Annually, Pa would buy a hog from a farmer to turn into sausages, hams and loins. Store-bought was inferior and expensive. He smoked them German style to perfection, in a brick smokehouse that he constructed in our cellar. For many years it was his pride and joy until he unthinkingly agreed to smoke fish for a neighbor. The next batch of hams had a fishy flavor. That was it. With great curses and a sledgehammer, our now unusable smokehouse was demolished. The corner butcher was glad for our resumed purchases.
We bottled homemade beer, that Ma made in washtubs from a kit. Pa made a winter's supply of wine and hard cider, in large barrels. He coaxed booze from a still. Home distillation was illegal, so basement windows were covered to avoid scrutiny. But that fooled no one. The neighbors winked at each other when the windows were darkened. That was a dead giveaway. Besides, you could smell alcohol fumes blocks away. It was so evident we feared he would be reported and go to jail. But our food and drink was a resource no one wanted eliminated.
When the window coverings were taken down we got friendly callers who knew the signs. Hearty sausages appeared. Cold hard cider or beer slaked summer thirst. Then came wine and brain-rattling Schnapps. Ethnics tearfully sang about the old country, about Galway Bay and elsewhere. I played the accordian, the ethnic’s illusion of future glory.
One night, neighbor Harvey’s Irish thirst and blarney eased out one too many corks. Old Harv's income did not support his love of drink, and Pa was his backup. He was all leprauchan, telling fine tales while Pa poured. Later, he energetically puked in our bathroom and lurched home, singing. Through the window we heard his wife screaming “Ya drunken bum...”, followed by wild argument. It was then we knew he had gotten up his steps and was safely home.
Next morning Harv showed up with a buster headache. Sheepish and pale, he asked whether we had seen his "foss teef". Pa got the wrench and retrieved them from the toilet pipe. After a quick rinse Harv popped them back in, and with restored jaw said, “ Oi, I could be usin' some hair of the dog.”
The idiom was unfamiliar, but Pa thought 120 proof would kill any germs, and got the bottle.
