New Ground

Biloxi-Gulfport Daily Herald, 26 Mar 1915, p4:
Newly-cleared land: “On account of the great amount of newly cut-over land that is being brought into cultivation on Big Level, we had thought that we would take a kind of census and get an idea of the acreage of this new ground, but after a glance at the situation we have decided that it would be too big a job. However, it seems to be quite unanimous that these new patches of farmland run all the way in size from one to eighty acres. Much old land as well as some of the new has been stumped and in spite of the unfavorable weather considerable planting has already been done. A large acreage will be planted to sweet potatoes and cucumbers, with corn as the leading crop. Interest in cane growing seems to have fallen off considerably, and syrup, which has been rather a drug on the market in the past, we predict will be scarce a year hence.”

This item about new ground in the Big Level News section of an old issue of the newspaper put me in mind of a major project that was left unfinished with my dad’s untimely death in March of 1967. The previous fall, Daddy had decided that Keith and I, his two oldest and now teenaged sons, could profit from a truck patch of cucumbers. It would give us something to do, he said. Plus, cukes have been bringing a good price at the pickle factory in town, he said.

The American Pickle Company, Wiggins, Mississippi (c. 1920).
Pickle production in Stone County, began in 1912 when the Finkbine Lumber Company sought new ways to profit from the cut-over land after it was stripped of the old-growth pine timber. Finkbine formed a company called Mississippi Farms and began experimenting with growing and canning different types of vegetables. It was found that cucumbers thrived in the hot and humid South Mississippi climate, outperforming most other produce. The first pickle plant in Wiggins was built in 1913 and was operated by the American Pickle and Canning Company. After changing hands several times, it was acquired in 1944 by the Brown-Miller Company, a division of Beatrice Foods, which operated it until the plant’s closing in 1986. During my growing-up years, the plant was popularly touted as the largest pickle plant in the world. Whether that was true or not, there’s no doubt that during its 73-year history, the pickle plant in Wiggins had an enormous financial and social impact on the town and surrounding area.

We started our cucumber project by clearing an acre of new ground down in a wooded area below one of our cow pastures. We worked for several weeks before and after Christmas cutting the small pines and scrub oaks on the plot, grubbing the stumps and roots out of the rich black sandy soil. We then dug post holes for a barbed-wire fence and built and hung a gate we made out of galvanized pipe to keep the cows out of our soon-to-be lucrative garden spot.

There wasn’t much more to do and it was almost planting time when Daddy had his tragic car accident and died 11 days later. A couple of weeks after the funeral, Granddaddy rode over on his small Farmall Cub to disk and harrow the soil. He was back a few days later to plow up the rows. And with his and Uncle ’Nell’s help we got those cucumbers planted.

If you’ve ever had any experience with planting a crop in new ground, I don’t have to tell you how fertile good soil can be, especially here in South Mississippi’s piney woods region. You can get a good crop even without any additional fertilizers. Our cucumber plants, and the vegetable garden we put in on one end of that acre-plus plot, thrived in the mild spring weather that year.

Not only did our precious plants flourish, so did the weeds. We spent many an hour hoeing and working the soil in the sweltering sun as we watched our crop steadily make its way to cash-bearing maturity. Within a few weeks the first blossoms began to appear. And then the cucumbers started growing.

Who knew how prolific an acre of cucumbers could be? And how fast they could grow? Once the cukes started coming in, it became necessary to pick them almost daily so that they didn’t grow too large to be unsaleable, the prime sizes for various types of pickles could range from two to six inches. It was hot, back-breaking work but we managed to stay on top of the early output. However, as the plants matured it became quickly apparent that Keith and I would need some assistance. Uncle ’Nell, when he could spare them, allowed Mike and Jerry to help out. That was fine with us, we didn’t even mind sharing some of the profits, as working with these two close cousins was always fun.

By the early summer, the four of us settled into a routine of picking every 36 hours. If we picked on Monday morning, we wouldn’t have to pick again until Tuesday afternoon. Then we could skip a day and pick on Thursday morning, followed by Friday afternoon. We could then pick on Saturday afternoon so as to not have to pick on Sunday.

On Mondays and Thursdays, following the morning pickings, we would make our run into the Brown-Miller Pickle Company to sell our harvested cucumbers. We would have 3 or 4 dozen bushel basketfuls loaded onto two pickup trucks, ours and Uncle ’Nell’s. At the pickle factory, we’d unload our baskets on the dock then wait for them to be weighed and processed. We’d then watch as the workers emptied the cucumbers onto the conveyor to be sorted and carried to the brine vats. It was exciting to see how many they accepted and a disappointment if too many of the larger cukes had to be culled. Once the rejects had been separated out, we were issued a chit that we would then carry to the paymaster to collect our due for the haul. It was an efficient process, seldom taking more than 20 minutes from start to finish. I can still smell the brine that permeated the air around Wiggins during the pickle season.

BRRRRIPP!!!

That is the sound of the turntable needle being dragged across the surface of the vinyl record that’s been playing softly in the background, marking an abrupt segue to the story I really want to tell you today. It concerns a pair of Daddy’s old brogans. Everything above is just backstory.

If you’re unfamiliar with the term, a brogan is a type of heavy leather work shoe or boot that comes up just above the ankle. Except for his church shoes, Daddy wore brogans almost exclusively, whether in his work as an auto mechanic, working around the farm, or while hunting and fishing.

An old work pair of brogans (Not mine or my daddy’s, but a photo from Pinterest.)

A month or so following his death, Mama suggested I wear a pair of Daddy’s older brogans while working down in the cucumber patch, as I had practically ruined my good pair of tennis shoes, about the only pair of shoes I owned that still fit my growing feet. I was pleasantly surprised that Daddy’s size 8 1/2 shoes felt comfortable on me. Keith was already wearing a newer pair. Thus, I appropriated this old pair as mine. For me, they were just the ticket for the work we were doing. Plus, at age 13, I was already beginning to feel grown up, having to now shoulder some man-sized responsibilities. Being able to wear Daddy’s shoes only added to that notion.

I cleaned up and polished that old pair of brogans and took it as a matter of pride to keep them clean after working in the patch and doing our other farm chores. Though they were identical in style and size, sitting side by side on the back porch, there was no mistaking my older, polished pair and Keith’s scuffed up, grubby-looking newer pair.

One “picking” morning in early summer, Keith had left at daybreak to go squirrel hunting along a branch of Kirby Creek that ran on the edge of our property. An hour or so later, I had finished my breakfast and was getting ready to go to the patch when Mike and Jerry drove up. As I hurried to get on out to meet them, I couldn’t find my brogans. Keith’s were there on porch by the back door, right where mine should’ve been. Mike said, “He’s probably wearing yours. Just grab his and come on. We need to get through picking before it gets too hot. It’s going to be another scorcher today.”

As we got to the patch, Keith came walking out of the woods from his hunt. And, sure enough, he was wearing my brogans. I didn’t make a big deal out of it then, but I had plans to give him a piece of my mind later.

We finished the picking in short order. By this stage of the season, we were pretty good about getting the job done without a lot of chatter or horseplay. We were old pros, really. Our trip into town to the pickle factory was uneventful. We divvied up our pay as we rode over to the Frosty Mug for milkshakes—another part of our pickle-run routine. While waiting for our order, Jerry suggested we stop by Lake-A-way and treat ourselves to a cooling-off swim before going home. That was readily agreed upon and we were soon riding out Highway 26 and pulling up to the lake.

For this leg of the trip, Keith and I were in our pickup, where we each kept a pair of cut-offs. Mike and Jerry were following in their truck. It was only then that I noticed how scuffed up Keith had gotten my newly-polished brogans. At that moment a fit of rage began to boil over in me. I’m ashamed to say that I let loose with some unfairly harsh language. Keith’s unapologetic and cavalier attitude about it only made it worse.

We were still going at it when got to the lake. Stepping out of the truck, my verbal assault got louder and my words got coarser. Keith was trying to laugh it off when I threw the first punch. This was followed by several return punches, his and mine.

At this point, Mike and Jerry had had enough. Mike said, “If y’all are going to keep this up, y’all can just stay out here. C’mon Jerry, we’re going home.” And with that they drove off, leaving us standing there all in a huff, but feeling mighty foolish. Keith and I then rode home in silence. So much for a swim; none of us had taken a dip in the lake.

At the next day’s picking, our moods were pretty somber, downright sullen. As we were working, Mike noticed my freshly-polished brogans and asked if I’d gotten the matter of the shoes straightened out. Begrudgingly, I mumbled something to indicate that I was still mad about it, to which he responded that it was time for me to get over it. As we talked, he stated that the day before, when he and Jerry had gotten back home, my mom was there in their driveway talking with his mother, my Aunt Reicey. He told me, “When Aunt ’Dell asked me if you and Keith were also home, I said ‘I don’t know; we left them at the lake cussing and fighting over a pair of shoes. Jerry and I had all we could take and came on home.’”

When I asked how Mama took that, he said, “Well, not too good. She was crying when I went inside.”

I was devastated. Keith and I had had our share of shouting matches over the years, even throwing a few punches occasionally, but never before had we tried to really hurt each other. Apparently, with this latest incident, I had broken some new ground of my own. Never before had I caused Mama to cry. I was appalled at the ugliness I had plowed up. It seemed the weeds now spouting were beginning to choke out whatever goodness she was accustomed to seeing in me. All over a pair of old beat-up brogans.

What I didn’t realize then, and only years later came to understand, was that it wasn’t so much Keith or the brogans that I was mad about. It was that I was simply manifesting my grief over Daddy’s death in the only way my little 13-year-old angst-filled self knew how. And I wasn’t the only one grieving. So was Keith. So was Mama. We all were. Each in our own way.

I did a lot of growing up that summer. Keith and I both did. I’m happy to say that things gradually got easier between us and we patched up our differences. In fact, we planted that acre cucumber patch with a second crop the next spring. And we did the whole thing ourselves.

A WORD TO PONDER

patch (noun):

1: a piece of material used to mend or cover a hole or a weak spot
2 a: a piece of material (such as adhesive bandage) used medically to cover a wound
b: a usually disk-shaped piece of material that is worn on the skin and contains a substance (such as a drug) that is absorbed at a constant rate through the skin into the bloodstream (a nicotine patch)
c: a shield worn over the socket of an injured or missing eye
3 a: a small piece of some larger item
b: a part or area distinct from that about it (cabbage patch)
c: a period or spell of time (he was going through a rough patch)
4: a piece of cloth sewn onto a garment as an ornament or insignia
5: a temporary connection in a communication system, such as a telephone hookup
6: a minor correction or modification in a computer program

patch (verb:)

1: to mend, cover, or fill up a hole or weak spot or resolve differences in a relationship
2: to provide with a patch
3 a: to make of patches or fragments
b: to mend or put together especially in hasty or shabby fashion —usually used with up
c: to apply a patch to (a computer program)
4 a: to connect (things, such as circuits) by a patch cord
b: to connect (a person, a message, etc.) to a communication system especially temporarily (they patched him into the conference call)
www.merriam-webster.com

Song of the Day

“Long, Long Way From Here” by Tom Kimmel (Short Stories, 1999)

Tom Kimmel is an internationally known singer-songwriter whose compositions have been recorded by many artists, including Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, Linda Ronstadt, Joe Crocker, and Randy Travis among others. His songs have also been featured in several major films and television series. Since he moved from Nashville to Hattiesburg a few years ago, Tom has become a friend and one of my favorite artists. Many of his songs speak directly to me, but none more so than this track, particularly its second verse. Though he writes about 1969, it captures much of what I was feeling back in the spring and summer of ’67.

There was fighting in the kitchen, there was fighting in the streets
There was fighting in Vietnam every night on TV
And there was fighting in my room when there was no one there but me
It was that kind of year

Update

In my blog piece, "A Matter of Principle," published a month ago, I mentioned a troubled youth from my childhood and wondered about his later life. With a clue from David Edwards, a friend and life-long Big Level resident, I was able to find his obituary and those of some of his other family members. (Thanks, David.) I’ve since edited that piece with a short update to include a few of the things I’ve gleaned from these genealogical records. https://mybackpagesblog.com/blog/2021/01/29/a-matter-principle