Eating on the wild side

Marrying my mom was the best thing that ever happened to my dad. But I’m not sure he really knew that.

Looking at his life as a whole, Dad wouldn't be considered lucky, especially as a child. He had a mostly absent father and had to drop out of school at 14 to help support his family. Then, at 18, he was drafted into the Army at the end of World War II. His first marriage was volatile and ended in a bitter divorce, leaving him raising two boys alone.

At 29, he charmed a 17-year-old high school senior into marrying him (Because she thought she was pregnant). And that's where his luck changed.

I doubt you could find anyone who really knew Ray Carty who would have called him a “hard worker.” There’s a bit of serendipity in the fact that this man, who preferred hunting, fishing, and foraging over any kind of labor, ended up with so many mouths to feed. The lucky guy got to use all those things he loved to put food on the table.

We were poor and typically ate whatever was put on that table: Fried squirrel, rabbit, fish, mushrooms, and sometimes venison. Fortunately for us, gravy could be made from almost any leftover grease in the pan. Mom would add a little flour as a thickener and use half Milnot evaporated milk and half water to simmer into a thick white gravy. We kids would toss our slices of Wonder Bread right into the gravy bowl for a delicious and filling side dish. On special occasions, we had biscuits instead of white bread. But we still tossed them into the bowl.

My cousins couldn’t believe what lucky heathens we were. Our aunt made them spoon gravy over their biscuits or bread like civilized folk. They even had to use a knife to apply butter to their corn on the cob! We just rolled ours in the table butter. There was really no time for manners with so many of us around the table. 

Sometimes we had fried chicken, which I preferred, but if Dad asked, “Do you want a front leg or a back leg?” we knew we were getting squirrel or rabbit, and we’d better watch out for buckshot as we ate. That was another reason I preferred chicken. Until we started raising our own.

Chickens and Pigs

I don’t mean to imply my dad never worked. He had several occupations throughout his life. His Army draft card states he was a light truck driver. He may or may not have worked in the auto industry during his first marriage. (My half-brother Rick was born in Straughn, Indiana, where they had moved, presumably for a job, but the census at the time said Dad had no job.)

When he met my mother, he worked the night shift as a painter at the ammunition plant. On my birth certificate, his occupation is listed as “Fire Truck Driver,” though it was for a volunteer fire department.

Ray Carty was not a career man. He thought a good job was one that you didn’t have to do much to get paid. He couldn’t believe my brother Jeff’s good fortune when his first job in the Air Force was an MP at the base gate. “All he has to do is sit there until someone drives up!” Dad boasted, not realizing Jeff longed for something more challenging.

Dad owned a bait shop in Centenary, but I don’t recall what, if anything, he did to earn money when we moved to Summit Grove when I was five. But whatever he did around the house, you can bet he did with no shirt on.

To feed the ever-growing family, he became a pseudo-farmer. He planted a big garden, and his best friend Richard, an actual farmer, gave Dad some piglets and chicks.

At the start of the pseudo-farming venture, we used an existing outbuilding in the back of our yard to house our livestock. Separate outside fences were constructed. Low entry holes were cut for the pigs to have access to shelter on the back side of the building. Inside, fences were constructed to keep the pigs and chickens separated. In the back of the building, a makeshift coop was set up for the chickens to roost and lay their eggs. Dad used whatever lumber could be found. It was makeshift, but it served its purpose.

Raising animals is not free. So how does a poor family feed their livestock? Pigs and chickens eat almost anything. So, like our dogs, we fed them table scraps. We bought some feed for our livestock at the grain and feed store in Clinton. We also pilfered some of the feed.

Carrying burlap bags, we would walk through cornfields after the farmers had harvested, searching for the ears the combine harvester had missed. Each of us would take a row and walk along, picking up ears or partial ears. I’m sure Dad didn’t ask permission from the farmers, but they weren’t going to come back to get those missed ears, so “finders keepers.”  This was a recurring mantra in Ray Carty’s life.

When one of us found several ears together in one area, Dad would yell, “It’s a bonanza!” So many life lessons! Who knew that bonanza was more than just a TV show?

Raising chickens was short-lived, but I remember helping Dad build a separate pen for the pigs, so we must have raised them for more than a few years. My brother Jeff remembers going with Dad to trade pork for beef.   

I never really understood why male pigs are castrated, but I remember it was a thing that Dad and my half-brothers did, and we younger kids watched in horror. Rickey and Danny had no problem cutting the balls off those piglets. It was right up their alley. Think of every mean, demented kid you’ve seen in the movies: Sid from Toy Story, Biff from Back to the Future. Those characters in my story of my childhood were played by my half-brothers.  

Thanks to the internet, I have learned that castrating the pigs makes the meat better. And we raised pigs for the meat. Sorry, little dudes.

We raised the chickens for their eggs but also to fry up in a pan and make gravy. Killing and cleaning the chickens was another task my half-brothers gladly took on. Also, right up their alley.

Holding the chicken upside down by its feet, Dad and my half-brothers would place their foot heavily on the poor thing’s neck and yank up on its feet with a quick jerk. They then tossed the headless chicken aside until it stopped flopping around.

If you’ve heard the expression “running around like a chicken with its head off,” it's because when a chicken's head is removed, reflex nerve impulses and what’s left of the spinal cord can make its body flap, flutter, jump, or even run around erratically for a short time. Let me tell you, that is not something you should witness as a child and then later be served that chicken.

Next, they plucked the feathers, gutted them, and the chickens would be cut into the pieces we all know and love… legs, thighs, wings, breasts, and the ever-coveted wishbone. If I got the wishbone, I would wish I had never witnessed the slaughter of the chickens.

Lynn later said she could not eat “a chicken she knew.”  The rest of us could, though. To us it was better than eating a squirrel or rabbit that had been gunned down in the woods. If for no other reason than chicken tastes, well, like chicken. And rabbit and squirrel taste gamey, plus the aforementioned risk of cracking a tooth on buckshot.

But honestly, when you’re in the income bracket our family was in, food on the table was not always plentiful. We couldn’t be too picky, and even so, we were all extremely skinny.

Most of my friends were middle class. We were lower class, or at best lower middle. Our family qualified for financial assistance, but I don’t think we ever received food stamps. We received free lunch at school, government cheese when it was distributed, and when it came time for college, the Pell/BEOG Grants for lower-income students. I could not have gone to college without it.

Our mom had started working at Columbia Records after we moved to Summit Grove. Dad was elected County Assessor in 1966, but since Mom had to take unpaid maternity leave when Jeff was born in 1967 and again in 1969 when Karen was born, I believe the chicken-and-pig era was necessary.

Dad lost his re-election bid in 1970, but Mom was finished having babies, so the pig-and-chicken era was over. With Mom working full-time, we could afford to buy chickens Lynn had never met.