Silence of the Hams Pt.1 Or Where Your Food Comes From

Grandma told me to stay away from the glass door…That chilly morning, I unwittingly got a glimpse into the complexities of homestead life, where the practicalities of survival sometimes collide with the innocence of childhood. Though the memory remains vivid, it serves as a testament to the richness of experiences that shape us, even those stumbled upon by accident on a cool, late fall morning. After which, I felt a bit like both Fern in the book ‘Charlotte’s Web’ and Clarice in ‘The Silence of the Lambs’. (See links below)

It was such a lovely cool crisp fall morning. Certainly, it was too beautiful of a day for a highly energetic 6-year-old to stay inside, but something exciting was afoot. It happened around this time every year. I knew the results would be wonderful delicacies such as sausages, bacon, ham, scrapple, puddings and cracklin’s (pork rinds for the sophisticated).

Charlotte’s Web

I loved reading this book..

Little did I know that my innocent escapade would lead to an unexpected and somewhat shocking encounter. As I peered through the door, I witnessed a solemn moment – the men had assembled for a task that was a routine part of homestead life but this part (where your food comes from) entirely unfamiliar to my young eyes.

The air was cool, and a hushed tension hung in the atmosphere. The men, with a sense of purpose, were huddled in groups, talking and laughing as they prepared for this significant annual event. It soon became apparent that this was no ordinary morning; it was the day a pig was to be butchered. There was a large metal tub with fire underneath and water boiling in it. And there were two posts stuck in the ground where the pig would be splayed and gutted, later. Suddenly, the group of men got quiet, and this huge hog was led to the garden. One of the men, a distant cousin, knelt on one knee a short distance from his target and pointed the rifle towards the pig. A shot rang out! The pig squealed, stiffened, and fell on its side. I must have screamed, and then I felt myself being snatched backwards as the large wooden kitchen door slammed shut! "Curiosity killed the cat," she said sternly. "Now go read a book." Too late. What was seen could not be unseen. I must have cried that entire day. Afterall, I had fed the pigs…excuse me, it was called slopping the hogs, almost daily. I would even pick pigweed and hand feed it to them, careful not to get my fingers bit off like the neighbor across the road, Old Lady Stanwich, who was missing some digits on one hand. Said it happened when she was a little girl. I got smacked for asking about that one.

In that moment, the realization hit me like a ton of bricks. My innocent world was disrupted by the stark reality of homestead life. Grandma's warnings suddenly made sense, but it was too late. The scene before me unfolded with a raw authenticity that both shocked and fascinated my young self.

As the events transpired, I simply couldn't tear my eyes away from the scene. The weight of the situation and the contrast between the cheerful homestead life I knew and the practical necessities of sustaining it weighed in the balance. It was a moment of realization and inadvertent education, a lesson in the circle of where your food comes from life that, as a child, I had never truly comprehended. Although I had seen the hams hanging from the ceiling in the smoke house out back. And I remember grandma putting meat in the grinder as my mother held the casing to make the sausage and I enjoyed the hog cracklin’s in the brown paper bag with the grease stains. I believe we ate everything on the pig but its squeal. I just didn’t put the two together…to be continued in Part 2.

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