Marshall McClung
Randall Standridge wrote a song titled “When Summer’s in the Meadow,” which reminded me of my childhood days.
In my case, when it was summer in the meadow, I was in the field – either tobacco or hay – and both before the summer ended. If I was not in our own fields, then that of a neighbor farmer who would hire us young boys on Atoah Creek to help.
We were glad to get the work, as none of us received an allowance from our parents. This was our only source of spending for most of the year.
It was hot, hard work and shade was scarce in the large, open fields. At first – before farmers had equipment to bail or roll the hay – it had to be loaded with pitch forks. That was the same way it was put in barn haylofts. Whoever had the position in the back of the loft would just about touch the roof with their head when the loft was almost full of hay. You had to be very careful not to bump a wasp nest with your head.
Life in the tobacco field wasn’t any easier – especially on the McClung farm, which was located on a mountainside. We carried the tobacco from the field to the barn by hand. You would get the wax from the tobacco on your hands and arms. It was difficult to get it washed off. Lava soap was about your best bet.
The going rate for child labor then was 50 cents per hour, regardless of what the job was. You would be fed a large meal and paid in cash at the end of the day.
I can only recall one time that I was paid more. A man that was considered a grouch by most came to our house wanting one of us boys to cut up some wood he had in the yard. We overheard the conversation he was having with our dad.
My brother Sam and I were beating a hasty retreat from the scene. Sam made it out the door and I didn’t.
I rode my bicycle to his home with a feeling of dread hanging over me. When I arrived and started cutting the wood, he stood over me watching every move. I was expecting constant criticism, but instead he teased me about my love life – which was nonexistent at age 14.
When I was cutting the wood, he complimented me on a job well done.
His wife had a delicious meal ready for us.
When he paid me, it was double or more what I would normally have gotten. When I started to leave, he said that a boy who had worked like I did shouldn’t have to pedal his bicycle uphill to get back home. He had me put the bicycle in bed of his truck and drove me home.
I made sure that Sam heard what he had missed out on.
Marshall McClung is the historical columnist for The Graham Star. He is retired from the U.S. Forest Service and can be reached via email, mcclungs828@gmail.com.