Hogs were slaughtered on Granddaddy's farm to the south of our own in late autumn. Piggy proceeds were hung in the smokehouse, a wonder of a dark place that I visited often as a child, huge slabs of bacon and all sorts of hams hanging in smoked display from the rafters. It was a house of plenty that never looked empty to me. Pig slaughter was religiously kept from the grandbabies' eyes. I never witnessed the event, thank God. It ripped my heart in two to occasionally witness the catching and killing of a chicken by my docile, lovely, darling Granny. I heard that Teresa Kerry had performed the same vile act, and I must conclude that I am made of lesser stuff, for I could never kill a chicken (or even scale a fish) unless under dire circumstances. Even then...I'm not sure.