I came upon an all too familiar sight a couple of weeks back. Sitting outside one of the few remaining tobacco warehouses in Tennessee were five farm wagons loaded down with tobacco stalks. Memories flooded my mind so fast I could hardly keep up. First, I felt the wintery wind in a drafty old tobacco barn. Then, I saw the ghosty figures of men and women standing before makeshift stripping tables committed to the task before them. I smelled the enticing aroma of a tobacco barn, the golden burley curing as it should. I pictured my father on his knees atop a “book” of tobacco as he carefully placed each stick of hands to be “pressed.” I remembered “throwing down” tobacco in the middle of the night when warm rains rescued us by bringing dry leaves “in order.” And I remembered Novembers of years.
Two events, along with Thanksgiving Day, highlighted the Novembers of my boyhood days. One was the day my father “hauled his tobacco off.” It was a banner day. In many ways, a year’s work was tied up in a single load of tobacco. I remember best a sixteen-foot farm wagon loaded high with precision. Corners of the load were square, the “ties” of tobacco hands lined up in perfect symmetry. My mother used to say my father made a load of tobacco look like “a cracker box.” And well he did. But I remember best the pride in my father’s eyes as he prepared to leave the farm with his best on board.
Secondly, I remember the day our tobacco crop “sold.” Each year, my mother would announce at the breakfast table, “your father’s tobacco sells today.” On that day her voice had a different tone, letting us know it was “his” day. We knew he would be coming home with the cash. It never failed. At days end, he would gather us together as a family. Then, he would pass out the envelopes. The contents matched each child’s age and contribution to that year’s crop. I remember my first $50 bill. My last envelope contained three $100’s - in all my life the best payday I ever received – certainly the most memorable.
But I digress. Back to the tobacco stalks. As I visited all those tobacco crops of the past down the halls of my memory, I waxed poetic. So, I leave you with that which follows.
Ode to a Tobacco Stalk
Oh, noble branch, both strong, but soft
which took your broad, green leaves aloft.
In summer’s heat your work was done
drawing life from soil and sun.
In harvest time and prime of life,
you felt the sting of a tobacco knife.
Then, to endure the steel spike’s prick,
and end up on a tobacco stick.
Among tier poles hung upside down,
‘til wilting leaves turned golden brown.
In weathered hands your butt was gripped,
your graded leaves with care then stripped.
When Father’s patience fully tried
I felt your weight on my back side.
Your last leaf gone, you’re cast away
but useful again another day.
When then and there you found more worth
when scattered about to feed the earth.
I pay respect to work past wrought
And thank you for life’s lessons taught.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Copyright 2024 by Jack McCall
