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My Mother and Dad lived in Algonquin Park, Norfolk, VA until 1909 when the historic Phillips house was sold, and Dad acquired another historic house in Princess Anne County. The farm constituted 20 acres of prime agricultural land bounded on the south by Shell Road for about 2000 feet. Our neighboring farm to the north was owned by A.J. Shumadine, a fine neighbor. King's creek bounded the east side of the farm and separated us from the Nat William's farm. Lloyd Webb and Mr. Birchard's property were across the road on the south.
Shell Road was aptly named. It consisted of a foundation of great quantities of oyster shells and its surface was very rough like coarse corduroy. Shell Road extended from the Norfolk County Line, past the Shumadine farm, our farm, and eastward across Providence Road at Thompson's Corner, all the way to Kempsville Road. The daily wagon traffic over many years had ground the shells fine, and when conveyances passed, the southern breeze would blow the shell dust across our farm. The shell dust provided the needed lime, and caused our vegetable crops to thrive better in the land closest to the road. In the earlier days when the road was built, the Eastern Branch of the Elizabeth River was a productive oyster bed. Oyster houses were built along the river and the thousands of bushels of oyster shells that accumulated were put to good use building the road. But, as Norfolk's population grew, the river became polluted by human and industrial waste, the oyster beds were destroyed. I can remember the last oyster house, abandoned and deteriorated. Later, our Shell Road was coated with loose rock and the local name dropped and it was called Indian River Road.
Our farm was ideally located. We were just an hour's mule and wagon haul from the steamboat docks in Norfolk. We could load the wagon with the crop in season, such as strawberries, beans, spinach, carrots, and take them to the docks for shipment to Baltimore, New York, or Boston. I can remember riding our wagon or truck to the docks and watching the frenzied activity as the sweaty stevedores with iron wheeled handcarts trundled the produce aboard ship. On occasion we would also take our produce to railroad cars for shipment north. Certain crops, like carrots, had to be packed in ice on the farm, so that they would arrive fresh at the northern ports. We got our ice in 300 pound blocks from an ice plant in Berkley. Other farming areas did not enjoy the short haul advantage, and the availability of steam shipping. The term "truck farming", at this time, referred to the means of getting produce to the docks. Vegetable growers deep in Princess Anne County were able to use trucks to get their produce to the waterfront docks. Trucks in the 1910's and 1920's were not suitable for long distance transportation, many had solid rubber tires. This special period was the heyday for us. Farming was profitable and Dad acquired one of the first tractors in the area.
Vegetable farming in the 1910's and 1920's was very labor intensive. No chemical weed control was used. The ground had to be plowed, disked, harrowed, and bedded with teams of mules. Each operation was applied in succession with the appropriate farm implement. Seeds for carrots, beets, turnips, spinach, and radishes were sown with a two mule drill, four rows to the bed. Each row was separated from the other by about 10 inches. When the fragile plants reached the height of about two inches, each row on the bed was hand grassed and thinned by stoop labor. Large spoons filed flat and sharp on one side where used to perform this delicate work. It required considerable skill and was done entirely by the women on the farm and from Queen City. They had to remain bent over with their hands at ankle level for hours on end. They were paid by the bed, and the harder they worked the more money they made. It was tiring, tedious, and painful work.
Follow on cultivation for bed crops with a wheelhoe was always necessary. I have spent many an hour with the wheelhoe, a clever weeding tool with a pair of horizontal blades supported by a wheel, that skimmed the earth just below the surface. There were two shaves, with turned down hand grips, that were attached to the wheel and blade structure. The worker walked between the shaves and propelled the hoe backward and forward by rocking of his arms as he carefully guided the hoe between the rows of young plants. There was just enough room between the rows for the blades to pass safely. A few hours of this was quite tiring, but it saved labor for the hands who finished the grassing process with the spoons.
The timing for harvest of perishable crops is critical and it must be done "right now." And, it requires many hands working together to harvest a truck load of most any crop, be it strawberries, radishes, or snap beans. Typically, trucks must be loaded by noon so that they could make it to the docks in time for the overnight trip north. Fortunately for us, Hattie Williams and her children were always available to provide routine labor. Aunt Mary pitched in too. And, the work of our hands was augmented at harvest time by more hands from Queen City. Queen City was just south of our farm within comfortable walking distance. It is sad that Hattie and her family had to work so hard for so little return, but there were fringe benefits, such as housing, wood, and chicken and hog privileges. Harsh though life was, it was typical of the times and necessary for their survival and the viability of the farm up which we all depended.
I started field work at about eight years old, when I was not in school. I have done just about every task that a vegetable farmer has to perform. This includes feeding the livestock, plowing the fields, planting, cultivation, and harvesting. When I was too small to do the "man" things, I would pick snaps, wash the carrots in the "radish" hole, and other menial things. I well know the fulfillment of picking 62 quarts of strawberries in one day, and enduring the pain of aching leg muscles during the process. Hands were paid 2-cents a quart for picking strawberries. And, Dad supervised the quality of the berries picked. If a worker picked rotten or green berries, Dad would dump the whole 10-quart tray on the ground, and they received no pay. It was harsh, but necessary, you can't market inferior berries.
Princess Anne County during the 1920's was largely rural. As I remember, there were only four high schools for the very large area. I graduated from Kempsville High School, five miles away by dirt road. There were about 25 students in my senior class. Kempsville High students were bussed from a large area including Glenrock, Bayside, Greenwich, Ocean Park at the Lynnhaven Inlet, and even the County Courthouse. I know of no 'colored' high schools. An elementary school for colored existed at New Light on Shell Road. I use the polite term 'colored' people. The term 'black' and Afro-American were not in my vocabulary at that time. The education of the colored adults and children was deplorable. Hattie and all of her family were illiterate.
During the early years of the 1920's strawberries were a lucrative crop. Dad grew patches on our farm, and rented a cut of ground from Mr. Birchard, just across the road, to grow more berries. But, growing strawberries is laborious and risky. The berry plants are set out in the spring in raised rows spaced four feet apart. As soon as it warms the grass grows rapidly and it is difficult to control, because the berry plants send out runners that root down every few inches. Continual hoeing is required to keep the grass down. Lloyd Webb had a man who week after week in the berry field with a hoe. What a dreary way to spend one's life. Berries bloom and fruit in very early spring, and picking berries is painful work. Pickers must stoop way over, or squat on their haunches to pick berries because they must reach out to the middle of the four-foot beds. But, a person can only due this for a hour or so, before the muscle pain becomes unbearable. Then they go down on their hands and knees to finish out the harvest. When the berries are good, usually the first picking, a young fast worker can pick over 100 quart baskets in a day. The quart baskets were made of thin wooden veneer, and obtained along with the crates and separators from the Farmer's Manufacturing Company in Norfolk. Our tenant, Eva, once picked 200 quarts in one day, setting a local record. The quarts of berries were carefully packaged in berry crates, I think 32 quarts to a crate. Tiny red spiders sometimes infested a berry field, and rendered the berries unsuitable for market. We had to discontinue berry farming because it became a loosing proposition. But, in it's heyday, it was a joy to send a truck loaded with berry crates to the boat docks, and the money made it worth while.
It was a day filled with excitement when Dad bought the Fordson tractor you see pictured at the head of this page. I was a child filled with awe and wonder to see this brightly painted machine arrive. About eight years later, I was spending countless hours on this growling monster that was so indifferent to human comfort. The Fordson was a rugged hunk of iron. I was all iron. The seat was iron, the steering wheel was iron, the gear shift was iron, the front wheels were iron, and the back wheels were iron with diagonal iron cleats. And the tractor always recalcitrant. It was hard to start on the best of days and we had to build a fire under it to start it in the winter. It had two fuel tanks, one for kerosene for general use, and one for gasoline for starting purposes. It used four ignition coils, one for each spark plug. The points on the ignition coils had to be spaced and tuned just right for good starting. The iron wheels gave a continually jolting ride, and the iron seat had to be covered with burlap to keep it from blistering you. The exhaust muffler, such as it was, soon gave way, and it was hard to tell which was the noisiest, the exhaust, or the growling gears. It was a bitch to start, and the treacherous crank would like to break your arm on a backfire. After having said all of this, the Fordson did the work of four or five mules, and several men, even though it at a price.
It is strange how innocent a child of four can be. I can well remember one frustrating morning, when Dad and Maryland had been working for some while trying to get the Fordson Started. Prime and crank and wait, and try again. As I watched their patience grow thin, Dad remarked: "we better not use any more gasoline, or the tractor might catch fire." I piped up: "I would like to see it catch fire." What's that!" he said. I gleefully reiterated my statement. That was too much for my perturbed Dad. He deliberately picked up some twigs and gave me a switching I remember to this day. I could not understand it then, but, I had said the wrong thing at the wrong time. That was the only whipping Dad ever gave me. Adults just don't understand.
Breaking ground by mule team is slow and laborious upon both man and beast. The ground must be just of the right moisture content, or it can't be done at all. The new and powerful tractor (compared to a pair of mules) made ground preparation a lot easier, but by no means a pleasure. Dad had bought a disc plow with the tractor. The disk plow will cut through trash better than the conventional turn plow, and it can be used to turn a furrow in dry ground that the turn plow cannot penetrate. The Fordson could pull a two-bank double disk, thus doing the work of four mules and two men. For a while, Dad helped Nat Williams and Lloyd Webb with their plowing, when the ground became to "tight" for mule plowing. Dad often drove the tractor himself and it was my job as a child to keep both Dad and the tractor in water. The Fordson sucked the dusty intake air through a water tank to remove the grit and protect the engine. On dry days the tank would load with mud every hour or so and had to be drained and refilled. It was my job to hand pump water and carry two bucket of water to the tractor so he could continue plowing. I can remember to this day how my little arms would ache under the water load as I walked the long lane to the distant cuts being worked. The tractor performed valiantly and faithfully for years. We ran the it until the wheel bearings gave way from the grinding dust, and had to be replaced. But, that is a story for another time.
As the trucks from the south delivered early vegetables to the northern markets, the prices dropped for our not-so-early produce, and the profit margins for local farmers vanished. The competition was gradual and pervasive. It seemed to sneak up upon Dad. He put up the best fight he could, and when the loses mounted, he borrowed money. Soon he owed for truck loads of crab scrap and other fertilizers necessary to grow beautiful crops. He borrowed money for the baskets to ship the product in, only to find out that the selling price was less than the cost of production. The debts mounted, mother became frightened and cried time and time again. It got worse each year. We could not afford to buy anything nice. I can remember when Dad did not have a single dollar. I had no shoes to wear for graduation and borrowed my Dad's. During my teens, I tried to help every way I could. Mother would go north in the summer to be with aging grandpa. Dad and I were left alone to work the fields and fend for ourselves. Finally, we could carry on no longer. Dad sold portions of our precious farm to pay the fertilize and basket debts incurred.
Early in the 1930's shipping of our vegetables to the north was a thing of the past. We still farmed, there was no other recourse, but we tried to sell our produce on the local market. The competition was severe, and the profit margin scarcely existed. All of our tenants were gone. Dad and I ran the farm ourselves. Occasionally we would hire Maryland to help us. Dad stayed on the farm harvesting the crops, while I tried to sell them downtown. One week, I worked night and day on Market St. selling tomatoes and cantaloupes. The market hours were long, usually from 5:00 o'clock in the morning to 11:00 o'clock at night. I had to stay with the truck continually and what fitful sleep I got occurred while laying across the Model T seats with my feet sticking out the door resting on a bean hamper. The profit margin was too small to hire help. Both tomatoes and cabbage sold for 1-cent a pound - hardly enough for subsistence living. At the end of that particular week, as I was walking up the lane, a strange feeling came over me. I made it to the porch and laid down on the swing. The next thing I knew, it was deep in the night when I awakened, and I got up and struggled to bed.
Somewhere along the way, the nice new Model-T truck with if hard rubber tires and chain driven wheels gave up the ghost. We paid $35 for an old two-door Pontiac coupe, stripped it of the rear seats, and cut the roof down to seat level. The Pontiac was in poor condition with near bare tires, and missing floor boards up front. We could not afford anti-freeze for it, and after each use in the winter, we had to drain the radiator. But, this old vehicle was the only means we had of taking cabbage to the market. We sold cabbage by the 'cabbage basket' which holds six pecks of cabbage. Packed and rounded with good hard cabbage, a basket weights about 50 pounds. These were desperate times.
Cabbage is a cold weather crop. It sold best during bitter weather. After I got home from school, Dad and I would cut and trim cabbage and load the Pontiac for market. Often, the cabbage was frozen hard and we had to use a hatchet to cut the hard stalks. Each head would way several pounds. We would load the Pontiac jam full and round it up as high as we dared. That way we could carry about 700 pounds. Then we would park the Pontiac in the shed, and drain the radiator to protect it from freezing. At night we kept a large teakettle full of water on top of the living room stove. At four O'clock in the morning, I would get up in an ice cold bedroom, dress, and carry the kettle of hot water to the shed. I filled the Pontiac radiator, and headed out for the market. It took about 20 minutes to drive downtown to Market Street, and find my regular parking spot. All the way the winter air leaked through the broken floor boards, and the from the open cab behind. With luck, I would sell the cabbage one or two baskets at a time to the city storekeepers who came down to Market Street to purchase their produce. The entire load would sell for about $7.00. Usually I had time to return home for breakfast and school.
When we were farming alone, we could not raise labor intensive crops, and cabbage was our main winter crop. We depended upon it to put food on our table. Dad started to notice missing heads of cabbage in an area of the field we had not harvested. He suspected that some huckster was gathering and selling our cabbage. We could not tolerate this. So, on the anticipated night, Dad hid behind a haystack adjacent to the cabbage field, and sure enough, the huckster came by with his wagon and baskets. Dad let him start cutting, and when he had bent over, Dad unloaded a charge of rock salt into his behind. It dropped him, and Dad went up and identified him, told him to get up and never come again. The terrified man, jumped up and ran to his awaiting wagon, never to be seen again. That ended the cabbage stealing from our patch.
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