a large red shop). Driving to the back, I parked my truck just a few feet from two cattle trailers. In a red trailer were six white hogs of which I had no connection, but inside a blue trailer were two of the pertiest pigs you ever saw…ready to be meat in my freezer. (PETA, if you’re reading this, you might want to stop here)

I hadn’t been to a hog-killin’ since I was 10 years old, and (at first) I didn’t know what I was gonna do. Then, the inspiring part came: all the people that were there fell into a task just like a puzzle piece fits into a puzzle. People (I didn’t even know) were helping me learn various things I never knew I could do. They were encouraging me, helping me, getting to know me…everybody began to feel like family (and that was just after the first hour!).

After the pigs were shot (very humanely by a man named “Starky”…who knew “where to shoot‘em”, they were “stuck”, or bled, by a man named “Fuzzard”, who knew where to “stick’em”. They were then hoisted into the air by a front-end loader and moved onto a platform. On the edge of this platform was a huge vat of water (under which was a fire pit). Waiting for the temperature of the water to get to, precisely, between 148-152 degrees…the pig was gently placed into this tub until the hair, that covered the pig, began to release from the skin (side note: this heated water releases an odor that was not pleasant). Once the pig was “done” in the water, it was raised out of the vat onto the platform where “scrapers” began to do what their name describes: scrape the rest of the hair off the hog (this was actually fun after a while).

Enter Ms. E. McDaniel. This 70 year old woman had been killin’ hogs since she was 5 years old. She knew them inside and out….literally. Stepping next to me by the platform, she took her knife and cut open both back legs to expose these massive, pink tendons. Taking the single-tree hooks, she fastened them around those tendons, and the hog was hoisted up in the air (by its back legs) on a tractor.

After my Dad, Uncle, and Mr. Alexander put the finishing scrapes on the pig, it was time for a lesson in humility. Ms. McDaniel began her mesmerizing work. Taking a hacksaw, this 70 year-old woman made short work of the hog’s head. Slicing down the belly of that pig, taking out the guts and organs, she then picks up an axe. With the precision of a knife, she effortlessly divides the carcass into two halves. I was blown away by her skills!
The hanging, halved pig was taken to a wagon where an army of knives went to work (portioning out bacon, backbone, chops, shoulders, hams, and ribs). The pieces of meat were then brought to another wagon (covered with tobacco-boxing paper), where the owner’s name was written beside it.

You may be asking: where’s the inspiration? Not one person asked to be paid. Not the owner of the shops, tractors, wielder of knives, scrapers, sausage grinders…it was a community hog-killin! It wasn’t to make money. It was for the camaraderie. It was an atmosphere of total generosity! There was this sense of community that is rarely seen anymore. It was an example of the respect we ought to ALWAYS show to the old-timers, who have more wisdom than I can ever know at 31. That day I was able to see what Acts 2:45-46 really meant: “And all who believed were together and had all things in common. And they were selling their possessions and distributing the proceeds to all, as any had need.” It didn’t matter if you had hundred thousand dollars, or a hundred dollars in your bank account…everybody was equal that day. Never knew that lard could be such a tie that binds a community together. Can’t wait for next year. Special thanks to the Sykes’ and their generosity, and to Ms. McDaniel (hog-killin’ super-hero).