BUTCHERING DAY

Big Business isn't the only one Who have their special men When I was a boy back on the farm It was going on back then.

When the day arrived to butcher hogs They called on Roy or Neal. They'd shoot a hog with a 22 And never got a squeal.

Another specialist stood near by With a knife both sharp and bright Joe Francis was the sticking man He'd always do it right.

Uncle Finis stayed behind Out near the boiling pot. He sharpened all the butchering knives And kept the water hot.

Uncle Lorenzo kept the barrel He was old and wise and bald. He'd dip his finger theree times in And knew just when to scald.

The younger men would scrape the hog, They had a special place. Some liked to scrape the back and feet Dutch always scraped the face.

Hugh always worked the hanging pole A butcher beyond doubt With quick sure hands and flashing blade He took the offals out.

Inside the ladies cut the lard And made the sausage too. They washed the livers in the pans Each had a job to do.

Aunt Laura brought the Chocolate Cake Never failed to be a winner, Aunt Mag and Florence would oversee The big hog-killing dinner.

With dinner over, the lard was cooked. The meat was put away. It was announced where next they'd meet It had been a perfect day.

John L Gwaltney

SORGHUM MOLASSES

I remember growing Sorghum Back in my boy-hood days, When the farmers still worked horses The independent simple ways.

Dad sowed the cane seed early, We watched the young canes grow, Then cared for them through summer With a horse drawn plow and hoe.

When they ripened in the autumn, Dad would choose a sunny day He'd fashion wooden paddles, We'd strip the heads and leaves away.

We'd load them on the wagon, Pile them straight and side by side. Dad loaded that old Wagon Just as high as it would ride.

There never was a country boy Who didn't get a thrill If he could ride the wagon To a country sorghum Mill.

We'd pile the cane up nice and neat And leave our pails to fill, Then walk through other piles of cane To see the Sorghum Mill.

A windless crushed the long green cane, A team walked round and round.The cane juice trickled through a pipe, To a vat placed on the ground.

They cooked the sorghum off, inside With a wood fire, kept down low. They skimmed and stirred the boiling juice, 'Twas an art you had to know.

In time it turned a golden brown A product of the Fall. It was ready for the table Or a golden pop-corn ball.

John L. Gwaltney