There would be no actual killing on the farm this day -- the guest of honor is already dead. Nonetheless, winter means hog-killin' time, and memories would be kindled and sausage would be made.

Gathered among old farm buildings at the Tobacco Farm Life Museum, old mouths water and young noses wrinkle at the hog, dressed out (meaning: minus hair and innards) in all of its "fresh from the slaughterhouse" glory.

The tradition of the winter hog-killin' was a celebration on the family farm. In the days before refrigeration, the all-day event signaled the rare occasion of fresh meat on the farm, usually for Thanksgiving or Christmas meals, hams cured and a bucket of lard for months of cooking. In those days in the country, if you didn't raise it on your farm, you probably didn't need it.

Today, only a few scattered farm families still do hog-killin's. It's a chance for generations of friends and family to gather, sharing work and stories ... and for the freshest pork around.

On a January Saturday, a cold wind and a few flakes of snow remind the crowd that it truly is winter. Young and old, especially the old, press close -- but not too close, mind you. You can never be so sure of what might fly off a knife.

A knot of men, wise in the ways of side meat and the knife, quickly quarter the hog, using knives, a saw and a hatchet, pausing only to run their blades across a sharpening steel. Members of the crowd relate stories of scraping the hair off a dead hog using the edge of a jar lid, and how "Mama made her sausage."

Questions, answers and pieces of meat fly through the air, as prime cuts like hams, loins and ribs are set aside. Large pieces of meat make a slapping sound as they hit the table. Smaller pieces and scraps wind up in a large bowl, where they are dusted with a blend of spices, bound for a future as sausage.

Sid Edwards starts cubing pieces of fat, the cold finally creeping into his bare fingers as his knife flies through his work.

The snow-white pieces of fat are bound for a large cast-iron pot Shelton Hinnant has waiting by a small fire.

Men and children swap off turning the stiff crank on the grinder as the meat, with a lot of work, becomes pork sausage. Hinnant stirs the fat in the big pot, loving the heat of the fire, but never able to get out of the swirling smoke. An older woman, granddaughter in tow, yells out, "Smoke follows beauty!"

As the event winds down, people in the crowd push closer to the table, clamoring to buy a bag of the finished sausage, along with the rest of the hog. Most of it won't last more than a day, bound for a frying pan, maybe with some scrambled eggs and biscuits, to be savored along with the distant memories of hog killin' day on the farm.