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Dianne Poston Owens
a book bubble about
Cultivating
Arts & Photography
Author Insight
Summers were for puttin' in
Long ago and far away, summers in the south of the United States, for me, were for puttin' in ... putting tobacco into barns to cure before beginning the journey to its ultimate location, a shop where cigarettes and cigars and such were sold and puttin' fresh cucumbers, beans, peas, squash, tomatoes and peppers into jars for the coming months. Each spring and summer, and especially in July, from the time I was 12 until I turned a sassy 17, I spent with my family on the tobacco farm doing the things that needed to be done to get the crop to market. I wrote a little about that experience and the demise of the southern tobacco barn in Cultivating, Homespun Essays from Beech Tree Lane. Here's an excerpt ... Those days on the farm and that style of living is long gone. What has disappeared in your world that was a vital part of who you are today? Spend time remembering. Go ahead. Share your story!
Book Excerpt
Cultivating
Three things: This was hard, repetitive work. It was labor-intensive and needed many people in many places to get the process done properly. If you were surrounded by the right people, it wasn’t all bad. There were laughs and jokes and picking and teasing. And a little money at the end of the day.
In 2007 I wrote this Ode to the Passing of the Tobacco Barn.
The passing of time has made these barns obsolete
The workers who toiled under their shelters forgotten.
The way of life connected to them is just a shadow of a memory . . . wrapped in
a sweet tea and hot biscuit at lunch,
nabs and Red Rocks at break,
and blessed sleep at the end of a very tiring day.
With a dip of his hat the old barn bids adieu to me and you …
Held together by twine, kudzu and wisteria vines,
Logs give way to time tearing them down …
Some just tired of being, some ashamed of what they were.
Log on log, brick on brick, the industry was built
And it went on to build banks and churches and homes and schools.
Only to be forgotten. Hidden. Left to peek out at a new world beyond its reach.
Tobacco barns. Oh the secrets they hide. The laughter, the teasing. Where there was wearisome work in wind and rain.
Sad. Forsaken. Forgotten. Forlorn.
That’s the passing of the tobacco barn.
What in your culture has given way to something new?
What do you wish would disappear that hasn’t?
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