Dad thought that it was time I learned to kill a hog. He figured we needed to learn these things if we were going to be farmers.
I had watched Dad kill a hog many times. One carefully placed bullet between the eyes and into the brain and it seemed as tho' some gigantic force jerked the hog's legs out from under it. There was never a whimper or struggle. The hog died instantly. Dad had learned his craft well. The hog should not have to suffer at the hands of an amateur.
Dad handed me the .22 rifle. I stood about 10 feet away from the hog while he stared directly at me. Hogs would do that. I raised the rifle and aimed it at his forehead. He stood there motionless not knowing, of course, that tomorrow morning we would be having his innards for breakfast.
My hands were sweaty. The rifle seemed to move all over the place. I squeezed the trigger. The rifle fired and the hog went down. But, it was not like the ones that Dad had shot. This one struggled and tried to get back up. I had not done well!
Dad ran over, straddled the hog and grabbed it by the ears and yelled at me to shoot again. I got the rifle barrel up real close this time, probably four or five inches from its head. Just as I readied to fire, the hog jerked it's head and Dad's hand came loose from the hog's right ear and his hand fell over the hog's forehead, and that just happened to be the same place I was aiming to shoot. I closed my eyes and fired. When I opened my eyes the bullet had gone between Dad's fingers. A half inch in any direction and I would have shot him in the hand!
I think it was there at that very moment that I decided I did not want to be a farmer. I have thought of that time many, many times and how close I came to shooting Dad's hand. I have thanked God many times that I didn't!
We kids often went to one of the two big ponds on the farm in the evening after dark to go frog gigging. We had this long narrow plank with 6-8 nails driven through the end of it so that the nails came out on the other side and that was what we killed the frogs with. We would slowly circle the pond with our brightest flashlight in our hand.
When we spotted a frog we would blind it with the flashlight while someone slipped up with the board with the nails. We'd slap down on that old frog with the board and nails to kill it and then pull it out and add it to our bucket.
It all seems a little cruel now, but the frog legs were great. We ate them for breakfast, sort of like you would eat sausage or bacon for breakfast. After a good evening of frog gigging we would return to the house and Mom would help us cut off the legs, skin them, put a little salt and pepper on them and put them in the icebox for the night. The next morning, she would fry them and make some gravy and biscuits and the only thing left on the table would be just a few skinny frog leg bones! Man, it was good eatin'!
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