Setting Tobacco

In days long past, by this time in the month of May (or maybe a week earlier), my late father would have already gathered up every bushel basket, every wash tub, every orange crate, and as many cardboard boxes he could get his hands on in preparation for “settin” tobacco.

Let me pause for a moment to clarify the use of the word “set” as applied in settin’ tobacco. There is no past, present, or future tense distinction in using the word “set.” Simply put it, works this way. “We set tobacco yesterday.” “We are settin’ tobacco today.” “We will set tobacco tomorrow.” No one ever “sat” tobacco, although some of the old timers use to say, “We ‘sot’ out some tobacco yesterday.” Those who became more educated and/or sophisticated in later years would use the word “transplanting” in referring to settin’ tobacco, but what did they know?

The various containers gathered by my father would be used to transfer tobacco plants from the plant beds to the waiting tobacco patches. Unfortunately, the cardboard boxes only made it through one use, especially if the plants had to be “wet down.”

And by now, my father would have checked out and greased the tobacco setter (Ours was a New Idea, drag-type setter.) On day one of settin’ it was always in perfect working order. And the 2-hp pump used to transfer water from creek or farm pond to the setter tank? Tuned up and ready to go. In all the years I helped in the tobacco settin’ we experienced precious little down time. Frank McCall was a master at preparation in the work he loved.

With the coming of May the rye grass cover crop had long since been turned under and the tobacco ground disked to my father’s satisfaction. On the afternoon or the morning before we began settin’, he disked the ground one more time turning the earth into brown powder.

In the days leading up to tobacco settin’ time, the canvas had been removed to allow the tobacco plants to toughen under direct sunlight. In the earliest days I remember, if the plants were growing too tall, we “wrenched” off the tops of the leaves by hand before planting. It was a painfully slow process. In later years, we  tied a push mower (lawn mower) to two long poles and carefully walked along the sides of the plant beds lowering the tops of the plants. In more modern times tobacco growers used weed eaters to trim the plants. In my boyhood days the only weed eaters we had were two old goats that kept the graveyard clean.

Speaking of plant beds, I came across a mass of “yellow vine” in a pasture last summer. There it was, right out in the middle of the field. I hadn’t seen yellow vine since my tobacco settin’ days. Yellow vine (Some folks called it “love vine”) is hard to describe. A parasite, it showed up almost every year somewhere in our plant beds. Bright yellow in color, looking like fishing line or dental floss, it grew in a tangled mess. (I you ever experienced a backlash with a spinning reel you would have some idea of how hopelessly tangled it grew.) It could be traced back to where it was attached to the spongy stem of a tobacco plant. Its point of attachment left a tiny ridge on the plant which could be removed easily with the blade of a pocket knife or a long fingernail. I don’t ever remember a tobacco plant being sacrificed to love vine. And I don’t remember a piece of love vine making it to one of our tobacco patches.

So many memories - the dank smell of the water in that tobacco setter water tank – the rhythmic click of the setter as it released a shot of water for each plant- the feeling in the tips of the fingers of my right hand as I “searched” for the next plant to be passed to my left hand for planting – the satisfaction that only comes from a job well done at day’s end. All these recollections and a thousand more make up the fabric of who I am. I, like so many other farm boys and girls, grew up in a “golden age.”

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Grass String

It goes by many names - hay baler twine, baler twine, grass string. Any farm boy (or girl) knows its “feel” with their eyes closed, and is familiar with its many uses on a farm.

I grew up calling it grass string. As I was considering writing about it in this column, I wondered if the term “grass string” had a common usage or if that is just what we called it on our farm.           

I asked my friend Jim Coley, a veteran feeder of hay, if he used the phrase “grass sting” when he was growing up. Jim explained to me that until it came out of the hay baler, and while it was still on the hay bale, it was called baler twine. But as soon as it was cut and removed from the hay bale it became a grass string.                           

That made perfect sense to me because, in fact, that’s the way it was on our farm. Now that I have that issue straightened out, I can proceed to consider both baler twine and grass string.              

Speaking with Jim also reminded me of how his late Uncle Clyde insisted the baler twine be cut at the knot when bales were being “busted” and fed to their fine Horned Hereford cattle back in the day.       

My first experience with baler twine took place in the hay fields of Smith County. I’m not sure how old I was, but I was big enough to roll a bale of hay up on a wagon. Taunt baler twine has a unique feel about it. Handling hundreds of bales of hay over many days makes for strong hands and fingers. If the hay was baled heavy and tight the twine seemed to cut into your fingers like baling wire.       

Speaking of baling wire, my father used to say that you could

fix almost any problem that came up with a model T Ford if you had three things: an air pump, a box of inner tube patches, and a piece of baling wire. That brings me back to grass strings. There are a thousand uses of grass string on a farm, and there were always plenty of grass strings to use when I was a boy.        

I marvel at how many stable doors, crib doors, and gates

have been made secure with a doubled grass string. My father was known to keep one or two grass strings in the hip pocket of his overalls.

You never know when something will need to be tied up.

My grandfather Herod Brim was a master at weaving ropes with grass strings. He called them plaided ropes. He could weave them with three or four grass stings. He had grass string ropes that were 10 and 20 feet long. And they were strong. One of those ropes, tied around the horns of a big Billy goat, would stop him in his tracks. I remember one rope in particular. It had a closed loop in the end which made for a perfect lasso. That lasso played a part in one of my most cherished childhood memories.

In the summertime I would spend weeks at a time with my grandparents, Herod and Lena Brim, in the Brim Hollow. My grandfather had a routine every morning. He would leave the house early and tend to his chores. Then, “up in the morning,” he would come back to the house to see what I was doing.         

I would be lying-in-wait for him with a cleverly designed trap. Just inside the kitchen door, I would spread the open end of the lasso into a large loop on the floor. Then, I would hide under the kitchen table and wait. When he came through the door he stepped right in the middle of the noose. I would pull hard on my end of the rope and tighten the rope around his leg.

He would squall out like he had stepped into a bear trap.

“Whoa, Lena!” he would bellow. “Whoa, Lena! Come here quick.  Something’s got me!”               

I would roll on by back and laugh out loud as I held on to the rope.    

Then he, acting like he had finally come to his senses, would mockingly begin to chastise me. “Why you!” he would scold, “Come here to me and I’ll skin your head.”

 I would always get away without getting my head skinned. And he would always step right in the center of that noose the next time I set the trap.

Sometimes I hear his booming voice echoing in my memory, and I can still feel the end of that grass string rope in my hands.

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Worry

I had the good fortune of traveling to Kearney, NE a few weeks back to speak for the Nebraska Bankers Association’s Annual Agricultural Conference. As I often do, I sat in on several sessions to keep myself in the know as to today’s trends in the agricultural world and beyond. One speaker in particular really captivated and held my attention. His was a “Zoom” presentation.  Sporting a Carhartt work vest and a baseball cap, he sat before the camera in his office and very effectively carried on a one way conversation with his audience. He spoke of many developments in the world, and after giving his take of some situations, he would follow by saying, “And that’s what worries me.”

He shared with the audience that Russia and Ukraine produce 30% of the world’s wheat putting tremendous pressure on the world’s food supply. “And that’s what worries me.”

He further stated that Egypt imports 70% of its wheat from Russia and Ukraine making that country overly dependent on those nations. “And that’s what worries me.”

He stressed the continuing pressure brought about by the “food (corn) or fuel (ethanol)” debate. He speculated it was not going away. “And that’s what worries me.”

He informed the audience that one million research dollars were spent to produce the first pound of artificial meat (not plant based). And now it’s down to $100 per pound. He further speculated that when the cost drops to $10 per pound it will compete with beef and pork. “And that’s what really worries me.”

Of course, he shared much more valuable information. I’ve only written of a few. I came away from his talk thinking, “Wow, he sure gave us a lot to worry about!”

I’ve given much thought to the subject of “worry” over the course of my life. You hear people say all the time, “Well, I just worry!” or “I’m worried sick!” (And it is a psychological fact that one can worry one’s self sick.) Or “I stayed up all night worrying!” And most everyone as heard of a “worry wart.”

I actually think some folks consider it noble (or even saintly) to be worriers. When I was a younger man I use to wake up in the middle of the night on occasion and (to use the words of C.S. Lewis) “all my natural fussings and fightings” would come rushing at me like a bunch of wild animals. And I was inclined to worry. But later on I read these words in the Good Book. “Be not overcome by sudden fear.” I took that as a command. So, I figured God was going to be up all night anyway, so I started turning my concerns over to Him.

The late Dr. Adrian Rodgers, in a sermon once said, “Worry is an insult hurled in the face of God.”

When I was in the 4th grade we studied music under our high school band director. His name was Fowler Stanton. We first learned to play instruments under him on a simple contraption called a flutophone. In some ways it reminded me of primitive clarinet. Constructed of white plastic and accented with red stripes it was no more than 10 inches in length. It offered a wonderful opportunity to learn the simple scale. They called us “Fowler’s Fluters.”

I was never very skilled at playing musical instruments, but I was gifted with an excellent musical “ear.” So, I began to work out country music songs on my flutophone. Every week Mr. Stanton would ask, “What do you have for us this week, Jack?”  I had a few hits and a few misses. One was a really big hit. It became one of our standards. I had heard June Carter sing it before she became a Cash. “It Takes a Worried Man to Sing a Worried Song.”

I determined long ago I would never sing a worried song. Which reminds me of a little poem I once came across.

Worry never paid a bill,

nor cured an ill,

nor climbed a hill.

It never led a horse to water.

nor did a thing you thought it ort ‘er.  

      Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Farm Life was the Best Life

I’m quite sure I had no way of knowing how blessed I was while growing up on a small, Middle Tennessee farm in the 1950’s and 1960’s. Looking back, I can see it now, but I couldn’t see it then.

I think I experienced the good life because back then, life seemed to have some order to it. When you grow up on a farm you become acquainted with the order of the seasons – spring, summer, fall, and winter. They have followed each other, in succession, for over six thousand years. (At least six thousand years of recorded history of which we know. Maybe even before then.) The seasons give life a rhythm. You can come to count on them. Some summers are hotter, some winters are colder, some springs are wetter, some falls seem to come later, but they all follow each other as they should, and they have done so for a long time.

Business motivational speaker, Jim Rohn, in speaking of the seasons, once said, “God is a genius. He placed spring right after winter.”

After you have experienced most winters, spring is a welcome guest.

When the world around you yawns and begins to awaken from winter’s sleep, something stirs within you which is hard to explain. I have lived that.

And on a farm you get to witness, first hand, the miracle of the seed and the soil, and the sun. And you have the privilege of marveling at the birth of calves and colts and piglets and lambs and kids (I write of goats here. =)) And you come face to face with the fact that death is a part of life.

Speaking of order, my father lived an ordered life. His day began promptly with breakfast at 6:30 A.M. It rarely varied. His breakfast consisted of breakfast meat (country ham, sausage, or bacon), scrambled eggs garnished with mayonnaise, (He called it mayo-knees.) and biscuits made from scratch.

And he ate dinner (That’s what we called lunch back in the day.) as close to 12 noon as you could get. He was usually setting at the dinner table by 11:45 with the radio turned on.

At precisely 12 o’clock he was listening to Noontime Neighbors on WSM. The show began with this jingle:

“It’s noontime neighbors.

 Forget your labors.

 Every-body’s hap-py, and feelin’ fine.

 We’re glad to see

Tell us how be you,

And our friends on down the old party line –

Kentucky, Al-a-bama, Tennessee, and Care-ro-line,

Any place along the Mason-Dixon Line.

Then you’re our neighbor, good farmin’ neighbor.

 Good friend-ly neighbor too.

At the end of the song, the announcer would say, “From clear channel 650, WSM, it’s a friendly ‘Hello’ to all our noontime neighbors!”

Then, the larger-than-life voice of John McDonald would come on speaking of all things agriculture. My father’s ear was attuned to the Farm Market report –the price of wheat, soybeans and corn. He was especially interested in what was going on with livestock prices.

Back to the jingle. I heard that jingle five-days-a-week, 52 weeks of the years for 10 years or more. It kind of got stuck in my head.

In my years of growing up on the farm, I worked side-by-side with some great people – “salt of the earth” people – people you could count on. We toiled together. We laughed together. And sometimes, we cried together. And somewhere along the way, growing up with my brothers and sister, it was instilled in me to love my neighbor. That’s what farm life did for me.

And like that jingle that got stuck in my head, what I learned on the farm got stuck in my heart.

I am witness to the reality that “you can take the boy (or girl) out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy (or girl.)

Copyright 2022 by Jack McCall

Day Old Bread

 I’m not sure when I was first introduced to day-old bread.

Sometime in the early- to- mid-1960’s my mother discovered a Kern’s Bread Thrift Shop in Cookeville, Tn. That’s when she began to take an occasional trip to Cookeville to purchase day-old bread. Back in those days, that was considered a rather long trip by motor vehicle. I recall her telling me she took one of her long-time friends Mable Ellenburg along when she made a bread run.

When my older brother Tom enrolled at Tennessee Tech in the fall of 1966 he became the bread-runner.

When my mother purchased day-old bread, she didn’t buy a loaf or two…or three. She bought a car load. She would let down both back seats in our 1961 Chevrolet Parkwood station wagon and fill up the back with bread.

 You can fit seven loaves of bread in a big brown grocery sack. Two rows of three loaves slid in easily. Then, you can pooch the side out and get one more loaf in the sack. One sack…seven loaves. My mother usually spent about ten dollars when she loaded up on day-old bread. At ten cents a loaf, that’s 14 sacks of bread. When I say she filled the back of that station wagon up, I’m not kidding.

 On the right-hand side, and slightly behind our house, stood a building we called the front shop. The shop featured a storage shed on the left side. A heavy, shelf-type ledge, built two feet above the concrete floor, was located at the back of the shed.

 On that ledge sat a monstrous chest-type deep freezer. A wooden, army-green foot locker sat on the floor in front of the freezer and served as a step-up for getting into the freezer. That freezer became home for all that bread.

 I have vivid memories of that station wagon backed up to the front shop as we unloaded the bread. The sacks were walked to the back and each one was lowered into the freezer.

Four growing boys and a little girl can eat a lot of bread.

There were countless times, just before a meal, when my mother would say to one of my brothers or me, “Go out to the shop and get a loaf of bread.” Off the bread-runner would go. I remember as a boy the difficulty I had in getting the freezer lid fully open while standing on that foot locker. I had to stretch and stand on the tips of my toes. If the bread supply was getting low, you had to almost stand on your head as you reached down in the freezer to snare a loaf. It’s a wonder one of us didn’t fall over into the freezer.

Of course, there was no danger of one of us freezing or suffocating if we had fallen in the freezer. Someone would have been sent to look for us when we didn’t come back with the bread.

One of my favorite treats when I was growing up was a slice of fresh, king-thin, Colonial bread. That was the softest bread ever. Day-old bread was no match for fresh Colonial bread.

But we found out very quickly that toasting the bread made all the difference in the world. We ate a ton of toasted bread at our house. I learned that you can get 12 pieces of bread on a cookie sheet if you know what you are doing. Turn the oven on “broil” and you are in business.

And there are certain advantages of working with frozen bread.

It is quite difficult to spread cold butter or margarine on fresh bread. Not so with frozen, day-old bread. It’s hard as a brick.

And here’s something else. By the time it’s toasted, it’s thawed.  

For years at our house we made toasted cheese sandwiches on day-old bread…delicious. Then, in 1964, I went to work as a short-order cook at the G&R Dairy Chef. It was there I learned how to make a grilled cheese sandwich. Bring on the butter and the black iron skillet! Day-old bread never tasted so fresh!

It seems now-a-days that even fresh bread is not as fresh as it used to be.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me.

Seems whenever I put together a sandwich, I prefer my bread to be toasted. Maybe it has just become a personal preference. Or maybe…just maybe, it takes me back to a simpler time when my mother was a magician at making ends meet.

Right or Wrong, Your Attitude Can Determine Success

The famous sales motivational speaker, the late Zig Ziglar, used to say, “It not your aptitude, it’s your attitude that determines your altitude.” I think he was right.

Many years ago, I heard about an exceptional kid who was attending a local high school. He had developed quite a reputation as an outstanding athlete on the football field. I was so intrigued I attended several games just to see him perform. He was phenomenal. This kid reminded me more of the great Auburn University running back, Bo Jackson, than any high school running back I had ever seen. He was big and fast; and those defenders he could not outrun, he ran over. When he carried the ball, he showcased exceptional balance and vision. It was easy to see he had a bright future.

In asking around, I found there was much more to this young man than his success on the gridiron. He was bright, good-looking and carried himself like a winner. In the classroom, he had a reputation for being intelligent and engaging.

Across the Miles
Jack McCall

When I had the opportunity to speak to a high school class he attended, I found him to be as advertised – great smile, personality plus.

Shortly before he graduated from high school I had the opportunity to discuss his future with his high school principal. I spoke of what an impression this young man had made on me. I talked of his athleticism, his shape mind, his engaging personality.

“You know,” I said, “This kid seems to have it all. What a bright future!”

His principal listened very carefully and thoughtfully to what I had to say before he spoke.

“Jack,” he responded. “Everything you have observed about this young man is true. You have described him perfectly… except for one thing.”

Then, as he leaned forward in his chair, he said, almost regretfully, “He’s got a bad attitude.”

That young man went on to receive a football scholarship at a major university. Two months into his college career he was thrown off the team, thrown out of college and thrown in jail. All that potential wasted, because of a bad attitude.

Here’s a great quote from Charles Swindall.

“The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, than education, than money, than circumstances, than failures, than successes, than what other people think or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness, or skill. It will make or break a company…a church… a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past…we cannot the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10 percent what happens to me and 90 percent how I react to it. And so it is with you…we are in charge of our attitudes.”

Those words are suitable for framing.

Speaking of the importance of a healthy attitude, here’s a little poem I have shared with audiences across America over a span of 30 years. It, too, is titled “Attitude.”

“It’s a funny thing but true

The folks you don’t like, don’t like you!

I don’t know why this should be so,

But just the same I always know,

That when I’m sour friends are few,

When I’m friendly, folks are too!

I sometimes get up in the morn

Ah wishin’ I was never born!

And then I make cross remarks, a few,

And then my family wishes, too;

That I had gone some other place!

But then I change my little tune,

And sing and smile, and then

the folks around me sing and smile.

I guess it was catching all the while.

It’s a funny thing, but true,

The folks you like, sure like you!

Here’s a great quote from the book titled Emotional Intelligence: “It is energy demanding work to experience distressing realities in a positive light.”

The Good Book says, “Keep (Guard) you heart (mind) with all diligence for out of it are the issues of life.”

A healthy attitude must be worked on every day, and defended vigorously! Even with our best efforts, I suppose we all could, from time to time, use what Zig Ziglar used to refer to as a “check-up from the neck up!”

Keep smiling!

"Hey Frank, pass the beans!"

I grew up in a time and place where the phrases "yes ma'am," "no ma'am," "yes sir," "no sir”, "please," "thank you" and "you're welcome" were standard operating procedure. Furthermore, if it was remotely suspected that someone was your senior, they were referred to with Mr. or Mrs. (we usually said "Miss") as a prefix to their name. Some of the men and women that I respected most in my boyhood days were people I called Mr. Reece, Mr. Marvin, Mr. Sam A. , Mr. Robert L., Mr. Charlie, Miss Johnnie Mae, Miss Beatrice, Miss Vergie Mae, and Miss Eunice. Last names were rarely used. Everybody knew who you were talking about. And, we never called our father or mother by their first name.

Well, maybe once.

I can still remember the night at the supper table when my youngest brother, Dewey, decided to try his wings. With a boyish nonchalance, he  turned to my father who always sat at the head of the table, and barked, "Hey Frank, pass the beans.”

I wish you could have seen the bugged eyes around the table. The older brothers looked at each other in disbelief. We, then, all waited for what was coming. We were not sure what was coming, but we all knew something was fixing to happen. 

I must digress for a moment to enlighten the reader as to the tremendous strength that my father had in his forearms. The workhorse of our farming operation in those days was a 1941 Model A John Deere tractor. Some people called that particular series of tractor Poppin’ Johns. In the Midwest, they call them Johnnie Poppers. For whatever reason, my father removed the electric starter soon after it was purchased. Therefore, in most situations, he started the tractor by hand. It literally involved his grasping the tractor flywheel and turning the tractor engine over with his "bare hands." It required exceptional strength. My father had exceptional forearms.

 Well, when my brother Dewey said, "Hey, Frank, pass the beans," my brother, John, who sitting between them, leaned hard against the back of his chair. He wasn't sure what was going to happen but he was sure he didn't want to be in the line of fire. As he did, my father reached for my brother Dewey, and for a fraction of a second, allowed his hand to hover just over my little brother's head. Then, he turned his hand with his thumb pointing downward and formed a pair of vise-grip pliers with his thumb and forefinger. With that he gathered up all the hair that he could grasp on the top of Dewey's at head and straight-armed him out of his seat. He stared straight into Dewey's eyes for a split second; then he let him go.

Now, in the house where I grew up, that was called communication. Message delivered. Message received. There was nothing lost in the communication. Was it effective? Absolutely!

About two weeks later we were all seated at the same table. Only this time, a boy from the neighborhood was our supper guest. As introductions were being made, our guest turned to Dewey and asked, "What's your father's name?"

I can still hear Dewey as he whispered his answer, through cupped hands, into the boy's nearest ear, "His name is Frank, but don't call him that, 'cause he'll pull your hair!"

I know we live in an age where some would call my father's teaching technique child abuse. I would argue that it was the furthest thing from it. My father's intentions were not to hurt my brother but to instruct him. In this particular incident, to give him something to think about the next time he considered calling him "Frank." In this case it was pain. The overriding issue was respect for our father's authority. I have no doubts that he knew what he was doing. Each of his children respected him and loved him until the day he died.

Flashbacks to the Tobacco Fields

A few mornings ago, just after daylight, I found myself knee-deep in a row of Roma green beans in my brother John’s garden, face-to-face with a monster “careless” weed that had no doubt escaped his attention for weeks.

I retrieved my knife from my pocket, chose the sharpest blade and prepared to rid myself of the prickly nuisance. I pushed back the bean vines to get to its base and was amazed to find its main stalk as big as a mop handle.

I drew back my arm with pocketknife in hand and applied a swift, measured stroke. As the knife blade sliced cleanly through the stalk it yielded a crisp, popping sound that was all too familiar to the ears of this farm boy. It was exactly the same sound made when the knife is laid to ripe tobacco.

The combination of the heavy dew, and the coolness of the air and that unforgettable sound took me back in time, and I found myself in a tobacco patch.

Every year about this time something will trigger my memory and I will return to those days. It might be a certain smell, or a feeling, or the sight of yellowing tobacco; or a sound, or a tobacco leaf left on the side of the road. A thousand things can stir one’s memory.

A few years back I wrote about tobacco barns in this column. A few days after the column ran I saw one of my Cato friends in the grocery store.

“I really enjoyed your column about tobacco barns,” she said.

“I appreciate your saying so,” I returned.

Then she smiled a sly smile. “I saw somebody the other day who said they bet you had spent precious little time in a tobacco barn.”

“Really,” I said.

“Uh, huh,” she smiled.

I continued my shopping, but the more I thought about her words the more curious I became. To be honest, it began to irritate me just a little. So, I circled back to catch up with my friend.

When I found her still in the store, I made my approach and asked, “Who said they bet I had spent precious little time in a tobacco barn?”

I saw a hint of mischief in her eyes as she ducked her chin and whispered, “Ira Watson.”

“You just wait until I see Ira Watson,” I said good-naturedly. “I’ll straighten him out.”

She smiled as if she had let the cat out of the bag.

The late Ira Watson was one of my favorite people. As a boy, he lived on my grandfather D.T McCall’s farm in Smith County. He grew up with my daddy. Mr. Ira often said to me, “I always thought a lot of Frank.” And he seemed to enjoy teasing me about being from Punch, Tenn. He was my buddy.

But after my conversation in the grocery store I went looking for him. As the old folks used to say, “I was a-layin’ for him.” It was a good two weeks before I ran into him again.

When I did see him, I opened our conversation by saying, “Mr. Ira, I heard you told somebody you bet I had spent precious little time in a tobacco barn.”

At first he furrowed his brow as if in deep thought. Then he said, “Ahhh, hummm.” Then he looked at the ground and muttered something under his breath I couldn’t hear. With that being said, he looked up and smiled. And that was it. I really liked Mr. Ira.

I had planned to say, “See this scar over my left eye? I got it when I fell and hit my head on the wagon tongue in the tobacco barn when I was two years old. And I was in the middle of every tobacco crop Frank McCall raised from that time until I was 28.”

And I was going to tell him about all the places I had a hand in hanging tobacco, the many different tobacco barns, the sheds, and the feed barn lofts. But as it turns out, all that really didn’t matter. The memories are mine.

And every time late summer and fall rolls around, something reminds me to go back and visit the tobacco patches and tobacco barns of my yesteryears. And I recall the weird-looking stain tobacco sap left on your hand that held the tobacco spike, and how tobacco gum would build up on your other hand, and how sore your right wrist and left hamstring felt on the morning after your first full day of spiking tobacco, and the people who labored with us, and the blisters, and that dog-tired feeling at the end of a long day.

As much as I enjoy revisiting those days, I have no desire to relive them. But I would take nothing for the memories.