Hog Killings and Racism
It was a scene from a horror movie—rifle, blood, large vats, huge butcher knives, guts in wash tubs, stuffers, grinders, large kettles of boiling oil, and dead bodies suspended from a tree. But, no, it was a hog killing.
There were always certain days I hated: the last day of a vacation, the last day before school started in the fall, the day I had to go to the doctor. But the day that topped the list each year was hog-killing day.
If you live in eastern North Carolina long enough, you will eventually hear someone say, “It’s cold enough to kill hogs.” I never asked, but I figured out on my own that cold temperatures were necessary to process the meat outside. A good hog killing took all day. Keeping the meat at a low temperature avoided spoilage. So, of necessity, hogs were slaughtered in the winter. Dad always chose a Saturday for two reasons: he worked a regular job during the week, and it was easier to find others to help on a weekend.
I have decided one must be a special type of person to enjoy slaughtering hogs. I always wondered if my dad enjoyed the process or just relished the idea of providing for his family in such a primitive way, or both. Believe me; I never looked at my dad in the same way after the first hog killing. Wow, if he could do that to another living creature, what could he do to me? I guess as a child it is hard to process the difference between the life of an animal and the life of a human. At that age, I had not connected my love of fried chicken, hamburgers, and bacon to the slaughter of animals. I knew the meat did not grow on trees, literally or figuratively; but remember; I was still little and could not see into the window behind the meat counter at the grocery store.
The day dawned with either frost or ice on the ground. By the time I awakened, the initial slaughter had already occurred. The shot aimed for the exact location on the head, the rigging to lift the hog and transport it to the scalding vat, the removal of all the hair, the gutting and burying of the innards (unless you were wanting the “chitlins”), and the tying of the now de-boweled hog to a tree for it to drain had been completed.
Then we began the arduous task of cutting up the meat. I say we, but more truthfully, my parents, my brother, and the other helpers did the work. I was relegated to helping Mom feed the sausage grinder and the sausage press while she loaded the casings with the extruded meat. The terms—ham, shoulder, ham hock, ribs, bacon, tenderloin, rendered fat, lard, cracklings, sausage, sausage casings, haslets—all became words of the day.
As the meat was cut, it was wrapped in the traditional white freezer paper, secured with a piece of masking tape, and labeled as to its contents and the date. It was then put in one of the many freezers my parents owned. Before they had large freezers, they would rent a space at a local freezer locker. I don’t remember its name, but it was located on Fifth Street in Washington, not too far from the hospital.
As the day wore on, a large black kettle filled with the discarded fat was bubbling gently above a fire. One of the helpers stirred it occasionally with a large wooden stick. After a sufficient amount of oil was rendered, the mixture was poured into large tins. Upon cooling, it transformed into the off-white substance we called lard. For those of you unfamiliar with the term lard, it looked like Crisco in the can. The crisp pieces of the fat that were not completely rendered were called cracklings. They would fish those out of the kettle with a spatula and let them cool. Some people loved to eat them plain or use them in cornbread. To this day, I love crackling cornbread even though I know it is not healthy. Neither is cooking food in lard, but my mom used it to fry just about everything. She even used it to make biscuits.
I suppose the gruesomeness of the scene, the constant work of the day, the smells, and having to be on call as errand girl contributed to my disdain of the process. I remember thinking, “Why do we have to do all this? Why can’t we be like other people and just buy our meat at the grocery store?” I still do not have the answers.
Okay, I have described the hog killing, but how does racism figure in with the scene?
I don’t remember hearing the term racism in the early ‘60s in eastern North Carolina. I knew other words, some considered heretical today, such as negro and the other “n” word, but racism was not one of them. If you had told my dad he was a racist (and defined it for him), he would have flatly denied it. I am sure in his mind he was not treating individuals wrongly because of the color of their skin. He would admit, though, to treating them differently than white folks. The culture of the ‘50s and early ‘60’s in the South allowed for such differences, wrong though they were. I have come to the conclusion that every generation allows mistreatment, in some form, of a select people group.
The highlight of the day (and trust me, I needed a highlight) was the big meal Mom would cook around noontime for all of us, workers included: fried tenderloin, haslet stew, collards, fried okra, squash, boiled potatoes, and warm homemade biscuits.
Get ready; racism is about to meet hog killing.
When Mom called out for all to come to the kitchen to eat, I noticed some stayed behind. It made sense in a way, because someone had to keep stirring the lard kettle and make sure a stray dog or other animal didn’t steal the meat sitting on the make-shift saw-horse tables. But why did the white folks go eat and the colored folks stay behind?
At the time, Dad was a bridge foreman for the NC State Bridge Department. For many years he worked a crew of about ten men, mostly black men. Dad was used to hearing, “Yessir, boss man,” “Whatever you say, boss man,” and other words of compliance from these men. We used to joke that Dad bossed the bridge crew Monday through Friday and us kids on Saturday and Sunday.
One black man named Neezer (probably short for Ebenezer) worked in that crew, and he always helped Dad on hog killing day. He was a large, strong man with full cheeks. His speech was more akin to blubbering than to pointed elocution. You could sense he was used to hard work and hard times. Neezer had an interesting past I learned about as I grew older. Apparently, he and his wife once had a houseful of children. Tragically, all the kids died in a house fire. Like Job of the Bible, they were blessed with a second crop of children, probably about the ages of my brother and me. My nephew Herman III, when he was just a toddler, mistakenly called him “Sneezer.” Like Saul becoming Paul, the name stuck—in our family at least.
Sneezer knew everything about how to kill hogs. In his later years, he confided in my husband that he had taught my Dad everything he knew about the process; but, of course, Dad used to tell him what to do as if Sneezer knew nothing.
Sneezer and the other black men waiting to eat their lunch was not my first observance of racism. Occasionally at night, Dad would need to call one of the men in his bridge crew and give them instructions for the next day, especially if he had to be at a different work site the next morning. I will try to replicate the conversation as I heard it on my end:
Dad (talking in a way that imitated the black person’s speech): “Who dis? Is yo dad there? Tell him it’s the sheriff callin’.”
The young child would get Sneezer on the phone, and Dad would continue speaking in that dialect.
I was young at the time, but even then it was unsettling to me. Inherently, I sensed the wrong and the degradation of it all. I guess Dad thought he was being funny, but I don’t remember anyone laughing.
Mom was conscious of not offending or demeaning the black workers to their face. During one hog killing, I was in the kitchen helping her with lunch preparation. She had made a large pan of biscuits. She had additional dough left over to make a large pone biscuit in a separate pan. I always loved that biscuit because it was larger, flatter, and crispier than a regular biscuit. For as long as I could remember, she had called it “n _ _ _ _ _ bread.” I had never thought of that term in a negative way until that day. As she put the pan into the oven, she cautioned me, “Martha, now remember—do not call this ‘n _ _ _ _ _ bread’ when the workers come in.”
Looking back, I am amazed at how we lived our lives. Today I read true-to-life fiction like The Help, I remember the marches of Martin Luther King, the protests, the riots, and the stand-off with George Wallace, and I am amazed at the change in society. I lived through school integration in the ‘60s. I saw first-hand the upheaval and the struggles inherent in social change. I hope to think that I came out on the other side with an understanding of our equality before God. Biblically, we are all of one race—different in skin color, heritage, and culture, but the same before God.
I had never been up close to a black child until the early ‘60s. I remember the day Rufus Barrow walked into our elementary classroom. You could have heard a pin drop as he walked confidently across the room and found his seat in the row by the window, next-to-last desk. He was the first black child in our school district to attend an all-white school. The rest is history.
A few years ago, I found a link to my past while rummaging through some old music in my sister’s piano bench. It was a piece of piano music that I had played as a child. On the back was a whole column of words written in childish scribble. For a moment, I could not decipher them; but then, I understood. Evidently, as a child, taking a break from piano practice, I had tried to figure out the correct spelling for “negro” because written on that music was every conceivable phonetic rendering of that word. While the rest of the world was trying to ensure racial equality, I was just trying to figure out how to spell it.
Our own personal family history reflected the changes around us. It was not too many hog killings later that everybody that could fit around the table ate the hog killing lunch together—black, white—it didn’t matter. Mom quit baking the pone biscuit. While those deep-seated biases probably still remained in my parents, they were altered to reflect an increasing sensibility to the changes about them.
Sneezer, like my parents, is dead now. Those hog killing days are over. PTL! (That means “Praise the Lord” for you non-shouting Baptists.) I like to picture Mom, Dad, and Sneezer in heaven sitting down at the futuristic Marriage Supper of the Lamb as referenced in the Bible. I don’t know what they will be eating, but I would hope to think pork is not on the menu and that they are eating with people of every tribe and of every tongue. I guarantee you no one is a racist in heaven.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Pets
Pets
I learned early on that animals were made for the same thing children were made for—work. I know, you are gasping at such a comparison. Before you jump to the wrong conclusion, let me assure you that we kids knew we were loved. Our parents, though not overly affectionate, showed us love every day. They provided for our needs and many of our wants. Their love was evidenced most in their desire to train us to be good adults. I hope they succeeded. Teaching us the value of hard work was part of their agenda.
And no, we couldn’t have a dog or a cat as a pet. A pet would eat us out of house and home and be good for nothing. And if in a weak moment my dad allowed me to keep a stray kitten, it most certainly could not be brought into the house.
As an adult I understood a bit better my dad’s philosophy. To him, pets were a luxury. Going through the Depression, half-starving while trying to farm in the early ‘40’s, working many years as a bridge foreman—all had taught my dad that most luxuries were not affordable.
Now, Dad didn’t hate animals—much to the contrary. He liked them and used them to add quality to his life. He was an avid deer hunter. Hunting dogs were essential. He had a dog pen behind the garden next to the barn. He had another at the deer-hunting woods on the Sandhill. We called it the “deer-hunting woods” as part of the family lingo. The Sandhill was the generic name for a little (and maybe quaint) community near Aurora, NC, called Small. And believe me, there is no hyperbole in that name. It is still a small community—“a land that time forgot,” as my cousin once called it. Both my mom and dad were born and reared there. Dad did feel guilty at times about the number of dogs he had. Feed, shots, vet bills, dipping for fleas—all were costly. I think he justified the expense by believing the venison he brought home would balance the books. When Mom (or someone else in ear-shot of my mother) would ask him how many hunting dogs he had, he never could remember exactly.
Our “Little House on the Prairie” (actually our little house was located on the west side of Washington, NC, about thirty miles west of Small) was surrounded by corn fields, a lumber mill, a state highway, and a little creek. We had chickens, pigs, and even a milk cow at one time. Dad didn’t keep the cow for long, though. He said we all were getting too fat drinking the whole milk and eating the fresh cream and butter.
And I can’t forget the goats. One patch of wooded land near the house was a bit hilly and sloped all the way to the creek. Dad conceived the idea to fence in the land, buy some goats, and let them keep down the vegetation. His plan worked well for a time. I spent many hours watching those animals eat everything. They would reach down, grab a weed, pull their head back up, and then stare at me while munching away. I always thought they looked like old men with silly goatees who needed to learn how to eat with their mouths closed. I loved to mock them by imitating their baaaaa’s. Eventually, the goats began to die, one by one. I think Dad tired of having to bury each one. I have since learned that once one goat dies, the others usually catch whatever “it” is and die too.
And, oh my, I will never forget the chickens. In the spring, Dad would bring home little yellow and brown biddies. He would secure a heat lamp low to the floor in the chicken house; and those crazy critters would huddle in chirping masses, attracted to the light and the heat.
Dad said chickens are dumb animals. He said, “They don’t know how to get out of a shower of rain.” He meant that literally, but he used the same expression figuratively to describe certain people he considered “not quite bright.”
We had a classy hen house. In the sixties, the trend was for every home to have a large picture window in the living room. We had one in ours. I am not sure which came first—the hen house or the picture window; but, at any rate, we ended up with one on the front of our hen house. I imagine someone gave it to my dad or he haggled for it. As a joke, Mom made curtains to hang at that window. I do believe we were the only family within 100 miles that could brag of that distinction—probably the entire world. The chickens didn’t mind.
I have to admit the little biddies were cute. My fascination soon waned, though. Because I was the youngest child, Dad relegated the easier chores to me, and he considered picking up the eggs each day as an appropriate responsibility for a ten-year-old girl. I hated it. The hen house was creepy and dark (even with the picture window), smelled of ammonia, and was filled with ornery hens sitting on their nests. I complained to my mom one day how I was scared of the hens because they might peck me. She replied, “Just shoo them away.” She made it sound as easy as shooing away a fly—but it wasn’t. I had a coping mechanism, though. I determined to pick up only the eggs that were in nests not occupied. If a hen was determined to remain seated, I did not bother her. Dad couldn’t understand why the hens suddenly were not laying as many eggs. I knew why!
My knowledge of chickens was limited, though. I remember vividly sitting at the kitchen table, eating lunch, and studying a picture on the wall in front of me. It was of a rooster sitting on a fence post. My sister had given it to my mom because of the marked resemblance of the chicken and the surroundings to our own little farm. Dad was sitting to my left at the head of the table. Mom was to my right at the sink. I must have spoken at the exact time Dad was wolfing down a huge bite of food, because when I finished my query, he choked loudly, followed by a series of coughs and snorts. All I asked was “What good is a rooster anyway?”
But, I must return to the pigs. As a child, I can’t remember a time when Dad did not “raise hogs,” as he called it. He would sometimes breed his sow and wait for her offspring, or he would buy young pigs from another farmer. I learned early on that the best pork comes from a male hog. To this day, that sentiment is a family joke. If we see a very large pork loin for sale in the grocery store, we smile and quote my long-deceased father by saying, “We don’t want that meat. It must have come from a sow.”
Looking back, I think God must have decided to satisfy my longing for a pet while honoring my dad’s desire for practicality. In one litter of pigs born to our sow, there were two runts. (I have always liked the word runt. I suppose it’s because I am the opposite of a runt. I was born 9 lbs. 2 oz. and now stand 5 ft. 9 in. tall.) One runt was extremely small. We brought him to the house and fed him around the clock with a medicine dropper and a baby bottle. I don’t believe he survived. The other runt was a bit larger. He had enough strength to fend for himself. He would grunt and wait his turn to nurse. Eventually, he would crawl over his siblings and find a vacant you-know-what and drink away. We named him “Little Pig.” (I know, not very creative.)
Little Pig was the nearest to a puppy I had ever seen. We discovered his personality quite by accident. Even though he was growing, he was still smaller than the rest and could easily escape the pen. One day he ran the sixty yards or so to the house and scratched on the back screen door to get our attention. You can imagine my delight when I found this squealing ball of energy at our door. I ran outside and picked him up. Of course, he was squirming and squealing. I set him down in the grass, and he immediately rolled over on his back and let me rub his tummy. He then sat up and ran around the yard squealing in pure delight. He would follow me everywhere.
I loved every second I was playing with Little Pig. In fact, the entire family thought well of the pesky porker. Dad kept trying to fix the pig pen so Little Pig could not escape, but the little guy was smart (unlike the chickens). He kept finding holes.
Like most babies, Little Pig eventually was weaned from his mother and began to eat the slop that all pigs enjoy. He grew, and the day came when he no longer could escape the pen. I would visit him in that smelly place, but his increased size and the fetid environment prevented our former frolics. School began in the fall, and I was busy. I would occasionally ask Dad how Little Pig was doing. One night at supper, the subject came up of what to do with our perky pig. None of us wanted to think about the little guy being slaughtered, but we all knew his ultimate fate. The decision was made to sell him to another farmer. At least we would not be eating bacon, ham, or whatever and wondering if we were eating Little Pig.
Dad mellowed a bit as I grew older. He relented and before I left for college I had a dog and a cat or two as pets—mind you, outdoor pets only!
As an adult, I look back at the menagerie of animals and wish I could have replicated them for my own children. Though I did not realize it at the time, those animals were a source of much learning, much activity, and many happy and sad memories—the fabric of a full and happy life!
I learned early on that animals were made for the same thing children were made for—work. I know, you are gasping at such a comparison. Before you jump to the wrong conclusion, let me assure you that we kids knew we were loved. Our parents, though not overly affectionate, showed us love every day. They provided for our needs and many of our wants. Their love was evidenced most in their desire to train us to be good adults. I hope they succeeded. Teaching us the value of hard work was part of their agenda.
And no, we couldn’t have a dog or a cat as a pet. A pet would eat us out of house and home and be good for nothing. And if in a weak moment my dad allowed me to keep a stray kitten, it most certainly could not be brought into the house.
As an adult I understood a bit better my dad’s philosophy. To him, pets were a luxury. Going through the Depression, half-starving while trying to farm in the early ‘40’s, working many years as a bridge foreman—all had taught my dad that most luxuries were not affordable.
Now, Dad didn’t hate animals—much to the contrary. He liked them and used them to add quality to his life. He was an avid deer hunter. Hunting dogs were essential. He had a dog pen behind the garden next to the barn. He had another at the deer-hunting woods on the Sandhill. We called it the “deer-hunting woods” as part of the family lingo. The Sandhill was the generic name for a little (and maybe quaint) community near Aurora, NC, called Small. And believe me, there is no hyperbole in that name. It is still a small community—“a land that time forgot,” as my cousin once called it. Both my mom and dad were born and reared there. Dad did feel guilty at times about the number of dogs he had. Feed, shots, vet bills, dipping for fleas—all were costly. I think he justified the expense by believing the venison he brought home would balance the books. When Mom (or someone else in ear-shot of my mother) would ask him how many hunting dogs he had, he never could remember exactly.
Our “Little House on the Prairie” (actually our little house was located on the west side of Washington, NC, about thirty miles west of Small) was surrounded by corn fields, a lumber mill, a state highway, and a little creek. We had chickens, pigs, and even a milk cow at one time. Dad didn’t keep the cow for long, though. He said we all were getting too fat drinking the whole milk and eating the fresh cream and butter.
And I can’t forget the goats. One patch of wooded land near the house was a bit hilly and sloped all the way to the creek. Dad conceived the idea to fence in the land, buy some goats, and let them keep down the vegetation. His plan worked well for a time. I spent many hours watching those animals eat everything. They would reach down, grab a weed, pull their head back up, and then stare at me while munching away. I always thought they looked like old men with silly goatees who needed to learn how to eat with their mouths closed. I loved to mock them by imitating their baaaaa’s. Eventually, the goats began to die, one by one. I think Dad tired of having to bury each one. I have since learned that once one goat dies, the others usually catch whatever “it” is and die too.
And, oh my, I will never forget the chickens. In the spring, Dad would bring home little yellow and brown biddies. He would secure a heat lamp low to the floor in the chicken house; and those crazy critters would huddle in chirping masses, attracted to the light and the heat.
Dad said chickens are dumb animals. He said, “They don’t know how to get out of a shower of rain.” He meant that literally, but he used the same expression figuratively to describe certain people he considered “not quite bright.”
We had a classy hen house. In the sixties, the trend was for every home to have a large picture window in the living room. We had one in ours. I am not sure which came first—the hen house or the picture window; but, at any rate, we ended up with one on the front of our hen house. I imagine someone gave it to my dad or he haggled for it. As a joke, Mom made curtains to hang at that window. I do believe we were the only family within 100 miles that could brag of that distinction—probably the entire world. The chickens didn’t mind.
I have to admit the little biddies were cute. My fascination soon waned, though. Because I was the youngest child, Dad relegated the easier chores to me, and he considered picking up the eggs each day as an appropriate responsibility for a ten-year-old girl. I hated it. The hen house was creepy and dark (even with the picture window), smelled of ammonia, and was filled with ornery hens sitting on their nests. I complained to my mom one day how I was scared of the hens because they might peck me. She replied, “Just shoo them away.” She made it sound as easy as shooing away a fly—but it wasn’t. I had a coping mechanism, though. I determined to pick up only the eggs that were in nests not occupied. If a hen was determined to remain seated, I did not bother her. Dad couldn’t understand why the hens suddenly were not laying as many eggs. I knew why!
My knowledge of chickens was limited, though. I remember vividly sitting at the kitchen table, eating lunch, and studying a picture on the wall in front of me. It was of a rooster sitting on a fence post. My sister had given it to my mom because of the marked resemblance of the chicken and the surroundings to our own little farm. Dad was sitting to my left at the head of the table. Mom was to my right at the sink. I must have spoken at the exact time Dad was wolfing down a huge bite of food, because when I finished my query, he choked loudly, followed by a series of coughs and snorts. All I asked was “What good is a rooster anyway?”
But, I must return to the pigs. As a child, I can’t remember a time when Dad did not “raise hogs,” as he called it. He would sometimes breed his sow and wait for her offspring, or he would buy young pigs from another farmer. I learned early on that the best pork comes from a male hog. To this day, that sentiment is a family joke. If we see a very large pork loin for sale in the grocery store, we smile and quote my long-deceased father by saying, “We don’t want that meat. It must have come from a sow.”
Looking back, I think God must have decided to satisfy my longing for a pet while honoring my dad’s desire for practicality. In one litter of pigs born to our sow, there were two runts. (I have always liked the word runt. I suppose it’s because I am the opposite of a runt. I was born 9 lbs. 2 oz. and now stand 5 ft. 9 in. tall.) One runt was extremely small. We brought him to the house and fed him around the clock with a medicine dropper and a baby bottle. I don’t believe he survived. The other runt was a bit larger. He had enough strength to fend for himself. He would grunt and wait his turn to nurse. Eventually, he would crawl over his siblings and find a vacant you-know-what and drink away. We named him “Little Pig.” (I know, not very creative.)
Little Pig was the nearest to a puppy I had ever seen. We discovered his personality quite by accident. Even though he was growing, he was still smaller than the rest and could easily escape the pen. One day he ran the sixty yards or so to the house and scratched on the back screen door to get our attention. You can imagine my delight when I found this squealing ball of energy at our door. I ran outside and picked him up. Of course, he was squirming and squealing. I set him down in the grass, and he immediately rolled over on his back and let me rub his tummy. He then sat up and ran around the yard squealing in pure delight. He would follow me everywhere.
I loved every second I was playing with Little Pig. In fact, the entire family thought well of the pesky porker. Dad kept trying to fix the pig pen so Little Pig could not escape, but the little guy was smart (unlike the chickens). He kept finding holes.
Like most babies, Little Pig eventually was weaned from his mother and began to eat the slop that all pigs enjoy. He grew, and the day came when he no longer could escape the pen. I would visit him in that smelly place, but his increased size and the fetid environment prevented our former frolics. School began in the fall, and I was busy. I would occasionally ask Dad how Little Pig was doing. One night at supper, the subject came up of what to do with our perky pig. None of us wanted to think about the little guy being slaughtered, but we all knew his ultimate fate. The decision was made to sell him to another farmer. At least we would not be eating bacon, ham, or whatever and wondering if we were eating Little Pig.
Dad mellowed a bit as I grew older. He relented and before I left for college I had a dog and a cat or two as pets—mind you, outdoor pets only!
As an adult, I look back at the menagerie of animals and wish I could have replicated them for my own children. Though I did not realize it at the time, those animals were a source of much learning, much activity, and many happy and sad memories—the fabric of a full and happy life!
Collards
Collards
A strange title, you say. Well, maybe so, but if you happened to grow up in the South, you know collard greens are a staple.
When I was a child, my father grew some as big a washtubs. He tended them with the care of a father tending his child. He watered them, kept out the grass, shook some type of white dust on them to keep the worms away, and thought every family should eat collards at least once a week.
I used to wonder if Dad was unknowingly poisoning us all with that white dust. He would put a bucket full in a burlap sack and walk down each row shaking the substance on every leaf. We had to wait until it rained on the collards before we could eat them. And then, Mom would wash them in multiple water baths.
Collards are sweeter after the first frost hits them. That’s when my dad liked them the best. And boy, could they stink up a house.
I learned a few of life’s lessons because of my encounter with collards.
Life lesson number 1: If you put something on your plate, you must eat it. I made the mistake one night of putting a bit too many collard greens on my plate. (Mind you, an appropriate amount was less than a teaspoon.) My brother, who was probably a young teenager by then, had pity on me. After everyone else had left the table and I was staring down in tears at the green glob of food, he showed me how to get them down without gagging. He instructed me to divide the collards into very small portions at different intervals around the plate. He would begin counting very slowly. I was to spoon one small portion of collards and drink a large swig of tea at the same time. After he had counted to seven, I had gulped down the whole lot. I remember that day being impressed by such a smart brother. That is my second remembrance of loving him like a brother.
What was my first, you ask? Well, I distinctly remember walking to school with him near the beginning of my first-grade year. On the way, he told me that if anyone picked on me at school, to tell him and he would take care of it. What little sister can’t love a ten-year-old bodyguard of a brother?
Life lesson number 2: If you find something gross in your food, discard it and eat the food anyway. Those pesky worms that love collards so much once found their way into our collard bowl and my plate. My mother always prided herself on her cleanliness and pristine methods of food preparation, but occasionally one of those pesky creatures would elude her. I remember distinctly where I was sitting at the table and how surprised (grossed out) I was at seeing the dead remains of a worm in my small blob of collards. I immediately exclaimed its presence. and my mom, without missing a beat, said, “No, that’s not a worm. It just looks like a worm.” Well, I knew it was a worm, and I think Mom knew it was a worm; but to admit such would have ruined everyone’s meal. I guess there is a secondary lesson here as well: If you tell yourself it is not what it is, maybe you (and others) will believe it. At any rate, she took one look, discarded the evidence, and we all proceeded to eat our meal. I am sure I used my brother’s method of collard disposal that night, as well.
Life lesson number 3: Collards are to be cooked with fat back (lots of fat back) and eaten with hot green peppers. There were many things that grossed me out as a child, but one vivid image I have is my father eating collards and then chasing them with bites of fat back and pods of hot green pepper. He would grow those hot green peppers in his garden. I had to be very careful in clearing the table, because if I happened to get some of the remaining pepper or seeds on my hands and then touch my eyes, I would be hurting for quite a while. At our house, collards were cooked in a large pot. There was always room for one more complementary item: the corn meal dumpling. And sometimes, Mom would pour off the remaining liquid in the pot and save it for who knows what. I just remember she called it pot liquor—a funny name to me as a child because of my strict upbringing decrying the sale or use of any type of alcoholic beverage. I guess if you let it sit around long enough, it would have fermented.
Life lesson number 4: Collards are worthy of being passed to future generations. In my freezer right now is a Mason jar filled with collard seeds. When my parents died in the year 2000, I found the jar of seeds in their freezer. Inside was a note in my father’s handwriting stating that these seed came from his mother. In addition to a few pieces of furniture, I can now claim to own something that once belonged to my grandmother. These collard seeds connect me with this woman who was born in the late 19th century. I have a living (though dormant) connection to her and her life. Pretty neat! My dad’s brother found out I had them, and he begged a few to plant in his garden at the retirement center. I poured a portion into an envelope and mailed them to him. They germinated and grew. Pretty neat, as well!
Life lesson number 5: Our taste buds change as we grow older. It was my senior year of college. Cafeteria food had lost its mystique. I was walking across campus one afternoon, looking toward the east (toward home), and I remember thinking to myself, “I would give anything for a good mess of collards.” Go figure. Life is funny.
There are many terms to denote the amount of collards, or any vegetable for that matter. As a child, I learned instinctively that a mess of anything was a sufficient amount to feed a family of at least four people. My parents were always giving away their bounty from the family garden (a.k.a. truck farm). I would observe my parents making sure these friends had a “good mess” of whatever they were giving away.
Another term, which always made me snicker (and still does today), was my mom’s use of the word “crap.” She used it as a verb, mind you, not as an interjection. In her vernacular, “crapping” collards meant you broke off individual leaves rather than cut the entire stalk. I imagine the term came about as a type of onomatopoeia—the sound the leaves make when you break them from the stalk. I can still hear her saying to my dad, “Earl, I’m going to go crap some collards for the preacher.” You have to love the South!
A strange title, you say. Well, maybe so, but if you happened to grow up in the South, you know collard greens are a staple.
When I was a child, my father grew some as big a washtubs. He tended them with the care of a father tending his child. He watered them, kept out the grass, shook some type of white dust on them to keep the worms away, and thought every family should eat collards at least once a week.
I used to wonder if Dad was unknowingly poisoning us all with that white dust. He would put a bucket full in a burlap sack and walk down each row shaking the substance on every leaf. We had to wait until it rained on the collards before we could eat them. And then, Mom would wash them in multiple water baths.
Collards are sweeter after the first frost hits them. That’s when my dad liked them the best. And boy, could they stink up a house.
I learned a few of life’s lessons because of my encounter with collards.
Life lesson number 1: If you put something on your plate, you must eat it. I made the mistake one night of putting a bit too many collard greens on my plate. (Mind you, an appropriate amount was less than a teaspoon.) My brother, who was probably a young teenager by then, had pity on me. After everyone else had left the table and I was staring down in tears at the green glob of food, he showed me how to get them down without gagging. He instructed me to divide the collards into very small portions at different intervals around the plate. He would begin counting very slowly. I was to spoon one small portion of collards and drink a large swig of tea at the same time. After he had counted to seven, I had gulped down the whole lot. I remember that day being impressed by such a smart brother. That is my second remembrance of loving him like a brother.
What was my first, you ask? Well, I distinctly remember walking to school with him near the beginning of my first-grade year. On the way, he told me that if anyone picked on me at school, to tell him and he would take care of it. What little sister can’t love a ten-year-old bodyguard of a brother?
Life lesson number 2: If you find something gross in your food, discard it and eat the food anyway. Those pesky worms that love collards so much once found their way into our collard bowl and my plate. My mother always prided herself on her cleanliness and pristine methods of food preparation, but occasionally one of those pesky creatures would elude her. I remember distinctly where I was sitting at the table and how surprised (grossed out) I was at seeing the dead remains of a worm in my small blob of collards. I immediately exclaimed its presence. and my mom, without missing a beat, said, “No, that’s not a worm. It just looks like a worm.” Well, I knew it was a worm, and I think Mom knew it was a worm; but to admit such would have ruined everyone’s meal. I guess there is a secondary lesson here as well: If you tell yourself it is not what it is, maybe you (and others) will believe it. At any rate, she took one look, discarded the evidence, and we all proceeded to eat our meal. I am sure I used my brother’s method of collard disposal that night, as well.
Life lesson number 3: Collards are to be cooked with fat back (lots of fat back) and eaten with hot green peppers. There were many things that grossed me out as a child, but one vivid image I have is my father eating collards and then chasing them with bites of fat back and pods of hot green pepper. He would grow those hot green peppers in his garden. I had to be very careful in clearing the table, because if I happened to get some of the remaining pepper or seeds on my hands and then touch my eyes, I would be hurting for quite a while. At our house, collards were cooked in a large pot. There was always room for one more complementary item: the corn meal dumpling. And sometimes, Mom would pour off the remaining liquid in the pot and save it for who knows what. I just remember she called it pot liquor—a funny name to me as a child because of my strict upbringing decrying the sale or use of any type of alcoholic beverage. I guess if you let it sit around long enough, it would have fermented.
Life lesson number 4: Collards are worthy of being passed to future generations. In my freezer right now is a Mason jar filled with collard seeds. When my parents died in the year 2000, I found the jar of seeds in their freezer. Inside was a note in my father’s handwriting stating that these seed came from his mother. In addition to a few pieces of furniture, I can now claim to own something that once belonged to my grandmother. These collard seeds connect me with this woman who was born in the late 19th century. I have a living (though dormant) connection to her and her life. Pretty neat! My dad’s brother found out I had them, and he begged a few to plant in his garden at the retirement center. I poured a portion into an envelope and mailed them to him. They germinated and grew. Pretty neat, as well!
Life lesson number 5: Our taste buds change as we grow older. It was my senior year of college. Cafeteria food had lost its mystique. I was walking across campus one afternoon, looking toward the east (toward home), and I remember thinking to myself, “I would give anything for a good mess of collards.” Go figure. Life is funny.
There are many terms to denote the amount of collards, or any vegetable for that matter. As a child, I learned instinctively that a mess of anything was a sufficient amount to feed a family of at least four people. My parents were always giving away their bounty from the family garden (a.k.a. truck farm). I would observe my parents making sure these friends had a “good mess” of whatever they were giving away.
Another term, which always made me snicker (and still does today), was my mom’s use of the word “crap.” She used it as a verb, mind you, not as an interjection. In her vernacular, “crapping” collards meant you broke off individual leaves rather than cut the entire stalk. I imagine the term came about as a type of onomatopoeia—the sound the leaves make when you break them from the stalk. I can still hear her saying to my dad, “Earl, I’m going to go crap some collards for the preacher.” You have to love the South!
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