PINNICK KINNICK HILL: AN AMERICAN STORY

Chapter Four

PINNICK KINNICK HILL 25 tree where it would be slaughtered. Father would get the sledgehammer from the wagon, several knives and some pans. He would face the animal, raise the sledgehammer slowly and, before the animal knew what he was up to, deliver a fast, hard blow between the eyes, knocking it unconscious. As soon as the animal fell to the ground, he severed its jugular vein and held a large pan to catch the blood pouring from it. Sometimes Giuseppi, the local Italian baker, would be there to fill a cup with the warm blood and drink it. He would flex his muscles and say that this was what made him strong. Then he would smack his lips and bid us good day. Father and the two older boys would set to work raising the steer or cow on a strong rope from the limb of the tree and begin to skin the hide off the animal. Once the hide was removed, Father would dress it, saw it in half, then quarter it before hauling it to his meat market. Almost every bit of the animal was used in one way or another—the heart, the liver, the tongue. The stomach was emptied in the field, and after the lining was removed, it was sold to the Spanish women to make one of their most popular dishes, callos. The tripe would be cut into small cubes after being boiled for a number of hours in salt water. Then it would be cooked along with pigs’ feet, cubed pieces of ham, tomatoes, bay leaves and other condiments to make a meal so delicious one would go for seconds at every serving. The cleaned intestines would be sold for stuffing with ground and seasoned pork or for the much relished chorizo or longaniza Spanish sausage. The blood was used to make morcilla or blood sausage. Chapter Four T hree eventful things happened in rapid succession in the summer of 1909. In July, the Monongahela Power Company inaugurated the trolley service from Clarkston to Belleport by way of Coe’s Run. In August, I came into the world. And in September, the Crossetti Chemical Company had its first walkout. The Spanish furnace workers—all except the Tizadores, about a dozen of their supporters and men working in other departments—quit work in protest of conditions. The men demanded allowances for gloves, socks, pants, shirts and shoes. These items had to be replaced regularly, and the men could not afford to buy them every few days. (The shoes would last a little longer than a few days, but they were the most expensive, as they had to be reinforced for safety purposes by the local shoemaker.) After several days of the walkout, a knock came on our door one evening. Mother answered, and there stood a large, tall, heavyset man. His face was flushed, for he had walked up the steep hill to our house. He was puffing as he asked if father was home. PINNICK KINNICK HILL 26 Father greeted the man by saying, “Bienvenido, Señor Ahrens. Esta es su casa.” “Buenas noches, John. I have come up the mountain to ask of you a favor.” Otto Ahrens had been born in Hamburg, Germany, and was the plant’s superintendent. He had been sent here from the company headquarters in New Jersey. He knew my father because he was one of his best beer customers. “I vill come to the point,” Ahrens said in his accented English. “I vood like you to find out vat it is your countrymen vant from me. Dey all valk out and I don’ understand all dey vant.” My father replied, “What they want, I already know. They cannot afford to be spending the greater part of their checks on shoes and work clothing. It’s that simple.” “Vy they don’ tell me? Ve can settle this matter vithout work stopage. Vill you try to help me get the men back to vork?” “I will be glad to do my best. Let me get you some beer.” But he didn’t have to get the beer, for mother was already coming upstairs from the basement with a full bucket of it. My father and the superintendent talked on and drank beer for the rest of the evening. They shook hands as the man got up to leave. He said, “You are a fair man, John. You have helped a lot of people. Please see that if...