Crunching Gravel Read Online Free PDF

German fashion, and my mother disliked organ meats.
    We also ate much fish: in summer, walleyed pike, bass, pickerel, crappies, and sunfish caught on poles made of trimmed tree branches; in winter, pickerel and pike hooked through the ice on special flagged rigs my dad carved out of apple-box wood. And there were suckers and red horse seined during the brief spring spawning season and “cured” in my uncle’s smokehouse.
    Twice a month we made cherry cakes with lard or bacon drippings, cocoa, and icings of powdered sugar mixed with heavy cream and colored with food coloring. Soft, raisin-filled cookies were a favorite. We ground the raisins in a heavy food grinder, the sort you anchor by tightening a large wing nut to the table. Most meals, though, did not include sweets, except for a slice of bread covered with jam or cream and sugar. We sometimes ate fresh strawberries, wild raspberries, lettuce, and fresh vegetables in season. During the winter, greens were entirely unavailable, even in the grocery stores.
    Pancakes were a staple. The sourdough starter was months, possibly years, old, and bubbled away, sitting in its crock (“You Beat Eggs, We Beat Prices”) on the kitchen range.
    Dad was always first out of bed, winter or summer. He started the fire, building it from the quiescent coals of the night’s banked fire. He flipped on the radio to WLS, and sounds of Roy Acuff, LuluBelle and Scottie, and Minnie Pearl wafted through the house as flames roared up the stovepipe.
    Next, he fired the range, set the black fry pan and charred griddle over the heat, and added flour, a couple of fresh eggs, and water to his pancake batter. As bacon fried, he spooned grease onto the griddle and spread the batter. Upstairs, still in bed, I felt the rising warmth. A few inches from my face, frost melted and dripped from the nail ends.
    I dressed quickly. Downstairs I piled griddlecakes on my plate and smeared them with fresh butter, clotted cream, and blueberry jam. Crisp bacon cut the sweetness. I drank fresh milk. Dad had coffee from a granite pot he kept brewing all day. He called the beverage “mud”; it was thicker than espresso. We never scoured the pot.
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The Butchering
1
    Dad told me to hold the knife and the pan.
    I heard the click on wood
    of the bullet inserted, rammed,
    saw a flicker flash
    in a tree beside the trough,
    saw a grain in the sow’s mouth,
    felt my guts slosh.
    â€œStand back,” Dad said.
    Waffled snow track
    pressed by his boots and mine.
    Blood and foam.
    â€œKeep the knife sharp, son,
    and hold the pan.”
    One of us had shuffled,
    tramped a design,
    feet near the jack pine.
    â€œShe’ll bleed slow.
    Catch all the blood you can.”
    A rose unfolded, froze.
    â€œCan’t we wait?” I said.
    â€œIt should turn warmer.”
    Spark, spark buzzing
    in the dark.
    â€œIt’s time,” Dad said, and waited.
2
    Bless all this beauty! preacher
    had exclaimed; all sin and beauty
    in this world, beast and innocent .
    Fistbones gripped the foreshortened
    pulpit rim.
    Thick glasses drove
    his furious pupils in.
3
    Dad brought the rifle to the skull.
    The sow’s nose plunged into the swill,
    the tips of her white tallow ears as well.
    Splunk! Straight through the brain, suet
    and shell. Stunned! Discharge of food,
    bran. Twitch of an ear. Potato, carrot,
    turnip slab. “Quick. The knife, the pan.”
    He sliced the throat.
    The eye closed over.
    Hairy ears stood up, collapsed.
    Her blood soured into gelatin.
    She had begun to shit.
4
    We dragged her
    to the block-and-tackle rig.
    We tied her tendons, raised her,
    sloshed her up and down.
    We shaved her hair,
    spun her around, cut off
    her feet and knuckles,
    hacked off her head,
    slashed her belly
    from asshole down through
    bleached fat throat.
    Jewels spilled out,
    crotches of arteries,
    fluids danced and ran.
    We hoisted her out of dog reach,
    dumped her entrails in the snow,
    left the