The Red Flannel Rag

up on the hangers. Everybody got quiet just as if they were watching a weight lifter in

the Olympics. All you heard was the water boiling in the kettles and the popping of the

fire.

When the young man was in position, the butcher sliced the tendon. The full

weight of the hog half fell on him. He carefully walked to the cutting boards, trembling

under the weight. When he laid the half onto the boards without dropping it and

without help, he had passed one of the tests of mountain manhood.

The same young man might carry another half of a hog during the day, but the

job was shared with any young man who wanted to show his strength. I always noticed

that John’s back was suddenly healed as he also carried at least one half.

Once the hogs were on the meat boards the head butcher, usually Uncle Shirley,

and the helpers started cutting and several piles of meat began to take shape. Hams,

shoulders, and side meat were cut out first. They were the prime pieces, beautifully

trimmed and shaped. My dad took his place in the meat house, and it was my job to

carry the prime pieces to him. I later turned this job over to my niece, Angie, when she

was old enough. Dad had mixed a bucket of cure — a mixture of brown sugar, salt, and

pepper — that he packed on the meat as soon as I got it to him. The hams and shoulders

were allowed to cure for a year with the exception of one ham that was cut in May to eat

with wild asparagus gathered along the fencerows. After a year, hams and shoulders

were sliced and fried or cut into large pieces to boil. The broth from the boiled meat was

used to make potpie.

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