The best memories of my childhood were the days when my dad would take me to the woods. Along about the time I turned nine my dad started worrying that I was spending way too much time with my head stuck in a book. His solution to this was to get me out and exercising. Unlike today, this didn't take the form of enrolling me in a class for this or that, but rather of giving of himself to better my health. Out of this came a period of several years when we spent every available hour hiking in the surrounding knobs. (Knobs for us were the foothills of the Appalachian mountains.)
My father was a great woodsman who had spent a lot of his childhood and adulthood in the woods in our state. As a youngster he spent many hours hunting and fishing in the woods around his farm. As a young man he had worked as a "spotter" for a lumber company. This involved working with the forestry service to "spot" or locate timber that would be suitable for logging. This time spent tramping through the forests of Eastern Kentucky cemented his lifelong love of nature. The days spent with the Forest Rangers allowed him to learn many scientific things from them, while I am sure, they also learned many practical things from him. I was lucky enough to benefit from this store of knowledge.
Whenever possible we would drive to a spot giving us access to a section of the knob land, park the truck, and hike up into the woods. We would then spend a glorious afternoon trekking through the forests while daddy would teach me about the plants, trees and animals that made this their home. I learned to identify trees by their shape and bark, as well as leaves. I learned about plants that were poisonous, shy wildflowers that hide under ledges, mosses and lichens that hug rocks, nuts and berries that were good to eat, and wild grapevines. Grapevines were the best fun. These thick, strong vines wrap from limb to limb and sometimes from tree to tree in ropes sometimes as thick as a man's arm. Daddy seemed to have an ability to find one that could be pulled down and used as a swing. A good one would be on the side of the hill. I would grab on as high as I could reach, and launch myself out from the side of the hill. For endless seconds you would swing out over the trees below then rush back to the safety of the hillside. (Think Tarzan) I'm sure my mother would have cringed if she had known how far out I could swing.
Sometimes we would spend an afternoon trying to track a woodland animal. Most often we saw deer tracks, but would also see the tracks of raccoons, opossums, dogs, rabbits, and once a bobcat. Every muddy spot or creek bank became a classroom on tracks. Even bird tracks became a lesson in identification. Tiny sparrow tracks to huge vulture tracks were laid out before us in the soft mud. As we identified tracks daddy would tell me about their homes, what they ate, where they hunted, where they hid and how they were useful to us.
From late fall to spring we would ramble through the hills and valleys of the county. ( Because timber rattlesnakes and copperhead snakes make their home in our area we didn't do much hiking in the summer months.) The hours of hiking up and down hillsides soon tightened up muscles and slimmed down pockets of baby fat but most of all was the building of confidence in my abilities. I had experiences that none of my friends had and knowledge that few of their parents had. It gave a shy child that little extra boost of self-confidence that carried me on into high school. It also taught me that your body, like a car, will go for many miles if you keep it in good shape.
But better than all the knowledge (I still surprise people by identifying animal tracks or woodland plants) was the companionship with my father that I had. He gave me the greatest gift a parent can give--his total attention and time. It was only as a parent myself that I truly realized just what a sacrifice those hours we spent must have cost him. At the time, all I knew was that he was my confidant, my teacher, and my best friend.
Hopefully, he thought the cost was worth it.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Monday, May 28, 2012
Tobacco Float Beds
I am constantly amazed at how much things have changed in my lifetime. It doesn't seem like a long period to see such huge advancements in technology. Farming is no exception. My last writings were on the burning of tobacco beds from my youth, an event so foreign that even my children don't know anything about it. The production of tobacco plants to set in the fields is big business now. Where once each farmer raised his own plants now they are done as a commercial enterprise.
Our plants come from a couple who raised acres and acres of tobacco all their lives. There isn't much they don't know about tobacco. When their children grew up and left home they decided to do something a little less labor intensive. They built a series of greenhouses and put all their years of experience to work raising plants for other farmers to set. We owe them a debt for more than plants since they have become mentors, of sorts, for our son as he continues his adventures in tobacco.
To briefly explain the process: The plants are grown in Styrofoam trays that hold a sterile potting soil. Each little cubical holds a tiny seed, then it is literally floated on a bed of water. The water provides moisture, nutrients and a growth medium for the plants. When they are ready the entire tray is lifted from the water and transferred to the tobacco setter.
Of course, there is a lot more to it than that, involving knowing when to start the seeds so they will be perfect when the farmer is ready for them, knowing which of hundreds of varieties will do well in the area, keeping them just the right size (this involves mowing them off to keep them from getting too large) and knowing how to keep their growing environment perfect. However, you get the idea.
Tobacco plant greenhouses.
The sides can be rolled up for ventilation on warm days or down for insulation on cool days.
The trays float in the long pools of nutrient enriched water.
Trays ready to be delivered.
Plants being pulled and set.
Our plants come from a couple who raised acres and acres of tobacco all their lives. There isn't much they don't know about tobacco. When their children grew up and left home they decided to do something a little less labor intensive. They built a series of greenhouses and put all their years of experience to work raising plants for other farmers to set. We owe them a debt for more than plants since they have become mentors, of sorts, for our son as he continues his adventures in tobacco.
To briefly explain the process: The plants are grown in Styrofoam trays that hold a sterile potting soil. Each little cubical holds a tiny seed, then it is literally floated on a bed of water. The water provides moisture, nutrients and a growth medium for the plants. When they are ready the entire tray is lifted from the water and transferred to the tobacco setter.
Of course, there is a lot more to it than that, involving knowing when to start the seeds so they will be perfect when the farmer is ready for them, knowing which of hundreds of varieties will do well in the area, keeping them just the right size (this involves mowing them off to keep them from getting too large) and knowing how to keep their growing environment perfect. However, you get the idea.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Tobacco Beds
Years ago when Hubby and I were youngsters, growing tobacco plants to set was an entirely different game. Everything was done a little later because first you had to prepare and seed a bed to produce the plants to be transplanted into the fields. Tobacco seeds are incredibly small, so preparing the bed was of utmost importance if these tiny seeds were to germinate and take root. The farmer would find a spot that was good, rich, easily worked soil. Then it had to be worked until it was fine and crumbly, so the little seeds wouldn't be lost under big clumps or have no fine soil to start their little roots in. The next step is to kill any of the weed seeds or roots that might be in the soil.
This process started in the fall before, when the farmer would collect all of the trash wood he could find on his farm. This might be dead limbs that had fallen off of the trees or even whole trees that had blown down in the spring storms. Most of the time the good firewood was saved for the house or stripping room stove, with all the limbs and trash wood piled near the spot for the tobacco bed. Then would be added anything that needed to be burned from cleaning up the farm through the winter. This might be bushes from fence rows, rotting fence posts, scraps of lumber from the barns, broken boards from the fences, worn out gates or anything else that might burn and leave no problem residue. That means anything not burnable removed--like nails, hinges, etc. To this day, Hubby will collect up anything and everything and set it on fire to get rid of it. A practice which has caused a few funny and not so funny stories around our place.
When spring arrived and the soil had begun to warm up, it was time to get started. The beds were worked, then the farmers piled all the wood collected through the fall and winter onto the beds and set them on fire. The heat from the fires that burned all through the night, would kill all the weeds and sterilize the soil, so the tiny tobacco seeds could grow without competition from the weeds. For me, a little townie, it was a magical time. My dad would pile us all in the car and ride up into the knobs around our home. From our vantage point above the fields, we could see the fires lighting up the night for miles. It was a beautiful and haunting sight that years later I would remember vividly when reading about the fires lit in old England to celebrate events across the ancient country. Even at a young age I connected with the feeling of celebration and a rite of spring that these fires kindled among us.
As quickly as the soil cooled, the farmers were in the beds working the soil again and preparing for the tiny seeds. The seeds were then carefully sown by mixing them with some fine, powdery soil and sowing them across the beds. This fine soil acted both as a method of separating the seeds out and covering them with a thin layer without smothering them. Then the beds were covered with a thin, gauzy material, known only as "tobacco canvas", tightly pegged down all around. This material served several functions. It protected the tiny seeds from heavy rain by diffusing it, kept birds and animals from disturbing the little plants, prevented stray weed seeds from blowing in and taking root, shielded the plants from late frosts and cool mornings, kept the moisture from evaporating out of the soil on dry days, and kept them from sunburning on hot days.
When the plants got big enough to transplant, about six inches tall, the real work began. Each plant had to be pulled from the damp soil by hand. This was hot, back breaking work that went on and on as the acres of tobacco were planted. It was a job that usually fell to youngsters and women, since they usually were lighter and smaller. There wasn't anything easy about it. Boards were usually laid across the patch so the workers could kneel on them to reach the plants, which soon became instruments of torture to your knees. Then your back would ache until you couldn't straighten up. To me, the ones on the setters had the easy job.
The years have passed and you no longer see the magical fires light up the spring dusk or see the plant beds tucked into the edges of fields. Now the plants are grown in greenhouses in water in huge float beds. Farmers line up with wagons to buy their plants in trays with each plant in its own little compartment, ready to be placed on the setters. It's faster, more efficient, easier and not near as work intensive, but part of me misses the magic.
This process started in the fall before, when the farmer would collect all of the trash wood he could find on his farm. This might be dead limbs that had fallen off of the trees or even whole trees that had blown down in the spring storms. Most of the time the good firewood was saved for the house or stripping room stove, with all the limbs and trash wood piled near the spot for the tobacco bed. Then would be added anything that needed to be burned from cleaning up the farm through the winter. This might be bushes from fence rows, rotting fence posts, scraps of lumber from the barns, broken boards from the fences, worn out gates or anything else that might burn and leave no problem residue. That means anything not burnable removed--like nails, hinges, etc. To this day, Hubby will collect up anything and everything and set it on fire to get rid of it. A practice which has caused a few funny and not so funny stories around our place.
When spring arrived and the soil had begun to warm up, it was time to get started. The beds were worked, then the farmers piled all the wood collected through the fall and winter onto the beds and set them on fire. The heat from the fires that burned all through the night, would kill all the weeds and sterilize the soil, so the tiny tobacco seeds could grow without competition from the weeds. For me, a little townie, it was a magical time. My dad would pile us all in the car and ride up into the knobs around our home. From our vantage point above the fields, we could see the fires lighting up the night for miles. It was a beautiful and haunting sight that years later I would remember vividly when reading about the fires lit in old England to celebrate events across the ancient country. Even at a young age I connected with the feeling of celebration and a rite of spring that these fires kindled among us.
As quickly as the soil cooled, the farmers were in the beds working the soil again and preparing for the tiny seeds. The seeds were then carefully sown by mixing them with some fine, powdery soil and sowing them across the beds. This fine soil acted both as a method of separating the seeds out and covering them with a thin layer without smothering them. Then the beds were covered with a thin, gauzy material, known only as "tobacco canvas", tightly pegged down all around. This material served several functions. It protected the tiny seeds from heavy rain by diffusing it, kept birds and animals from disturbing the little plants, prevented stray weed seeds from blowing in and taking root, shielded the plants from late frosts and cool mornings, kept the moisture from evaporating out of the soil on dry days, and kept them from sunburning on hot days.
When the plants got big enough to transplant, about six inches tall, the real work began. Each plant had to be pulled from the damp soil by hand. This was hot, back breaking work that went on and on as the acres of tobacco were planted. It was a job that usually fell to youngsters and women, since they usually were lighter and smaller. There wasn't anything easy about it. Boards were usually laid across the patch so the workers could kneel on them to reach the plants, which soon became instruments of torture to your knees. Then your back would ache until you couldn't straighten up. To me, the ones on the setters had the easy job.
The years have passed and you no longer see the magical fires light up the spring dusk or see the plant beds tucked into the edges of fields. Now the plants are grown in greenhouses in water in huge float beds. Farmers line up with wagons to buy their plants in trays with each plant in its own little compartment, ready to be placed on the setters. It's faster, more efficient, easier and not near as work intensive, but part of me misses the magic.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Tobacco--Soon?
I have noticed lots of people checking the topic "Tobacco Setting" over the past few weeks. The time is here, but as is usual in a farmer's life, nothing is simple. Our unusually warm spring had everyone in hopes of having our crop out early. However, the danger of a late freeze on tender plants made us hesitate just a little. That hesitation put us in the middle of a cool, rainy spell that has left the ground too wet to work. With the beginning of a spell of dry weather in the forecast, the hopes are to get started setting in the next week.
In the meantime, the cool, wet weather has been great for growing hay, but not for harvesting it. With today's dry, warm weather perfect for curing the hay we have two tractors cutting hay as fast as they can. It's time, too. Hay, like anything else has a peak time to harvest. Too early and the grass isn't mature and at the optimum nutrition level, too late and it goes to seed and loses it's nutrition value. Add to that the fact that it needs to cure on the ground before being baled and you find yourself looking for that perfect window of three days of hot sunshine. We think we have it!
Naturally, there are always a dozen things that come up during the time of hay and tobacco. Our son has been busy trying to get all the equipment serviced and ready for the spring season, including trying to rebuild a high-boy that they bought to spray the tobacco later. Hubby has an auction on Saturday that will probably take all day. Then Saturday night we have a wedding we have to attend. On top of that he is short handed at the office, since one of the girls is out with a new baby. I'm caught with a Board meeting this week and all four grandchildren next week, while our daughter-in-law attends a work related meeting. Yep! It's spring!
In between the chaos that is farm life, I will try to take some pictures and keep you updated on the progress of the tobacco crop. Thanks for the interest.
In the meantime, the cool, wet weather has been great for growing hay, but not for harvesting it. With today's dry, warm weather perfect for curing the hay we have two tractors cutting hay as fast as they can. It's time, too. Hay, like anything else has a peak time to harvest. Too early and the grass isn't mature and at the optimum nutrition level, too late and it goes to seed and loses it's nutrition value. Add to that the fact that it needs to cure on the ground before being baled and you find yourself looking for that perfect window of three days of hot sunshine. We think we have it!
Naturally, there are always a dozen things that come up during the time of hay and tobacco. Our son has been busy trying to get all the equipment serviced and ready for the spring season, including trying to rebuild a high-boy that they bought to spray the tobacco later. Hubby has an auction on Saturday that will probably take all day. Then Saturday night we have a wedding we have to attend. On top of that he is short handed at the office, since one of the girls is out with a new baby. I'm caught with a Board meeting this week and all four grandchildren next week, while our daughter-in-law attends a work related meeting. Yep! It's spring!
In between the chaos that is farm life, I will try to take some pictures and keep you updated on the progress of the tobacco crop. Thanks for the interest.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Ireland
Hubby and I were recently privileged to be able to visit Ireland. This was my first trip abroad and frankly, I wasn't really sure what to expect. What I found was a gracious, gregarious, and humor filled population that made us feel welcome from the first moment. We landed in Dublin after a night of cat-naps in the cramped confines of the airplane, sleep deprived and groggy. The bus driver that picked us up had obviously had instructions to drive us around until our rooms would be ready. (It was 9 am) After a short while he gave up on the commentary as the comparative comfort of the bus lulled everyone into a comatose state. With quiet, good humor he drove us up and down, while we napped.
That set the tone of the trip for us. Everywhere the people welcomed us as they would forgotten cousins, with cheerful acceptance of our weird ways. The first evening, hubby wanted to get out for a while and smoke a cigar, so we ankled down the block. We had noticed some booths set up along the street and decided to explore. We fell in with a crowd of people all heading the in the same direction. Figuring that the safest way to cross a busy corner where the signals are in the wrong places and the traffic going the wrong direction, was to follow the crowd, we fell in with a middle aged couple and their teen-aged children. We soon struck up a conversation and found out that the regional rugby finals were being played across the street between Ulster (Ireland) and Edinburgh (Scotland). The man leaned close and confided to hubby that he had 40 euros on the game, but don't tell the missus! He then urged us to try a Guinness and a sausage before the game. With a wave he hustled off to catch up with his family, leaving us in the middle of the tailgate party taking place on the street.
Rugby we didn't know much about, but tailgating we understand. We wandered happily through the crowd enjoying the display of colors and team paraphernalia. It didn't take long to figure out that Ulster was red and Edinburgh was blue, with both sides insisting that they were going to win. With no animosity they all packed into the Guinness tents and hoisted a few for their team. We felt right at home.
Returning to the room we found the game on television and got a taste of the craziness that is rugby. (Ulster won) A sport that is a cross between soccer and football, played without any protective gear with the ferocity of a hockey match. We never did figure out the rules, although hubby watched devotedly. One thing I know, it's no sport for wimps!
From pubs to cabs, clerks to waiters, guides, drivers, and just pedestrians on the street the Irish people were friendly, talkative and funny. They greeted us as welcome guests in their country and not just a shot in the economy. They were cheerfully willing to discuss our trip, their neighborhood, the history and customs, castles and ruins for as long as we wanted. Surprisingly, the only subjects I never heard mentioned were politics and religion (unless it was an historic site). With great diplomacy they just skirted the topics that keep their country in the news.
It was a wonderful trip and the people will have a warm spot in my heart for years to come (along with a fondness for Guinness and Jameson's whisky).
That set the tone of the trip for us. Everywhere the people welcomed us as they would forgotten cousins, with cheerful acceptance of our weird ways. The first evening, hubby wanted to get out for a while and smoke a cigar, so we ankled down the block. We had noticed some booths set up along the street and decided to explore. We fell in with a crowd of people all heading the in the same direction. Figuring that the safest way to cross a busy corner where the signals are in the wrong places and the traffic going the wrong direction, was to follow the crowd, we fell in with a middle aged couple and their teen-aged children. We soon struck up a conversation and found out that the regional rugby finals were being played across the street between Ulster (Ireland) and Edinburgh (Scotland). The man leaned close and confided to hubby that he had 40 euros on the game, but don't tell the missus! He then urged us to try a Guinness and a sausage before the game. With a wave he hustled off to catch up with his family, leaving us in the middle of the tailgate party taking place on the street.
Rugby we didn't know much about, but tailgating we understand. We wandered happily through the crowd enjoying the display of colors and team paraphernalia. It didn't take long to figure out that Ulster was red and Edinburgh was blue, with both sides insisting that they were going to win. With no animosity they all packed into the Guinness tents and hoisted a few for their team. We felt right at home.
Returning to the room we found the game on television and got a taste of the craziness that is rugby. (Ulster won) A sport that is a cross between soccer and football, played without any protective gear with the ferocity of a hockey match. We never did figure out the rules, although hubby watched devotedly. One thing I know, it's no sport for wimps!
From pubs to cabs, clerks to waiters, guides, drivers, and just pedestrians on the street the Irish people were friendly, talkative and funny. They greeted us as welcome guests in their country and not just a shot in the economy. They were cheerfully willing to discuss our trip, their neighborhood, the history and customs, castles and ruins for as long as we wanted. Surprisingly, the only subjects I never heard mentioned were politics and religion (unless it was an historic site). With great diplomacy they just skirted the topics that keep their country in the news.
It was a wonderful trip and the people will have a warm spot in my heart for years to come (along with a fondness for Guinness and Jameson's whisky).
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