Another time, another vital way of life for mountain folk. Green gold. You were allotted how much tobacco you could raise according to the size of your farm. Some raised as little as two-tenths of an acre. For someone to have over an acre was unusual in those days. This crop would buy clothes, shoes, seeds and fertilizer, Christmas, and the necessities that they couldn’t raise. Baccer money was almost a must-have to lots of folk.
What they did was buy seed, prepare beds, sow the seed, and cover the beds with white canvas. Gas the beds, and when the plants were large enough and the signs were right, plants were pulled and set. The ground would be plowed and disked and ready with straight rows. Most mountaineers had to have straight rows. They made for a pretty field and also easier to plow with the mule or horse. Back in the day of baccer, men used a setter. You dropped one plant at a time into the setter, and there was maybe three gallons of water in one side of the setter. They stuck the setter into the ground and squeezed the handle and set the plant and watered it at the same time. You needed a strong grip and a stout arm to run a setter for an entire patch.
One day when I was about seven years old, I got sent home with the pink eyes. I saw Hollis Robertson setting tobacco and I figured he needed help. So, I put my books in a chair and took off across the fields to help him, about a quarter-mile. Well, I carried water for Hollis and time eased on. Hollis said, “Uh-oh, son.” I looked and Mom was striding toward me. Now, there is a difference in walking normal and striding. I was in trouble ‘cause she saw my books and I wasn’t there. So I cut her a nice switch. I guess Hollis was able to finish without me.
My friend Jock had a couple tenths, and he got sick and I handed and tied part of it for him. It was cold and some wind blowing snow outside the little shack I was in. I remember it distinctly because Jim Reeves’ song, “He’ll Have To Go,” was playing on the radio. I had fell in and out of love over a thousand times by then, so I related to the song.
Anyway, as the tobacco grew, it tousled and suckers came out on the stalks. So, if it was mature, you topped it and cut the suckers out. Usually, you had to sucker it more than once. When the tobacco ripened, they drove tobacco sticks into the ground, set a spud on top of the stick, and cut the stalk off near the ground and jammed it down over the spud and down the stick. Five or six stalks was pretty normal. Let it set in the field for a day or two and then pick it up on a sled or truck and haul it to the barn. Boys and men would climb up into the barn and spread their legs from tier pole to tier pole, and the tobacco was passed up to the top and the tiers were filled up. Waspers and bumblebees were to be avoided, if possible. The tobacco was cured, and at the right time when it came in “case,” having enough moisture to work easily without crumbling, then the process was reversed and the sticks were taken down. The tobacco was taken off the sticks, and the leaves were graded into usually four cases. Lugs on the bottom, reds next, bright red next, and the tips. They were graded onto a board divided into four sections. Then, someone begins tying the leaves into hands. Put as many leaves as you could hold in your hand and make the leaves even, then you take a nice leaf and fold it and tie the hand, go around and around and bring the end down and up through the middle. Then, the hands are put in four-foot baskets and ready for market.
This is a simple and not very complete piece on tobacco. One thing it does not do is let the reader smell the musty smell of a tobacco barn. It does not let you feel the “family” time that was a part of working the tobacco. There could be five or six in the barn and the only sound was the whisper of the leaves as they were stripped and graded. No subject was off-limits, and there was always many things discussed. Mountaineer humor was always in play. Ma would leave the barn in time to fix dinner, and as soon as she put stuff away, back to the barn she would go.
Most children did not go to school when it was time to work the tobacco. Most boys didn’t care either. One thing they all cared about was the cash money the tobacco companies paid. Year after year, depending on the weather, praying for a good season, no hail or high winds. The old-timers took great pride in their tobacco patches. They plowed and hoed the patches until the baccer got up high enough. Just like white lightning, tobacco was a critical commodity up until even the 1960s.
Then, the way of life in the hills began to fade into the fogs of time. Men and women began to go to work. Big companies began to grow and raise their own tobacco. Then they finally realized the tar and nicotine could kill you, so the local demand slumped. I know some of you all either helped raise or work the old-style Burley tobacco. I wish I could go into an old barn and get the walls to talk to me. Can you imagine what you could hear…the laughter, the silence, and throw in the musty smells… A piece of our past is gone. The barn sits empty with stories to tell. A product of the mountain man’s dream, made from wood, love, sweat, and dreams. A little piece of land, some shelter, a few animals, a good barn, and a baccer allotment. Oh my, I loves the old ways, I surely does. Tobacco, ginseng, and moonshine – all had vital roles in mountain livelihood.