At a distance of thirty feet she's already zeroed in on her objective, but if the butcher isn't around when she arrives, she unlimbers that pork-poking finger and begins an all-out bayonet attack on everything from chicken gizzards to beef briskets till he gets there. By the time he makes his timorous entrance the meat looks like it's just been through an advanced course in antiqueing, and half the price tags are strangely smudged. (This is an old military ploy--create confusion among the enemy as quickly as possible.)

    Now she queries him about the price of the ham, and after waiting patiently while he goes through the process of re-weighing and repricing the thing, she takes an outraged look at the new price tag and really opens fire. She bombards the poor butcher until her ammunition is exhausted, and satisfied that she has reduced the objective to powdered rubble, snatches up the ham, thrusts her indignant nose into the air, and charges off down the aisle in search of another glorious battlefield--most likely the delicatessen.

    If this supermarket version of General Patton could ever get a look at the way a mountain woman comes by her pork, I believe she'd begin to view the butcher as an ally rather than an enemy. In fact, according to the following detailed account by a purebred hillbilly, if she’d ever witnessed a "hawg-killin'", she would probably have stopped at the chicken gizzards.

    Transmutin' a plump porker from a hoofer in th' hawg pen to a slab of bacon in th' smokehouse is a multi-faceted job which requires the collaboration of a lotta "skilled" pork specialists t' complete. However, you may consider it an honor (if you're a hillbilly) t' be invited to a hawg-killin'. It evokes the same satisfaction that a wino would feel if he was invited to an annual taster's convention.

    Hawg-killin's gen'rally take place 'long about th' first of November, an' ever'thang gits started 'fore th' mornin' sun works up enough gumption t' tiptoe through th' twilight frost. Here an' there down th' holler a stovepipe chimney'll let loose a couple of puffs of yeller coal smoke, an' you can tell right away that ever'body's stokin' up on a good biscuits-n-gravy breakfast t' see 'em through a long day's work. Th' uniform of th' day'll start with a pair of long-johns an' work its way out t' some woolen mittens an' a fur-flapped huntin' cap. As soon as they hit that breath-steamin' mornin' air, them flaps start comin' down so fast they sound like a crippled buzzard tryin' t' git airborne.

    There's always a good turnout 'cause it's understood that whoever pitches in gits a hunk o' pork fer th' trouble, an' sayin' pork to a hillbilly is like sayin' rabbit at a greyhound race. Ever'body congregates at th' butcherin' site till th' scene r'sembles a full-color page frum a winter-wear catalogue. Somehow, it just gits th' day started out right. All th' young-uns are flittin' to an’ fro like a buncha tadpoles in a summer mudhole. The women are sittin' 'round gossipin' 'bout preacher Collins' lecture on the evils of gossipin', an' th' men are wringin' out a thermos of coffee while arguein' about th' location of John Miller's new outhouse. Meantime, ol' hawg's takin' occasional breaks from his rootin' t' stare at th' crowd an' wonder what all th' fuss is about.

    Now th' first thang y' gotta have fer a hawg-killin' is a good fire. They's two reasons fer that. First, if y' ain't got one, ever'body's liable t' git th' shivers an' head fer home. Second, y' gotta have all kinds o' scaldin' water t' make it easier t' give ol' hawg a bacon-shave. So, right off th' bat y' need some bricklayers an' a couple of arsonists. However, these ain't too hard t' find among a buncha runny-nosed, goose-pimpled country boys, an' purty soon, they're as busy as a swarm of honey-bees in a paw-paw grove.

    They c'mmence with two big flat rocks that are so heavy they gotta hunker down an' rest at least twice before they git 'em t' th' proposed fireplace. Then they keep trekkin' back'n forth through th' weeds totin' rocks till they find one that lays just right. Then they stack it neatly on th' first'un, an' start all over agin. Th' whole thang is reminiscent of a buncha pissants at a picnic, but I reckon if a feller's gonna draw a nice slab o' pork fer th' job he does, he'd ortta do a nice job. After all, nobody wants t' spend a day at a hawg-killin' lookin' at a slam-bang, slopped up fireplace. B'sides, any self-respectin' hawg would insist on bein' scalded by properly heated water frum a precision-built pyre enclosure.

    In th' meantime, those meticulous firebugs are ponderously plunderin' th' woodpile fer th' most burnable wood available, an' tryin' t' create an impression of expertise by pursin' their lips t'gether like they'd just chewed up some green persimmons. Then they inspect ever' slab like a buncha termite men lookin' fer an infestation. After goin' through about four-hunnert'n thirty-two slabs, they finally select ten er twelve they figger'll work. Then they spend th' next thirty minutes stackin' 'em this way an' that in th' fireplace t' git th' draft just right so's it'll burn in the appropriate manner... scratch two hunks o' bacon.

    While all this arson expertise is bein' displayed, th' local construction engineers (two of th' next door neighbors who've had their eyes on that hawg fer th' past year) are busy designin' an' erectin' th' scaffold an' some ingenious mountain version of block an' tackle. This'll be used t' h'ist ol' hawg up off'n th' ground so's he can git scalded, scraped an' dissected in absolute comfort. (Also, it keeps th' chafers outta th' chittlin's.)

    You can tell right off frum th' way th' two experts spend thirty minnits arguin' an' hasslin' each other, that this is an awesome undertakin'. First, there's th' matter of th' materials t' be used. No self-respectin' engineer jumps inta this thang half-cocked, so after a lengthy session of computin' with a couple o' twigs in some soft dirt, they arrive at the exact requirements fer th' necessary supplies. Then they d'cide t' use th' four poplar poles that served th' purpose last year, plus a length of ol' lady Jones' sisal-hemp clothesline.

    Next on the agenda is th' task of erectin' th' monstrous thang. More hasslin', more argument, more computin'. Inevitably, an acceptable group of advanced engineerin' principles an' methods are agreed upon. Then, with deep expressions of fervent concentration on their intelligence-ridden faces, they embark on th' formidable task. Finally, it's done, exactly th' same way they did it th' year b'fore... scratch twenty pounds uv pork chops.

    Now comes th' big event! Kids come chargin' through th' stickweeds frum all directions yellin' an' crackin' jokes about who's gonna git mistook fer th' hawg. Th' grownups gather in a motley bundle with their hands in their pockets while th' steam of excited breathin' merges into a funny little cloud bank an' slowly disappears in th' snappy mornin' air. Ever'body plops their eyeballs on th' hired gun, who, after trippin' on 'is shoelace, droppin' 'is ammunition in th' mud an' snaggin' his pants on a piece o' barbed wire, assures everyone that he is completely oblivious to their concentrated attention. All th' time, he's struttin' 'round th' hawg pen with th' gun-butt settin' on th' jut of his hip an' lookin' like he's gittin' ready t' draw on th' fastest gun alive, an' never takin' his eyes off'n that ol' hawg.

    Now they's two thangs t' remember when you're gittin' ready t' shoot a swine: First, that hawg is a whoppin' big varmint, an' if y' don't hit 'im square 'twixt the eyes th' bullet can just daze 'im long enough fer you t' climb into that pen with yer butcher knife. If he happens t' wake up at about th' time you're gittin' ready t' slit 'is throat, neighbor, you're in a heap o' trouble. Should you get caught by one of them flailin' hooves, you might come out lookin' worse'n th' hawg. An' if four-hunnert pounds o' crazy, wild pork rams you in th' gut, you're teeterin' on th' brink uv a hawg-waller buryin' ground. Th' secont thang t' remember is that if it takes y' more'n one shot t' kill that thang, you ain't gonna be able t' show yore face at a local shootin' match fer th' next six months. An' that scenario is a lot worse fer a hillbilly than gittin' rammed by a wounded boar.

    Well sir, when th' gunman's ready t' make 'is play, a couple o' fellers'll git on either side o' th' hawg pen with a long stick an' c'mmence t' gougin' that porker till they git 'im t' move into a good sightin' position fer Wild Bill Hiccup who will then raise th' rifle t' his shoulder, kick th' safety off, aim real good fer about a minnit, then shake 'is head an' tell th' prodders he can't git a decent shot frum there. (He has t' do this five or six times or it won't look like he's earnin' 'is ham.) Meanwhile, hawg's gittin' very indignant an' lodgin' a very nasty protest by splashin' slimy mud all over th' spectators. This too, helps make it look good fer th' paid assassin, who's now givin' th' ornery critter a violent tongue-switchin' fer not standin' still long enough fer him t' git uh good shot.

    After he's reluctantly raised an' lowered 'is gun, invented an' aired an assortment uv new cuss-words, an' throwed rocks at hawg a sufficient number of times, th' gunman finally gits fortunate enough t' squeeze off a well-placed round. That's when it really starts t' git messy.

    Ol' porky lights inta squealin' an' squallin' till he sounds like fourteen freight locomotives givin' their whistles full blast at th' same time, an' all four uv his hooves git t' slingin' mud fer thirty feet in all d'rections. Here's where Wild Bill leaps inta th' pen with his trusty pig-sticker an' with one fearsome slash, lays hawg's throat open frum ear t' ear. Then he lights out like a spooked pheasant t' git outta th' way uv all th' thrashin' an' splashin', an' all th' time lookin' like th' guy who just took first prize in a tri-county turkey shoot... scratch one ham.

    Once hawg's been out-drawed an' stabbed t' death, his four-hunnert-pound carcass has t' be dragged about a hunnert-an' -fifty feet t' whur th' monumental engineerin' masterpiece has been erected. (They put it that fur away t' keep th' smell o' th' hawg pen frum minglin' with th' smell uv th' hawg, 'cause th' former don't do a whole lot t' stimulate th' ambition uv th' workers at th' butcherin' site uv th' latter.) Now, if th' guy who's stuck with th' transportation detail is a wise ol' hillbilly, he'll whisper sumthin' in th' ear uv some dimpled little filly, an' she, in a very meek but mellifluous voice, will warble sumthin' like, "We need some big, strong fellers up here fer uh minnit."

    As you may have guessed, that's th' signal fer th' mister America contest t' begin. You never seen such muscle-flexin' in all yore life. Th' brawny fellers'll yank their coats off in that freezin' air so's t' show all th' bare arm they can t' th' dear little damsel. Then th' skinny ones git all twisted up in ever' sorta weird position imaginable in an effort t' make themselves appear as massive as possible. (I recollect th' time when one o' them ol' boys busted three veins in his right arm frum strainin' s' hard t' git 'is muscles t' pooch out futher'n anybody else's.)

    Anyways, after th' muscle exhibition is over with, th' muscle usin’ starts, an' they light inta that thang like uh buncha yeller- jackets on uh rotten apple. It gen'rally takes 'em uh while t' figger out that they're gonna need uh rope so's ever'body can tug at th' same time, but bye'n bye they git around t' hitchin' 'im up, an' purty soon he's down t' th' butcherin' department... scratch uh batch o' spareribs.

    Now here's where ol' hawg gits whacked up--in more ways than one. First thang they do is h'ist 'im up in the air awn that magnificent engineerin' achievement. His hind legs are spread-eagled on uh crossbar, an' 'is snout is about three inches off'n th' ground. Then somebody'll start givin' 'im a scaldin'-hot bath while two or three more, with heavily whetted butcherin' knives, c'mmence t' givin' 'im th' closest shave he's ever had. They start with th' topside, which is th' backside, an' work their way down t' th' front side, which is now th' bottomside. When they git finished, that ol' hawg could do a soft-skin commercial fer uh baby lotion company... scratch uh basket o' pork loins.

    It is now time fer th' butcherin' t' begin, an' this, thank heavens, is a one-man job. At this point, hawg becomes th' single recipient an' cause of fourteen broken hacksaw blades, two dulled hand saws, six bent, an' four broken butcher knives, two busted pole- ax handles, one blunted meat cleaver an' a slightly used jackknife. Upon completion of his laborious task, havin' subtly made certain that th' owner uv such a tough hawg feels a deep responsibility fer th' sorry state of th' tools, th' butcher collapses by th' fire expoundin' awn how hard them bones wuz t' cut... scratch uh slab o' fatback.

    It is finished! Th' tools are gathered up, th' fire put out, th' scaffold left fer th' kids t' demolish, an' ol' hawg heads off in seven different directions. The owner gathers up th' remains of two years uv hawg sloppin', (minus two hunks uv bacon, twenty pounds uv pork chops, one ham, one batch uv spareribs, one basket uv pork loin, an' uh slab uv fatback) salts it down, an' does th' best he can t' make it last his family through th' winter. If he comes up short, he can always borry some frum th' neighbors.