I'm very busy raising an eight year old grandson who has cerebral palsy and is blind in one eye.
I'm editing several novels and have completed two illustrated poetry books. Currently I'm looking for interested publishers.
Would love to keep in touch with everyone who enjoys my poetry but there is never enough time. If you'd like updates on what's going on, you'll find it here.
Newsletter Dated: 3/18/2003 1:36:42 PM
Subject: Sandy's Chatterbox
Al's youngest daughter, Lisa, and her four children will be arriving at our house tomorrow and staying for several days. It is unlikely that I'll be able to spend much time on the computer during their visit. As today is newsletter (Tuesday) day, I'll leave you with something else to ponder:
by Sandra Corona
(another slice of life story)
yes, it really happened
My in-laws in Kentucky had chickens, turkeys and pigs though they did NOT live on a farm. Animals, like their garden, were a major source of food when times were hard. They lived deep in the mountains and many of their neighbors also had livestock.
While we were visiting one crisp October they decided to slaughter a pig because they had room in the smoke-house. My children, Doug (then 6) and Sherry (then 4) were awakened by the commotion outside, ran to the window and then jumped into bed with me in a state of pure terror. I am deaf so was surprised by their actions as I heard nothing. In my arms they trembled though their screams snaked up my spine.
Curious as to the source of such mayhem, I went to the window (a child clinging to each leg begging me NOT to). A hog, rear legs roped together hung high on the clothesline pole . . . its’ throat slashed from ear to ear. It--and the ground beneath the animal--were drenched in blood, but what obviously horrified the children were the men. Everyone one of them--their father included--were not only drenched in pig’s blood, they were passing around a brown crusted cup and drinking it! Fresh and dried blood were on each of their lips as if it were a fine wine.
Gasping, I backed away from the monstrous apparition. My eyes were truly not seeing such depraved behavior out of those whom we loved. I rubbed my eyes is disbelief and looked again. The scene of mayhem was still there.
Thankfully the children had remained glued to my legs and not looked outside a second time. As I turned, repulsed, from the window I urged the children to stand up. Grasping their still trembling hands we quietly but quickly scurried into the kitchen seeking a reason for this nightmarish scene.
My mother-in-law, seeing my ashen face, laughed softly. “I told them you’d be frightened being a city girl and all.”
“What is going on?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“It’s slaughter-time, honey!”
“B. . but?”
“It’s a bloody mess, isn’t it?”
I saw a trickle of blood on the corner of her lip. Surely she hadn’t . . .? “It’s gross!” I sat and drew the children in my lap suddenly afraid of everyone. “Why?”
“We’re celebrating the gift from the pig and waste not one morsel!”
“Why drink it?”
My parents were both from Kentucky and, though we’d never had animals about, I’d never heard of this practice before.
“Have you no religion, honey? Partake of the meat and drink of the blood is in the Bible. It shows reverence and appreciation for the life we took so we might live.” She calmly wiped her hands on her apron content in her perception of Holy Scripture. It was like the rattlesnakes they brought in for the church’s handling or the arsenic they drank during special ceremonies--foreign to me and against all I’d been taught.
I retreated with the children to the bedroom we shared and read to them while the men washed up. Somehow things were never quite the same between any of us.
Needless to say, we never went down in October again.
Regardless of our race, religion or creed, the line between humanity and bestiality is so fine that we’re often blind to it . . . unless we’re on the other side of the pane.