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.