Keeping clothes clean for three boys and my Mother and Daddy and Grandmother was quite a chore when it all had to be done in a primitive way. Very early in the morning on wash day, we pumped water into a full 25-gallon black wash pot where my Daddy would build a fire around the pot. As soon as the water got hot, we filled two wash tubs and sat them on the wash bench. Another tub had cold water for the rinsing and we put the rub board in the tub of hot water.

The only soap I ever used until almost grown was “lye” soap—homemade soap crafted in the wash pot with lye, which had to be “Red Devil” lye. This soap was used for bathing, washing, and any soap needs in the family. It had quite a smell, and not a good one.

After my Mother had rubbed the clothes on the rub board in the hot water, she would put them in the rinsing side. The rinsing water had a coloring we referred to as “blueing” where the water would look sky blue. After we got through washing and hanging the clothes on the line, we would have our baths, where Mother would put us boys in the tub that carried the color of the sky.

To get a twelve or thirteen-year-old in a number two washtub was quite a chore. Our old house sat near the little gravel and dirt road where a tree offered little shield from the few passerbys. We were so embarrassed. We would try to duck down when a car passed since out in the country we could tell who was coming by the sound of their car. This bathing practice kept up until we rebelled at fourteen and started heating our water in the sun in a tub behind the house where we could hide.

Bathing was at best in a washpan that held about a half-gallon of water. Later on, as times got better, we heated the water on the stove. We would take a pan of cold water and set it on the back door steps and wash our feet and often remark that we “washed up as far as possible and down as far as possible, but ‘possible’ only got washed about once a week.”

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Mary Ann’s Grandpa has written a number of short stories. I’ve meant to transfer them from the typewriter he literally wrote them with to a digital version, so one way of doing that is slowly but surely digitizing them by writing them on this blog. Enjoy this Southerner’s life. He entertains.

Hog Killing Day

At our estate, hog killing day was quite an exciting time for all of our family. We usually got to miss school to supposedly help with the chores. The day just had to be the coldest day of the year or, at least as kids, we had to think that it was. Late November was usually about the best time since it was normally cold and dry. Both cold and dry were needed for the meat to keep. We normally killed five large hogs each year, one for each member of the family. Lard was as important as the meat since if you had lard and corn for corn meal and flour you could just about make it along with the vegetables grown.

We would start the day by going to our neighbor’s house and borrowing his 22 rifle and my daddy would attempt to shoot him right between the eyes. Most of the time he did. As soon as the hog hit the ground, Frank Morris, a large and very muscular black man, would jump down over the hog with a long, very sharp butcher knife and slit the hog’s heart to make him bleed as much as possible so the meat would not be dark. Frank would always have a glass nearby so he could catch the fresh, hot blood. He would drink two or three glasses of the hot blood.

Some of us children would get a piece of hollow cane and put in the bladder and blow it up like a balloon. It was quite a contest to see who was the best at this sport.

As soon as the hog was killed, it was put in a barrel placed in the ground at a 45 degree angle and “soughed” several times in the scalding water. The smell of the hog hair was not very pleasant. We would then scrape the hair and singe the remaining hair before gutting the hog. All the fat was cooked off in a large, black wash pot. What little lean was left on the fat of the cooking we had for cracklins, and the rest for lard. Some people made “blood” puddings, but I must say that I did not ever eat any.

Hog killing day was always quite a happy day for us: plenty of fresh tenderloins and sausage, and we felt we had arrived.

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