Hog Killin’ 1787

Historical Fiction based on the Life of William Whitt (1775-1850), My 3rd-Great-Grandfather

Disclaimer: It’s real cultural history, don’t be squeamish.

It was the last of October and we had the first killing frost near the middle of the month here in Virginia. It was hog killing time and we had three to kill. We always waited for cool weather so the meat wouldn’t spoil before we salted or smoked it for our winter meat.

Our shoats foraged in the nearby woods for about six months before we brought them in for corn fatting for a few weeks. Back in early spring, one of our old sows had farrowed a litter of pigs numbering eight. One died soon after birth when she laid down too fast for the little feller to get out of the way. Some critter stole another one. We ended up with six total with four boars and two gilts.

When they were about six weeks old, we weaned them off the mama sow. My older brother John and I had to catch ‘em and run like little thieves with the pigs to an empty stall in the barn. The old sow was woofing at us from her pen the whole time.

Since we didn’t have a living Paw, after a week of weaning my uncle, William Rogers, and his slave named Jerre rode over and helped us with the pigs. John was sharpening a knife on a whet rock when they rode up. Our uncle was riding his sorrel gelding named Sonny and Jerre was riding a big grey mule Uncle William called Ole Grey.

The chore on that spring morning was to cut the little boars [castrate] and notch the ears with our mark since the pigs would be foraging loose in the woods. Our mark was two V notches on the top and one V notch on the bottom of the right ear. Each of our neighbors had a particular hog marking.

Our uncle did the boar cutting while John, Jerre, and I held the little squealing rascals. It was important to cut the boars so the meat would not be strong tasting and smelling. We called them bars [barrows] after they were cut. Jerre kept the tender little boar seeds that his wife would fry up later.

I was now twelve and John was fourteen, so Uncle William made us get a little blood on our hands by notching the ear of one pig each. He was good at teaching us the ways of life and work since our Paw had been dead since we were little.

After they were big enough to live in the woods, we let them out so they could eat acorns and chestnuts from the trees. They also used their strong snouts to root for grubs and tender roots. They got fat off the nuts, saving our corn for better purposes.

So now on this cool October morning, it was hog killing time. Our Uncle William and Jerre came over early in a small farm wagon pulled by the big grey mule. Mama was up early as usual and had me and John busy splitting firewood for the water pots. We had six big wash pots with water almost boiling for the scalding when our uncle arrived.

We got right to work. Uncle William had his flintlock rifle with which he shot the first bar hog. He insisted my brother John shoot the next one and told him to draw two imaginary lines from his eyes to his ears and aim where they cross. I could tell John was a little nervous, but he did well, and the old bar dropped without a squeal.

Then uncle looked at me. “Little William,” he said, “its high time you get some ‘xperience. Come here and you kill the last one.”

I was scared but tried not to show it. Even Ole Jerre encouraged me, “Yessir, young man, you’ll do just fine, for shore.”

My uncle told me how to best aim at the hog, telling me again about the lines between the eyes and ears. He told me to squeeze the trigger, not to jerk it. I was aiming but the old hog was moving his head as he was chopping on corn that we had thrown on the ground to keep his interest. I took my aim and squeezed the trigger and heard that familiar two-step fire from the old flintlock, “Ka—Pow”.

He didn’t drop immediately and let out a squeal staggering backwards. Then in the commotion before I knew what was going on, Uncle and Jerre scrambled over the railing. Jerre was so strong from field work. From the hog’s side, he grabbed a front leg and a back leg on the opposite side and shouldered the hog to the ground. Uncle William quickly bled the hog out with a sharp butcher knife while Jerre held the big hog down. Uncle looked at the hog’s head and said, “You hit him a little low but you’re learning.” Then he bled out the other two dead hogs.

Jerre soon unhooked Ole Grey from the wagon and led him over to drag the hogs to the big red oak where we would do the butchering. Now the hard work began.

We first had to scrape the hogs. My uncle pulled several tow sacks [burlap type bags] from the wagon bed. He covered one side of the first hog with the sacks and poured scalding water on top of the sacks to soak through. The sacks held the heat in so the hair would loosen. He left it just a little while and then lifted a corner and pulled at the hair which came right out.

He pulled the sacks off and it was time to get to work. We had several butcher knives and some scrappers a local blacksmith had made. We started scrapping the hair off. The scent of the scalded hair and hide from the hog was a known smell as we had done this every fall of my young life. We ignored the stink because in our minds we could hear ham sizzling in Mama’s iron skillet.

Some of our neighbors and kindred had come over to help too. It was a lot of work.

Once the ole brown-haired hogs were scraped, they were hairless and glistening white. They were beautiful to our eyes.

My uncle made cuts just above the hooves on the rear of the back legs to reveal a big leg sinew [tendon]. He put a single tree hook around each tendon and then tied a rope to the single tree clevis. The other end of the rope was tossed over a tree limb so we could hoist the hog up hind feet first. We pulled on the rope until his old snout was just above the ground.

He called my brother and I over so we could learn. He began cutting around the old bar’s rear hole and private part moving down toward the middle to begin the gutting. Once he got down aways, he tied a string around the rear hole and other part to keep from leaking manure and urine on the meat.

It took my uncle just a little time to gut the big hog. There was a big pile of guts. He cut off the liver and handed it to Mama. He told Jerre to come get what he wanted except for the small gut that Mama would use for casing the sausage. Jerre cut away the heart, the lights [lungs], the kidneys, and peeled away the long string of big guts for the chitlin’s. The chitlin part and the sausage casing would be washed out in the creek shortly.

Before lowering the hog, my uncle removed the head and cut the carcass in half. We had a big table where the halves were butchered out for hams, shoulders, side-meat [bacon], ribs, back fat, tenderloins, and other portions.

Mama took the tenderloins still steaming in the cool autumn air and said she would cook up some biscuits, gravy, and tenderloin for dinner [mid-day meal]. She told Jerre he could have one of the hog heads, some fatback, and half of a shoulder. He smiled because his wife would make souse meat out of the head, boil the tongue, and cook the brains with eggs. He told her, “Thank ya Mrs. Whitt for the vittles, ‘specially the shoulder meat. My misses will shore appreciate it.”

Mama gave all the meat from one hog to be divided with Uncle William and the near neighbors and kindred who came to help.

At the end of the day, we would hang all the meat in the smoke house to cool down in the cool autumn night. The next day we would salt down some of the meat in salt boxes and some of the meat would be slow-smoked in the smoke house using green hickory wood.

This winter when the cold north wind blew and the snow piled against the house, we would bow our heads and thank the Lord for good meat in our smoke house and the sizzle in Mama’s skillet. Nothing was better on a cold morning than a slab of ham, Mama’s biscuits, gravy, and ‘sougum’ [sorghum] syrup with butter.

As long as we didn’t have company, Mama always left the place at the head of the table open in memory of our father, Shadrach Whitt, who died in the War for Independence. Our young minds had little memory of him, but Mama never let us forget him.

When Mama filled our plates and then sat at the ‘off-end’ of the table, as good as the food smelled, we knew not to take a bite until Mama returned thanks to the Lord. She prayed, “Father, thank you for another day of your mercy. We are obliged to give you thanks because all good things come from Yore hands. Cause John and William to always keep a thankful heart. We thank you for this bounty of food and ask you to bless it. We will always bow our unworthy heads before you and give you thanks and praise. In Jesus name we pray. Amen and amen.

“Alright young’uns, take out what you will eat but eat all you take out. And then she always reminded us, “Younguns, be sure and lick your fork off before you stick it in the ‘sougum’ jar!

William Whitt, Fall and Winter 1787, Charles City County, Virginia

Yours on the Journey,

Harry L. Whitt

Historical fiction based on the real life of my 3rd-great-grandfather, William Whitt, who settled just a few miles from where I live in northeast Alabama. I experienced a few Alabama country hog killings myself thanks to my father, T. V. Whitt. Papa William left us a Christian pioneer heritage; I hope to pass it on. The names, people, places, dates, and major events are true as we can know with the passing of time and the shreds of history told and recorded.