Pig knuckles and chicken feathers. These were my mother’s favorite scary stories when my brothers and I were growing up.
“When I was a little girl I had to pluck the chickens,” she told us of her days spent visiting her grandmother Mamie on her farm in Arlington, South Dakota. She went on to provide vivid details about their butcher and how even after the chickens’ heads had been chopped off they’d still run around the yard.
“And the smell,” she continued, pausing for emphasis as she described how Mamie would soak the chickens’ lifeless bodies in the sink so it was easier to remove the feathers. “It filled the entire kitchen. But it was nothing compared to the time I had to eat…(dun, Dun, DUN!)…pig knuckles!”