As a youngster I worked at sale barns during the mid and late 50*s. Some barns were open 24/7 and tobacco came in from all directions and on every vehicle imaginable. It was always stacked in a neat circle on a burlap sheet with the leaf ends pointing out. The sheet’s corners were brought up over the tobacco and tied. My job was to help take the sheets of tobacco off the vehicle, put just the tobacco on what we called a basket, weigh it and line it up on the warehouse floor for sale day. Sale days were held once a week and were special. They had a sloshing crowd of buyers and sellers trailing along after the auctioneer and a few sheets ahead of the “writer.” “Sold to American!” or such closed the bidding and moved the group down the row to the next sheet. It was fun, it was loud, it was hot, it was smelly, and it was where I learned to work off the farm. And it sure beat cropping.
This old tobacco barn is a beauty. She must have seen many a puttin-in day and tons of golden leaf tobacco. Her furnace tells us that she was a wood burner and her pole logs that she was constructed by a skilled farmer. I love her appearance. Gone are the mules, tobacco sleds, and croppers, stringers, and handers, but a dwindling number of old barns remain to tell the story of an agricultural era that has long ended. When I was a kid the broad leaves of the tobacco patch proudly reigned as king of the South Georgia agricultural endeavor. It was the major crop of the sandy lands that stretched from the Ocmulgee/Altamaha rivers south to the Florida border and beyond. Many a drop of sweat was shed and many a dollar spent raising that commodity. Most every small town had at least one tobacco warehouse and tobacco selling season was a busy time. I miss the smell of sweet flue cured tobacco and the beehive of activity associated with the sales. The call of the “peanut boy” as he hawked his product on sales day still rings in my ears. “Fresh boiled peanuts, just five cents a bag.”
As a youngster I worked at sale barns during the mid and late 50*s. Some barns were open 24/7 and tobacco came in from all directions and on every vehicle imaginable. It was always stacked in a neat circle on a burlap sheet with the leaf ends pointing out. The sheet’s corners were brought up over the tobacco and tied. My job was to help take the sheets of tobacco off the vehicle, put just the tobacco on what we called a basket, weigh it and line it up on the warehouse floor for sale day. Sale days were held once a week and were special. They had a sloshing crowd of buyers and sellers trailing along after the auctioneer and a few sheets ahead of the “writer.” “Sold to American!” or such closed the bidding and moved the group down the row to the next sheet. It was fun, it was loud, it was hot, it was smelly, and it was where I learned to work off the farm. And it sure beat cropping.
This old tobacco barn is a beauty. She must have seen many a puttin-in day and tons of golden leaf tobacco. Her furnace tells us that she was a wood burner and her pole logs that she was constructed by a skilled farmer. I love her appearance. Gone are the mules, tobacco sleds, and croppers, stringers, and handers, but a dwindling number of old barns remain to tell the story of an agricultural era that has long ended. When I was a kid the broad leaves of the tobacco patch proudly reigned as king of the South Georgia agricultural endeavor. It was the major crop of the sandy lands that stretched from the Ocmulgee/Altamaha rivers south to the Florida border and beyond. Many a drop of sweat was shed and many a dollar spent raising that commodity. Most every small town had at least one tobacco warehouse and tobacco selling season was a busy time. I miss the smell of sweet flue cured tobacco and the beehive of activity associated with the sales. The call of the “peanut boy” as he hawked his product on sales day still rings in my ears. “Fresh boiled peanuts, just five cents a bag.”