My kinfolks in East Tennessee made molasses almost every year. One of my uncles or cousins would raise the cane. Come fall when the cane was ready they would set a day to make them. My Uncle Bud Chandley, Aunt Mary, Cousins Boyd and his wife Rena and Jerry, Johnny and Jean. Jeans’ husband Ronald (Ronny) usually grew the cane or Boyd did. They had a belt rigged to a tractor to turn the “juicer.” They would feed the cane into the grinder and the juice would run out into a bucket. When all the cane was juiced, they poured the juice into a metal pan. Underneath the pan was where the fire was kept going. As the juice began to cook, strippens or leavings came to the top and had to be skimmed off. Now at this point is when I loved to listen to them talking about when to take the molasses off the fire. Each one of them had an idea. It was discussed at length and I noticed Uncle Bud usually made the final call. After Bud passed on, Boyd generally won the toss. And they didn’t hesitate to say if they were too strong or too weak. Either way, it was a full day of family time that everyone enjoyed. Maybe a bit more so for those that didn’t have to cut the cane and strip it. I loved being with these
great hardworking, kind, generous folks, they are family…
I remember them sowing their tobacco beds. They got the ground ready, gassed it and sowed the seed, and covered them. When the plants were ready along with the weather they set them out. Throughout the latter part of growing, the tobacco had to be suckered. Before insecticide, the worms were handpicked and killed. Then the tobacco had to be suckered (the top with the flowers and seed). When the tobacco was ready for harvest, 4 feet tobacco sticks were laid down in the rows and then the cutting began. The entire stalk was cut and pushed down the stick through a ‘spud’ on top of the stick. Maybe as few as four stalks and as many as six depending on the size of the crop. The tobacco was left in the field for a couple of days to wilt down some. Then by wagon or sled it was taken to the barn where boys and men climbed the tiers and passed the tobacco to the top tiers first and then on down till the whole crop was in the barn. When it came in ‘case,’ ready to work, they took it down and off the stick and began grading the leaves according to color mostly. Lugs in one bay, dark reds in the next bay, bright reds in next bay, then the tips. It was then tied into ‘hands’ and placed on a baccer basket and taken to the warehouse for sale. Auctioneers walked and buyers walked with them and it was sold. But there is so much more to it than this. It was cash money near Christmas time. It was families getting together in barns to work it. Stories were told and retold every year.
Sometimes the only sound was the rustle of the leaves and the musty smell. Ma would leave early and fix lunch (dinner) and that sweet tea was so good. A few minutes on the front porch and back to the barn. I didn’t have to raise it but one year my friend Jack had a crop. He was sick and I worked it for him. Jim Reeves was on the radio singing “He’ll Have To Go.” And in the shed I was grading it in was bitter cold. It’s still a good memory. Many of our Appalachian folks depended on tobacco for Christmas, seed and fertilizer for the coming year, clothes for the kids and shoes for school and Church. My time was not that far back, and my cousin Boyd quit growing it eventually. He had a dairy and that was more work than most men want to do, much less raise tobacco. But make no mistake, it was a vital part of our history. Back then almost everyone smoked or chewed or dipped. Including the Preacher. So us boys tried it and smoked anything that would light – from brown cornsilk, to grapevine, to oak leaves. A pack of Stratfords cost 15 cents. We would pool our pennies and puff away. A lot of the switches I cut were for smoking. Mama could smell me across the room or coming up the road seems like. I think I smoked my last one around 50 years ago. Like the fifth I poured down the sink, I threw them in the trash one day and that was the end. I relate to George Bushes’ statement in his book. Three things changed my life completely. The best three things I ever did. I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. I poured the whiskey down the sink, and I surrounded myself with good people – like you. Whenever I go into these old barns that I love, I sometimes think I can catch that musky smell of tobacco and hear the laughter of family and friends, helping each other along the journey.
My daddy built a one-room log house and hand dug a well. I don’t know how or how deep. All I had to do was ask, but I didn’t. My sister Laura and two brothers lived there for a while, till Dad got a job and they moved to South Hominy. It was the best time for me. I fell in love with every girl there at one time or another. I could write, ‘will you be my girlfriend’ every day. I went into the Air Force at 17, the day after graduating from High School. Mama signed for me and she cried when I got on the bus heading to Charlotte for a physical. I loved that time and saw much of the world. But everyone drank and I had never drank a beer. But when I was discharged 4 years later, I had a taste for booze. Things weren’t so good until I awoke with the fifth beside the bed and He spoke to me. Son, there is more to life than this. I looked around and no one was there. I got up and picked the fifth up and looked at it, full of lies and trouble and abuse, and then went to the sink and poured it out. I was crying and didn’t know why. But that was the beginning of a new, better life. Then, in a few months, I went to a sunrise service and met the Master. I am a Christian and an Appalachian American with a love for our country and a love for our rich History. Make no mistake, our people had tremendous influence in making America. I have said this so many times and you have heard me say it probably. But their way of life centered around Work, Worship, and a Willingness to help others. I wish we could get back to those principles. I love each one of you and thank you from my heart for the kind words and comments. Until next time, keep the mule in the row and your eyes on the Eastern Sky. There is more to life than this…