“Let’s All Bow Our Heads”
I always enjoyed it when I was assigned to work with Bill for the day. Bill was one of the oldest of the “farm hands” that worked for the Mountain Research Center (aka: the “Test Farm”) in Haywood County. Born and raised in the heart of the “Bluegrass Country” of Kentucky, he had migrated to the area some forty years earlier in order to be near his wife Ruby’s kin folks. He had worked for a few years at Dayco Rubber Plant in Waynesville but, preferring the out-of-doors, he had “got on” at the Test Farm; where he remained some twenty-five years later. He was one of those fellows that could do most any task that needed to be done. One of the main reasons that I enjoyed working with him was that he was able to figure out a way to improvise/modify/adjust in coming up with a way to accomplish whatever was before him. He was a good teacher, making a young college student, like me, feel at ease and useful as he bounced ideas off of you as he set about solving the problem.
Bill was tall and skinny. He was soft spoken and of few words. He always wore an old, sweat stained felt hat, bibbed overhauls, brogans, and long sleeved shirts. He moved in a slow, but steady pace, and was capable of maintaining the same pace all day long. Most of the time he plowed the tobacco using a Massie Ferguson tractor and a 3-row cultivator plow. Often, I was assigned the task of side-dressing and hoeing the tobacco he had just plowed. Whenever he would finish plowing he would grab a hoe and join the five or six of us college students (who had summer jobs at the Test Farm) as we chopped our way through the rows of tobacco. If possible, I liked to be in the row next to his so that I might be able to talk with his as we worked. I enjoyed hearing his stories. When we would reach the end of a row we would take a shade break under one of the nearby trees. There are few things more refreshing than a cool drink of water on a hot summer day which, we would drink with gusto. He would crouch down (bending his knees deeply keeping his butt a couple of inches off of the ground without touching the dirt), roll a smoke of tobacco and thin “Bugle Boy” smoke paper. He would remain in that position as long as it took him to finish his cigarette. As he smoked he would tell one of his stories.
One day he told a story about a mother skunk and three baby skunks that lived under an old shed “just across the way” he said as he pointed towards the far side of the farm. He said an old hound dog came by the shed and happened to get the jump on the skunks and started them running across the field towards an old fence. Bill then began giving the mother skunk a voice by saying, “Momma start yelling to the baby skunks ‘Come on children, you can make it” as she led them through the field towards the fence. Every time that old hound would gain on them she would encourage them all-the-more. Finally, they neared the fence. But, the hound was really close to them. When it was clear the hound was about to catch them, possibly claiming one of the smaller skunks for a meal, Momma called out to all of the babies, “Children. Gather round. Real close.” The baby skunks did as she said. They gathered in a real, tight circle. So she said “Now, children. Let’s all bow our heads.” That’s what they did. Then she said, “Now, let’s spray.” With that said, Bill rubbed out his smoke in the dirt, stood up from his crouch, picked up his hoe, and started chopping another row of tobacco.