Grandpa ran the fire. Keep the pot boiling and strip 'em off.
Me and kid sis ran the hooks as dad pushed 'em to us.
They ran to us cuz we fed 'em... and from him cuz they're smarter than they look.
We'd drag 'em over to granny by the stump with 2 ten penny nails driven in to poke their head between then pull and chop.
Granny was old and scrawny and that hatchet heavy.
Sometimes she'd hafta chop two or three times to get 'er done.
After grandpa dunked and stripped 'em, it was over to the picnic table where two old aunts waited with butcher knives and buckets.
A regular assembly line production operation..
The old aunties could part 'em out faster'n a mexican auto chop shop.
And they'd save and sort various sizes yet to be shelled eggs, too.
Big ones are good eatin.
Little ones are excellent catfish bait.
And the guts go to trap lined down on the river.
These elders mine, spoke more German than they did English..
