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JUNE 2000 "The Huckleberry Historian", News and Announcements of the Sampson County Historical Society. Usually seven pages per issue. Published four times a year since 1979. Features local history, genealogy and folklore items by the members. Includes membership in the Society. $7.50 for regular members and $5 for email or associate members
NEWS AND ANNOUNCEMENTS OF THE SAMPSON COUNTY HISTORICAL SOCIETY Volume XXII, Number 2...... 15 June 2000
President: Virginia L. Bizzell, P.O Box 194, Newton Grove, NC 28366 Phone 594-0577
NEXT QUARTERLY MEETING ON SATURDAY 8 July 2000, starting at 2:00 pm the Golden Corral Restaurant, Clinton, NC The speaker will be Micki Cottle who writes folklore columns for Sampson and Duplin newspapers, and church history books. She is a charming storyteller and you'll be glad you came to hear her
TOBACCO ONCE KING IN CAROLINA
by Joseph T. McCullen
Folks used to say it takes thirteen months a year to produce a crop of tobacco. This statement has little to do with exaggeration. In a wooded area, we grubbed up a plant bed to reduce weed problems. Once a bed had been adequately dug-up several inches deep, we surrounded it with logs to support netting to cover the bed. (Always, mind you, the site was chosen with due regard for changing positions of the sun as it returns from the south northward during the approach of spring and summer.) After seed had been planted, with buckets we watered the bed, if need be; and, beside the bed, we kept a barrel filled for sprinkling plants whenever they need water. In the event rainfall was excessive, we ditched around the bed - always grateful if the site accommodated natural drainage. Once growth had begun, we weeded the bed as need be and replaced the netting until no more frost was to be feared. When not occupied by requirements of hoped-for plants, we were in the woods with a cross-cut saw and axes cutting wood with which to cure the tobacco. Once plants had grown big enough for transplanting, we went to the tobacco field. It had already consumed time for various preparations such as stalk-cutting, disking, breaking, harrowing, fertilizing and ridging. Transplanting involved many individuals; and provident families not overstocked with household members shared labor to set their individual patches. Someone pulled up plants at the bed; someone else rushed them to the field. There, procedures continued thus: with a peg about 10 inches long, a hand punched holes in the ridge; next came one who carefully placed a tobacco plant in each hole; then arrived one with a bucket of water and a dipper with which he dumped a pint of water around the roots. Finally, another individual carefully fingered soil around the roots and stem. While plants were strengthening for tillage, we went down rows to uncover leaves onto which sand had blown and to water the puny ones. Once they were rooted with prospects of survival, we stirred them with a hoe and then sided them with a plow. Someone followed to uncover leaves onto which soil had fallen. This attention continued a few weeks, weeks during which we also had to pluck worms from the tobacco. Once stalks had reached a desired height and begun forming blooms, we topped all plants except a few chosen for seed. Topped plants began producing suckers at the leaves; and, routinely until about 5 weeks of barning had cleared stalks of leaves, we suckered the tobacco. Chances are that such details in barning tobacco as cropping, handing, tying and hanging sticks on tier poles are too well known to justify much comment. Once the tobacco was in the barn, curing night and day began. Each stage, coloring leaves, drying leaves and killing stems, required almost constant attention. Wood of proper amounts for maintaining a temperature exacted by each stage was lugged into furnaces. Someone working in a nearby field went to the tobacco barn throughout the day, and someone stayed at the barn all night when drying leaves and killing stems were in progress. Time involved from filling to emptying a barn was about six days each week. A curing taken from a barn was packed down in a warehouse; and when there was time to spare, sticks of tobacco were ordered (the moisture regulated) for grading. Sometimes, sticks hung up in the warehouse whose doors and windows were left open overnight acquired good order. If above-ground humidity were inadequate, we hung sticks in a pit for leaves to absorb moisture from the earth. Then grading began. Carefully examining each leaf, we separated the tobacco into four or five grades and discarded trash leaves. Meanwhile, expert tiers produced hands by wrapping a leaf around stems about 1 1/2 inches large. These hands were then placed on sanded sticks, and ultimately each grade was packed down and covered. Once a desired quantity had accumulated, the tied tobacco was ordered overnight (either in the warehouse or in a pit) for loading and marketing next day. All this work had earned a trip to the market for anyone constitutionally strong enough to look at tickets once the auctioneer had ended his palaver. Since, during my youth, there were no tobacco markets in Sampson County, going to market was a two-day venture into some other county. My first jaunt was to the market in Smithfield. There being no highways that early, which byways and pig paths we traveled will remain a mystery for me. What I remember is our lumbering around on an old Model-T truck for hours but arriving before sundown. After the truck had chugged onto the warehouse floor and an attendant had assigned us a space, we carefully placed each grade in a large oval basket, had it weighed and lined up for sale. By that time, we had exhausted what remained of a large breakfast. Pa took me to a nearby eating joint, which could have won no blue ribbons for looks but which served fish that would have induced Henry VIII to seize the cook and enroll her as his seventh wife. After rambling through a street or two, Pa and I returned to the warehouse. He talked with farmers, but I curled up in a stack of to bags and slept soundly till sunrise. An early sale was a fascinating sight, my first view of buyers disarranging beautiful stacks of tobacco while an auctioneer chanted away. I don't recall prices the tobacco brought but do remember that Pa did not have to borrow money to pay the trucker a cent per pound for taking us to market. We sold tobacco at various markets - Goldsboro, Wilson and after roads were paved, even at boarder markets to make early sales. In general, procedures and accommodations were the same: good food at cheap joints and tobags for bedding. For some reason, we once sold in a small town called Fair Bluff. I remember that place because a tiny movie palace displayed an ad that introduced Bob Hope to the U. S. A. The boarder market that attracted larger crowds was in a larger town, a town with more variety. I recall stumbling across a sunrise service conducted by a female evangelist surveying the predicament of folk and their offspring who survived Noah's flood. A sizable audience remained attentive until a couple of aids with collection plates invaded the scene. On another occasion, attractions appeared to be more nocturnal. Ladies of pleasure were looking for customers. Most kept to the streets, but some ventured into the warehouse. Among the latter was an obvious novice, a beautiful teenage Indian (I take nomenclature of that area on faith, since those people don't look exactly like Indians one sees in New Mexico, Arizona and Central America) girl. Each time she took a step forward, she turned for a look at the exit. Finally, she approached and said, "For $2.00 you can spend the night with me." Fortunately, I didn't have $2.00. Again, I curled up on burlap sacks.
WORD FROM BOB LEWIS, ONE OF OUR MEMBERS WHO LIVES IN GEORGIA
Dear Virginia and Oscar: This note is long overdue - for that I apologize. I want to first of all thank you for your delightful greeting card. It was forwarded to our new address. Secondly, I hope you and Oscar are doing well. I also want to express my gratitude for the work you and Oscar put in on the Revolutionary records. As usual it was a superb effort. I have found it very useful in tying families together. For one, it explains who Laban Tatum's wife is, and her father and family. Thank you so much for your time and effort. 1999 was a very BUSY year. I retired September 3rd but have had less free time than when I was gainfully employed. I thought things were supposed to slow down once you "hit the gate". I now feel like I'm "out of the gate" in a mad dash. Many people were concerned that I would be "bored" - "left with nothing to do", etc. I never realized how much I used work as a "resting place". In September 1998, I began in earnest to look for a "retirement place". Along with retirement I was seriously contemplating remarrying. Many factors influenced my judgment on where to settle. The bottom line was I wanted to live in the mountains, but not too far from family and surprisingly, not too far from Atlanta. I did not realize how the last 42 years had influenced my attachment to Atlanta. I had wanted to go back to a childhood place called Mentone, Alabama, atop Lookout Mountain about 50 miles south-southwest of my hometown of Chattanooga. It had been a real refuge when I was a kid and I yearned to return to those fun days of my memory. We searched many places and found a limited number of sites that appealed to us. In the fall of 1998, we bought a place at a gated community called Big Canoe. It is located on the north Georgia foothills about 60 miles (as the crow flies) due north of Atlanta. In December 1998, we started building a house on this property, completing it in late summer of 1999. Actually, I guess you never finish, but we were able to move in October 1999. We finished the "move in" by the 5th of November. The summer was largely spent with my building the cabinets for the house. When I designed the house, I wanted a place for things. I did not realize how many cabinets were in this plan. Basically, when the house got where I could handle it, I started doing most of the work. The rear of the house, located at the 2550-foot elevation, has good southern exposure looking directly over Atlanta. On a clear day (rare anymore) you can see the Atlanta skyline in the distance. In the foreground are beautiful valleys of south Pickens County. The rear deck is about 25 feet above the ground. The house collects a lot of solar radiation in the winter when the sun is low and the leaves are gone. The property is covered with about 75% hickories and some 25% oaks. It is truly a very restful place. Apparently we are not to far from "things" as we have guests or family almost every week-end. August 1999, [my last full month to work] was a blur. I flew to London every Fri-Sat-Sun, plus the trip on September 1st. That put 3 trips (9 days) in my last two weeks of employment. I flew right to the very end. Delta required that international pilots return to base on their final trip with 24 hours to spare. Turning 60 on September 5th meant I would have to leave home by midnight on September 3rd. It reminded me of high school after the prom. During my last trip there was a great retirement party in Brighton [England] at the hotel where we layover. The hotel staff was delightful to this old captain. We had a dinner for 25 people. My fiancée had flown to London with me in August and was able to accompany me on the final flight. (Delta provided her with a positive space business seat). Two of my daughters and a son-in-law were also there. A good friend of mine, a retired Delta captain I flew with a lot in the 1970s bought a full fare ticket to accompany me on my final trip. Then on arrival in Atlanta, there was a crowd outside customs in the arrival hall. The chief pilot met the flight and held a small touching ceremony. That completed almost 33 years [32 years and 10 months] with Delta. That Friday [after the flight] there was a reception at a restaurant near the airport given by my fiancée. It was well attended by many friends not able to make the trip to London. Then on Sunday there was a retirement/birthday party at a golf club in Fayetteville, GA. The Fayetteville location gave more opportunity to see old friends. Quite a few retired captains that I had flown co-pilot for were in attendance. All in all, if one had to retire, I could not have done it better. The balance of September was spent happily planning our October wedding. We went to Hawaii and were married there by a Methodist minister on October 2nd. It's the best thing I ever did! I've known Delane about a year and a half. It has been the best part of my life. I dreaded retirement in my past family situation. I hated to break up a 27-year marriage, but I did not think I would survive in it. My wife Delane McAllster is a flight attendant with 17 years at Delta. Before Delta she was a schoolteacher and guidance counselor for 15 years. She came to Delta as a counselor for the drug program. She began in an entry position in In-Flight [flight attendant]. From there she became a flight attendant instructor and was later promoted to Director of Flight Attendant Training. However, 60-hour workweeks took their toll and she opted to go to "line flying". She was flying international [London] when we met. After we got married she went on an auxiliary program of flying. It's great. She flies the last two weeks of the month. Last month I went with her to Stuttgart, Germany on a four-day trip. It was good to see some of the old folks. Delane has vacation in March and we are planning a trip to South Africa. We leave March 27th, returning April 10th. I had hoped to come to the April meeting but I fear it will be on April 8th when we are gone. Another nice trip we had together was to London in November. She was teaching with the Delta Care Team in London for eleven days and I tagged along. She was busy during the day so I spent the time sight-seeing, something I had not done a lot when I was working. I did some genealogical research on the Blackburn and Tatum lines. If we [Oscar and Bob] descend from Nathaniel Tatum of London, I stood in the very church where he was baptized. According to parish records, a Nathaniel was baptized November 18, 1599, in Holy Trinity the Less, London, England. If we are related, Nathaniel would be our [Oscar and I] 9th great-grandfather. Laban's wife Susannah was the daughter of James Love and Jane Kenan. Jane was the daughter of Thomas Kenan and Elizabeth Johnston. Jane's brother, Colonel James Kenan, was our 6th great uncle. [Ref: Revolutionary War Records, Duplin and Sampson Counties, North Carolina, by Virginia and Oscar Bizzell, l997.] Thank you so much for the book. It is a real family treasure. Two of my daughters are already thoroughly interested in genealogy. Folks, this started as "just a note" but so much has passed over the last few months, I just couldn't stop. I'm sure you have figured out by now that I will talk given a slight opportunity. My elementary school teachers affirmed that, years ago. I look forward to my next visit to Sampson County. I just hope it's soon. Oscar replied: "With such a splendid opportunity to see and hear Bob again, we hereby invite him to speak at our October 7th meeting.
HOW DUPLIN COUNTY GOT ITS NAME
For 34 years, before Duplin and Sampson were divided into two counties, the Sampson area was part of old Duplin County from 1750 to 1784. Thus the following story from The Wallace Enterprise" is of interest to Sampson folks. With Duplin County celebrating its 250th birthday, it was interesting to research how the county got its name. Duplin County was named for Sir Thomas Hay, Lord Dupplin, Eighth Earl of Kinnoull, who lived in Dupplin Castle near Perth, Scotland. Lord Dupplin was born 1710 and died in Dupplin in 1778. He held the following titles: Viscount Duplin and Byron Hay of Kinfauns, Scotland, and Baron Hay of Pedwarden, England. He was appointed Paymaster General of His Majesty's Forces in 1755, became Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster in 1758, served as Ambassador Extraordinary to the Court of Portugal in 1759, and elected Chancellor of the University of St. Andrews in 1765. (The above information was furnished by Col. Arthur William H. Hay, Drummond, Cromlix, Dunblane, Perthshire, Scotland, Heir to the 15th Earl of Kinnoull.)
Original Dupplin Castle Dates to 1600s The following information relating to the construction of the original Dupplin Castle was obtained through a letter from Jim Murray Smith, The Factor Dupplin Estate, Perth, Scotland, dated 12 January 2000. "As far as the date Dupplin Castle, the original Castle, was built - we are all guessing - Lord Forteviot thinks it may have been in the 1600s, but this is purely speculative. It may have been before the Kinnoull family owned Dupplin Castle and the families of Oliphant and possibly Belches (who owned the adjoining estate of Invermay just south of Dupplin). They may have owned some or all of Dupplin at some earlier time. Lord Kinnouull would, I hope, provide far more accurate information. " Original Dupplin Castle - Size of Estate An earlier letter from Jim Murray Smith, The Factor of Dupplin Estate, Perth, Scotland, dated 7 Sept. 1999, shed further light on the extensiveness of the estate. "At one time Kinnoull extended to a very sizeable estate, including the whole of Perth and would have been in excess of 100,000 acres (in 1860), being ten tines its present size. Various information suggest that due to bad management, gambling and other vices, the estate was whittled away to its present size of 12,500 acres when it was sold at the turn of the century. Reports suggest that the Kinnoull Estate arose following a local battle after which the supporters of the then ruler decided to give the Kinnoull supporters all the land that could be seen by a falcon's eye from Kinnoull Hill which is a prominent hill on the east edge of Perth overlooking the Tay estuary. From this vantage point you can see a very large part of Scotland and it is not clear how far a falcon could see but certainly at one time Kinnoull was a very large property indeed. "The present owners are the Demar family who bought what is left of the estate in 1911 from Lord Kinnoull and in area the estate has remained fairly unchanged since that time, currently comprising approximately 12,500 acres," Smith said. "I understand that the Dupplin Castle burnt down or crumbled due to partial damage by fire in the 1860s and was rebuilt at that time. For a variety of reasons this building was eventually demolished in 1967 because of damage from dry rot and deterioration of stone work. The current Dupplin Castle, a bed and breakfast (house of lodging), was erected in 1969. Sadly this building is not nearly as impressive as the previous building. "The present owner's title is Lord Forteviot. Forteviot is a local village in the center of the estate. The village was rebuilt by the first Lord Forteviot in 1927. Since then, the title has been inherited and the present Lord Forteviot is the fourth generation of Dewars whose name I am sure you will probably be familiar with regard to whisky. "I am sorry I cannot be more helpful regarding the Hay connection but Lord Kinnoull and his family still retain some connections with Perth, and I believe one of his sons is Viscount Dupplin," Smith concluded. "Lord Kinnoull may be contacted at his office address c/o Langley Taylor, Chartered Surveyors, 10 Great Stuart Street, Edinburgh, EH37TN." Signed J. M. Smith, F.R.I.C.S., Perth, Scotland.
Dupplin Castle Is Bed and Breakfast After the original castle was destroyed, Dupplin Castle Bed and Breakfast was built in 1969 near the site of the original castle. It is set amidst an extensive estate of woods and parkland with specimen trees and reached by a mile long drive lined with rhododendrons The castle itself is set above very beautiful gardens. In front of the house balustrade terraces and rose beds overlook ancient maples, shrubberies and a miniature glen with a rushing burn and waterfall, and beyond, lawns and avenues of trees, looking out over the River Earn to the Ochil Hills beyond. Its well-proportioned rooms, each with a fine outlook and with all modern comforts, have that rare atmosphere of quiet and restfulness. Guests are welcome to stay for bed and breakfast with optional (delicious home cooked gourmet) dinner. It is recommended that, if possible, guests try to stay for a few days, not only to get to know the acres of beautiful surroundings, but also because it's so ideally placed for exploring the center of Scotland, from Glasgow to Edinburgh, St. Andrews to Stirling and the Highlands beyond, all of which are within a day's excursion. The luxurious bedrooms are individually appointed, with en suite facilities, and the gracious reception rooms are elegantly furnished with fine antiques, paintings and books, creating an atmosphere of a bygone era of tranquility and elegance.
EMPTY TOBACCO BARNS HAUNT US
by Micki Cottle
Dotted around the countryside, tin roofs rusting, paint peeled backsides exposed to the merciless elements: exteriors saggy and gray, begging it seems for at least a chorus of that old song of respect that used to be theirs: pitiful backdrops of a southern society, tobacco barns. Sadly neglected, most remain as only a memory of a once prosperous crop, and the days of the reign of the golden leaf, the days of the golden crop that sported many N.C. farmers and their families and helped bring them back to their feet after the devastation of the War Between The States. There old barns stand as quiet monuments to man's innocent folly, say many crumbling reminders of our past. Part of our heritage. And here and there, scattered among the ruins are a few of the old barns that are still in use. But for the most part, the tobacco barns haunt us with their emptiness and like recent movies are gone forever. There was once a time in the Carolinas that tobacco dominated the time and conversation, tobacco and the weather. There was a promise in the leaf and courage in the farmers. Young men full of vigor and life. Old men tired. Some with half their teeth missing, making them look like six year olds when they grinned. Sitting on benches in front of gray country stores, working from sun-up to sun-down, they talked the "baccer" talk while minding the golden leaf. The leaf was their life. That was primarily how they fed their families. The women-folk had their quilting and canning and youngun raising, but they had the leaf. The leaf was theirs. They mulled over the weather, how it was going to be another scorcher and how the tobacco might burn `right up in the fields.' Or if the forecast was for rain they would rumble and grumble and agree it would either wash them out or send the crop into second growth and they'd be ruined. Whichever way it went, tobacco was the money-weed that ruled their lives. The old men would shake their heads and sigh, umm, ummm, ummmm. Jaws bulging from a "chew" or a "dip." Young men puffed on strong cigarettes and looked at the sky, sometimes wishing they might never have to look at the hind end of a mule, or another row of tobacco for the rest of their lives. Still, it was a heritage, the only way of life they knew. And secretly they enjoyed the freedom and the challenge of slowly coaxing the land back to life each year. From the middle of July to the last of September, the old barns took on a life of their own. The temperature had to be just right, and the old men and the young took turns watching that temperature gauge all night, all day. At night the barn became a magic thing with the heat waves rising. The night air danced in a shivery motion around the sides, and even the stars twinkled a little differently or so it seemed on those long tobacco-curing nights. You could hear the prime leaves rustling inside in the heat and the smell was different from the warehouse, not as pungent, but sweet and green. The tobacco was alive when it went in the barn and the first heat wasn't meant to kill it but to burn up the stored sugar in the leaves. So a barn of tobacco would live out a whole lifetime in a single day. For many years tobacco was cured with wood. Some still swore by their wood-burners even when the oil burners oil-burners finally came on the scene. "More durn trouble than it was worth," my uncle would complain, even when he had the option of changing to oil. Every year would be his last time, cutting all that wood." And usually his sons would remind him. "I b'lieve I heard you say the same thing last year and the year before that, Papa," they'd smirk, punching each other in the ribs, nowing it would take a miracle to make Papa see the light. Cooking at the barn was one way to keep awake and have a little fun. Sitting around a makeshift grill strung together with scrap pieces of chicken wire, held up at the corners with sticks, fried chicken was never better. Corn on the cob, cooked in the shucks - so that it let off a puff of steam when you stripped it open and drenched it in melted home-made butter. Sweet potatoes were tucked around the coals, under the edge. There was feasting, there were games and there certainly was a little courting going on, as the night closed in still and hot. The barns stood like timeless sentinels, demanding and protecting, listening and watching. Many a tale was swapped and many a dream was shared by those still young enough to fill the nights with their dreams. They would throw some logs inside the furnace, and the wind would blow through the tops of the trees. Tired young men would stretch their legs and doze in the summer night protected by a Carolina Moon and heated by the magic of the golden leaf. In the twinkling of an eye, that era ended and it seemed even the lightning bugs disappeared. Gone were the old-timers with their wit and perseverance. Gone too were the young men and their dreams. The golden weed had begun to lose its luster, and those nights under the stars were slowly becoming only a fading memory.
THINGS TO HATE IN GROWING TOBACCO
There is plenty to hate in growing tobacco, so take your pick. The plant grows quickly, so let's start with topping the stalk. After topping, all the strength goes into growing suckers. These must be removed by hand. Suckers produce an abundance of black gum, which covers the worker's body and makes him/her untouchable. Next comes the problem of horn-worms produced by night-time moths that flit about and lay eggs by the million. These hatch quickly and the baby worm is born with an insatiable appetite for green tobacco leaves. The old-timey defense was to pull them off the leaves, drop them in a container of kerosene where they immediately died. Another defense was to grab the 3-inch worm and fling it to the ground where it split apart and died. These creatures also will eat lead based poisons, which takes them quickly to death, but we couldn't afford this pesticide in the 1930s. Harvesting tobacco over a period of 5 to 7 weeks required a lot of help in both the field and at the barn. Most farmers scraped together enough money to pay the crowd of folks who had helped him. But one man in the neighborhood came up with a plan to "swap hands" between his children and those from other nearby farmers willing to participate. On the final day of harvest he walked among those who had helped him and chortled that he had harvested his entire crop and it hadn't cost him a cent. That man is now dead and gone, but I still remember his sneaky plan to avoid paying anyone of his helpers. There are many other things that quickly help to build up a hate for tending and harvesting tobacco. For children, the list keeps growing as you think up new ways to destroy the plant. My brother Walter and I studied about this and finally concluded that we could get some relief by chopping the stalks just as soon as the tip leaves were harvested. On the last day of barning, we took two heavy duty Scovil hoes with us to the tobacco patch, with mayhem in mind. As the tip leaves were harvested, leaving a bare stalk, we grabbed a hoe and chopped down the stalks. Thus, we claimed victory over that year's crop. (Story Continued in printed issue - available upon subscription request) |
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