The Red Flannel Rag

The conversation at the table was filled with bragging about how much they had

gotten done so far, about who carried the biggest half of hog and about how good the

sausage meat looked. Bets were made about how many tanks of lard we would get.

Dad would say, “Well, we got four tanks out of that one kittle. We probably got

three more kittles to go. I’ll bet we’ll get a dozen tanks easy.”

One of the helpers would chime in between bites and say, “Maybe not that many,

‘cause those last two hogs didn’t seem as fat as the others.”

Everybody ate a little of everything, and those with the capacity to do so had

seconds. This was before Mom sliced her banana and prune cakes.

When the first round of helpers finished eating, they returned to the kettles and

meat boards and let the other workers come in to eat. Uncle Jim had been among the

first to eat, so he began preparing to grind the lean meat into sausage.

In the early days of my childhood, a hand-cranked sausage grinder was used.

Later, Uncle Jim rigged up a small motor so that sausage grinding became less of an

effort for him. He watched the grinder while I carefully dropped in the pieces of lean

meat. He cautioned me all the time, “Now don’t put too much in at a time.”

Occasionally I would get the grinder too full and the meat would push back out of the

top. Uncle Jim would patiently remove some of the chunks and pretend to slap my

hand.

Once the big tubs of sausage were ground, Uncle Jim sat up the lard press. It had

an attachment for stuffing sausage. Grandma Molly had the sparkling clean intestines

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