For example: When I was 4-5 my hero was Superman. I remember my Uncle George who, I'm sure had the best of intentions, telling me Superman wasn't real. I argued back that he could be real. I was pissed. Thank God we weren't discussing Santa and don't be telling me what you might have heard about Santa . Not ready for that.
Anyway, Superman was coming to Pittsburgh! Daily, they promoted on the radio, "Meet Superman." My parents were excited! They were so happy that I would have the chance to meet my hero! I think that incident is why I still have a twinge of social anxiety. I thought I was gonna have to shake hands with the guy. "Well, hi Jim, how have you been?" "Not bad sir. How have your been?" Maybe sit down and have some Bosco. I was terrified but the powers that be seemed so pleased with themselves all I could say was, " Yeah, great."
I went to Kennywood Park like I was being led to a gallows. I was so relieved when it worked out I was so far back in the crowd I could barely see the guy even on my Dad's shoulders. It coulda been my Uncle George. What a relief!
That was a little bit after I'd learned my bedtime prayers. 'Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake. WAIT ! WHAT??
We had chickens. We sold the eggs. It's actually kinda interesting to weigh, classify and candle the eggs. At times it was my job to gather the eggs. It turns out hens don't like you screwin around with their offspring much. They would peck hell outta ya. I hated them fucking chickens.
Eventually, the price of eggs went down and the hens got old. The decision was made to kill all the chickens and get out of the egg business. As a side effect, we did have chicken for about a year. A little ham now and then would have been nice.
Killing and dressing chickens is kind of a gruesome business. Killing and dressing 45-50 of them is really a gruesome business. I became aware my grandparents were concerned it might be a bit much for my 6 year old sensibilities. Did I mention I hated them fuckin chickens? My fist pumps as they were beheaded should have given my true feelings away. I was unscathed. Hell, I'da done it myself.
Shortly after that it was time to butcher a cow which had been raised with the intent to take up whatever room was left in the freezer not already occupied by the chickens. I was definitely excluded from that gruesome exercise. It really is a process not for the squeamish. So, naturally, being excluded, I found a knothole in the wall of the shed being used as a slaughterhouse in order to watch.
The crew consisted of my Grandfather, my uncle George and my uncle Bill. George and Bill must have been in their early 20's. The cow was about a year and a half old not that it matters.
The cow was led into the shed by a rope halter. It was positioned in the middle of the shed and belted in the head, straight between the eyes, with a sledge hammer by my uncle George. The cow went down. My uncle Bill climbed on the cow's back and began to cut it's throat with a large Bowie knife, the idea being to bleed the cow to death. This woke the cow up. With a bellow it got to it's feet and began to thrash about with my uncle on it's back now just stabbing it with great blows. It was like bull riding except you get to stab the bull. Meantime, my uncle George is trying to whack the cow again with the sledge without cold cocking my uncle Bill. To this day it's still one of the funniest things I've ever seen. Describing it just doesn't do it justice. In a few seconds the cow collapsed to the great relief of us all. My presence was discovered and attempts to protect my sensibilities came to an end. Especially since I insisted on telling the story with belly laughs pretty much to anyone who would listen. They got it that I understood farm life.
There's a few things I learned. We butchered a pig. In that process, you dip the dead pig in scalding water. To accomplish this we built a fire under an old, oaken barrel. I assumed the fire would set the barrel on fire but because the barrel was full of water it doesn't. You can do the same thing on a smaller scale with a paper bag of water. Other than that tidbit the pig was uneventful. They shot the pig. It reduced the excitement and the entertainment value.
About this time I learned something from my Grandfather that I didn't realize I'd learned for fifty years. He said to me, " I bet you can't eat an entire apple in 8 bites." It's something I try to do to this day. It's something I've said to all of my children and other, random children. It wasn't until the children were long grown that I realized what he was up to. He had 8 children. He must have got tired of seeing half-eaten apples so it was a little trick to get them to eat the whole thing. The little light bulb didn't come on until I was in my 50's but the lesson was passed on to yet another generation. That's pretty cool.
So I learned some things and they learned some things not to worry about.
We had a dog. It was a farm, we had plenty of dogs. We had a dog. The dog was a puppy when I was a baby. Jerry. As I got older the dog got older. He was a great dog. Part lab and part golden retriever. When I was 17 it was obvious Jerry was very bad off. I would come home every couple weeks and it was obvious neither my uncles or grandfather had the heart to do anything about it. One day I came out to the farm, grabbed a shovel and dug a hole at the bottom of the hill. I got the .22 out of the closet and a box of shells. C'mon Jerry let's get some birds. He pulled himself to his unsteady legs and followed me out the door by smell I suppose. He was mostly blind.
I gotta tell ya. I thought the sound of a single shot in that remote hollow would be just too mournful. I broke up the process of filling in the hole by firing a few random shots into the air. After a while I walked back to the house. Put the rifle and the shells back in the closet and sat down in the living room with my Grandmother and wordlessly, though we knew, watched TV.
Isn't that an almost tender little vignette? Of course it wasn't till years later I learned my Grandmother's silence was because she was utterly horrified that her monster of a grandson had shot the poor, old family dog five times.
See? Ya just never know.
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