Fall’s first frost and a hog killing

Every year as crisp cold weather approaches, I find myself thinking back on the Thanksgiving days of my childhood.

On the first morning following a night’s hard frost that arrived to kill the kudzu and finish off the raggedy remains of summer gardens, Daddy would step out on the porch, fiddle with the zipper on his jacket, and then when fastened into his coat, gaze out on the glimmering frost. He’d draw in a lung’s worth of the nippy air and then smile, his green eyes twinkling brightly.

“Yep,” he’d say with the kind of authority that defied being defied. “I think we’re just about right for a hog killin’.”

I’ve made no secret that I come from parents who sprung from the loins of the Appalachian Scotch-Irish. They boldly escaped that existence in their different ways. Mama put on her high heels, hat and best suit and openly bid her farewell on an October’s morn but daddy, just a boy who could take no more, stealthily took his leave by the dark of night.

But they always took us back to the places from where they came and made certain we knew our kinfolk and understood their traditions and lifestyle.

On Thanksgiving, we’d head into the North Georgia mountains to Mama’s folks where Daddy would help Paw-Paw kill a hog while the women prepared the massive holiday dinner.

“You young’uns stay on this here porch ‘til that hawg’s killed,” Maw-maw would command, sticking her head out of the screen door. “Ya mind me, ya hear?”

Obediently, my cousins and I, though eager to scramble to the barn loft, would line up and watch as Daddy raised the rifle to his shoulder, steadied his aim and squeezed the trigger to release one perfect shot. As soon as the mighty animal fell with an earth-quivering thump, we’d jump off the back porch, paying no-never-mind to the steps and race to the barn.

We’d skitter up the hand-hewn ladder, plop ourselves down into the soft, scattered hay or sat atop of bales and try to out-do each other with the scariest, biggest ghost tale of all.

It’s the feel and the smells of those Thanksgivings that I remember most. There was definitely a chill in the air because you only killed hogs when it was cold enough that the meat wouldn’t spoil. We’d blow our warm breath to watch it frost when it hit the frigid air.

And, too, the mountains, trees and rivers smell different on a crisp fall day. They smell clean, void of any other fragrance. Aw, but the best scent that cloaked the air came from the hickory wood burning under the big, black wash pot filled with water. Paw-paw would dip out the scalding hot water, pour it over the recently departed hog then Daddy would expertly use a big knife to scrap away the fine hairs.

Occasionally, we’d suspend our storytelling long enough to stick our heads out of the loft and watch the progress as they “dressed” the hog, which is what they called it, but “undressing” is more like it. Finally, they’d cut away the excess fat and drop it into the pot to cook it into oil that would turn into lard.

Oh my goodness, what fine biscuits that lard would eventually make.

Later, we’d squeeze into Maw-Maw’s tiny kitchen, stand to say grace over a table heavy with succulent turkey, cornbread dressing, giblet gravy, mashed potatoes, candied yams, hot biscuits and pumpkin pies.

Thanksgivings are much different in my family these days. We gather at my house where the crystal sparkles, the china glistens and the silver shines. The women visit in the kitchen while the men watch football. A wash pot full of autumns have passed since anyone last saw a hog killing.

But I still remember.

For that, I am thankful.