At the same time, beneath the shed, the women would be busy, with knives, with grinders, with spoons and forks; the greasy tables littered with salts and peppers and spices, hunks of meat, bloody and in pans to be made into sausages, pans of cooked liver to be made into liver pudding. Remember the odor of cooking meats and spices, so thick, so heady? Remember the women talking? Their jabber is constant and unchecked, rising and falling, recollection and gossip, observation and complaint, in and out, out and in, round and round, the rhythm, the chant, a chaotic symphony.

I need not tell you of the hog pen? It will be a fenced-off place with a shelter jutting off from the barn. The hogs will all be closed off in their stalls. And the men will stand around the fence, talking, gossiping, bragging, complaining in the crisp air, their breath rising, converging in a cloud about their heads, and vanishing.

Some older man will give a young boy a gun, perhaps, and instruct him not to be afraid, to take his time, to aim straight. The men will all look at one another and the boy with a sense of mutual pride, as the man goes over to the gate and with some effort moves the three slats that close off the hogpen. Then with a beanpole he beats all the hogs back except for the largest, and he will proceed to corral it into the outside area, saying: Gee there, Hog! Whoa! Get, now, get! The hog, a rusty, rough-hided, brown hog, shambles out into the yard and trips over a plank, letting out an all-too-human, fat sigh as its belly hits the ground. The man pops it on the behind with the beanpole and it clambers quickly to its feet with a grunt, a snort, a squeal. It circles the fence, eyeing the standing men with something less than suspicion.