“I said, ‘Well, yes, Dad. I’ll try it.’ So I went on with that load of apples. I had a brother and a brother-in-law with me. They had a wagon apiece. So we went on down.
“They told me, said, ‘Now, you can go any way you want to. We’ll go one way, and you go the other.’ I started off, got a head start, [and we got to Athens separately and didn’t find each other right away]. I was so interested in selling apples, workin’ away, I didn’t notice it was coming dark. And I kept sellin’—they was just a-buyin’ ’em good. I like to have sold the whole wagonload that evening. It was nine o’clock, and I was tryin’ to get to the center of town. I was lookin’ for my brother and lookin’ for camp. I had a little feller workin’ for me, said he didn’t know how to get back to the center of town. I told him that either he was gonna take me to the center of town, or I wasn’t gonna let him loose. He was a little feller, just about twelve years old. I kept holdin’ him, and then I happened on Main Street and still didn’t know where I was. As it turned out, I was goin’ toward where the wagonyard was. My brother and brother-in-law had just started to camp, and I just run into them. They said they’d kept lookin’ for me—they’d pulled in the center of town there in Athens, thought I’d come through there.
“They had regular places for people to camp—called ’em wagon-yards. We’d just go there, pay fifty cents or something for a night’s camping. Inside the building, there’d be fifteen or twenty wagons in there. Had a place to cook—a fireplace. We’d fry sausage and stuff like that—done our own cookin’.
“After that first trip I always went from then on [with] that wagonload of apples. From then on I done the wagon trips. There’d always be somebody else, neighbors or relatives who’d want me to take a load. I’d just fill up with a load and go on. Wouldn’t make my daddy go—he never was stout. I just said, ‘Daddy, I can take care of it from now on.’ And I did. I took care of things from the time I was fifteen ’til the time I was twenty-three. He died when I was twenty-three.”
COMMERCIAL FARMS
Not so many years ago, although most families farmed, few were involved in commercial endeavors. Farmers occasionally took a few of their surplus crops to market, but those were often used to trade for supplies that could not be grown on the farm. The earlier necessity of growing crops to feed one’s family, however, eventually gave way to the modern world, as farm families began to be aware of the marketability of their crops and thus became connected to an economic system beyond their own families and community. One such entrepreneur was J. C. Stubblefield. Mr. Stubblefield ran a sweet potato seedling business for many years and supplied most of the Rabun County area with sweet potato slips.
“We did [sweet potato slips] for years and years. I don’t know when we started ’cause I wasn’t big enough to know. [Daddy] started it. It’s a lot of work. When you first start, you dig a hole about eighteen inches in the ground, and you put on some pine tops. Just cut off a sprig of pine and put it in the bottom [of the hole]. That’s to help heat it. Then you get about twelve inches of barnyard manure and put in there. That’s for heat [too]. Then you lay the potatoes and put about an inch of dirt on them. Then you put [three or four sweet potato sprouts on top of that to ensure the plant “takes”]. Put dirt on top of that. Then, when you get that done, you take old tarpaper or tin—we’ve used both—and cover it to keep the water out of it. They’ll come up in about a month. [Then] you take the cover off of it, and you water it a little, and they start growin’. Whenever they get [six or seven inches tall], you start pullin’ [the sprouts]. When they get ready to pull, you’ve gotta pull ’em, and you’ve gotta have a market for them or somebody to come get them. Then you start again in about two or three days. We have had as high as sixty bushel in the ground. Our beds was four and one-half or five feet wide, and we had one about four feet long and one about six feet long. When they’d get started good, it took two hands to keep them plants pulled, and I mean [it took] all day!
“Then you’ve got to count ’em. When you’re selling ’em to the public, you get instructions [from the state] on how to do things, and the instructions say you must count ’em. There must be a hundred in the bunch.”
PLATE 40 Bernice Taylor
Bernice Taylor, J. C.’s sister, remembered her mother giving them instructions to always err on the side of having too many potato slips in the bunches. “[It’d] take about two days to pull ’em and tie ’em. Mama said, ‘Count them things now. You got a hundred?’
“‘Yeah.’
“‘Put three more slips in.’”
J. C. continued, “Yeah, we always put two or three extras in there. They’d send you tape to tie [the slips] with. The rules and regulations say they must be a hundred in a bunch. [The tape is] about twelve inches long and it’s got ‘Certified Sweet Potatoes’ with the year [printed on it]. That tape was supposed to tie that bunch of potato [slips]. [We’d sell them] anywhere in the county. We could have took a third inspection and sold ’em anywhere in the state, but we didn’t fool with that, because we could get shed of ’em here.
“[After you count them] you’ve got to put ’em in the shade and set ’em in some water or something where they’ll be a little wet to keep ’em alive.
“Plantin’ season went from about the first of May to about July. You’ve gotta get ’em in between the last week of March and the first week of April to have ’em up big enough to sell by May. You’d get about three thousand [sprouts] to a bushel of sweet potatoes. I remember selling a lot of [the potato slips] for ten cents a hundred. That was one dollar a thousand. Now they bring about seven dollars a hundred, but money went a lot further then than it does now.
“We planted down in the lower field. We had some good land down there. It was red clay. We planted there because the potatoes seemed to do better. There was four or five terraces, and we’d have sweet potatoes in every one of ’em.
“The state inspector would come and check [the potatoes]. He’d watch and see if they had any diseases or anything. They won’t let you sell ’em if they’ve got a disease.
“The mail carrier carried a lot of ’em to town to the co-op store, and they’d sell ’em there. A lot of times, they’d want plants, and we didn’t have ’em because they’s takin’ ’em as fast as we could raise ’em. A lot of folks would come after ’em [too].
“[In] 1957 was when we done away with the sweet potatoes because we didn’t have no help, and it took a lot of help. Sometimes you’d have to hire some help to help get ’em in. [Hired help] worked for ten or twenty cents an hour. You didn’t make a whole lot. You just made barely enough to live.”
APPLE GROWING
Perhaps the most prominent type of commercial farming was apple growing. Just before the turn of the twentieth century, John P. Fort discovered that Rabun County and the surrounding area were especially suited to growing apples. In the following sections from his pamphlets and his personal journal, John Fort tells why he chose this part of the country for his fruit-growing activities and his observations of how weather and topographic conditions affected the fruit. Mr. Fort wrote extensively concerning fruit growing in northeastern Georgia. The following excerpts, which focus on apple growing, are taken from John Porter Fort: A Memorial and Personal Reminiscences, published by the Knickerbocker Press (New York) in 1918.
“I now come to what I consider the most successful undertaking of the latter part of my life—the growing of apples in Rabun County
“Through Demorest there used to pass covered wagons full of apples on their way from the mountains to Athens. I was struck with the beauty of these apples, especially with an apple called the ‘Mother’ apple, which was capable of a very high polish and was very free from blemish. On talking to the wagoneers, I found that they came down from Rabun County and near Shooting Creek, North Carolina, and that they grew their apples with very little care or cultivation. I was so interested that I went up to Rabun to study the apple question. I applied for the government meteorological maps of
this section. I was struck by its heavy rainfall. An area of about thirty miles square with the center at Clayton, Rabun County, and extending into North Carolina, has the largest rainfall of any part of the United States, except Puget Sound on the Pacific Coast—a rainfall averaging from seventy to one hundred inches per annum. This does not come in floods, but all through the year in continual showers. I have often stood in Rabun Gap and been struck with wonder at the mist being drawn through Rabun, Hiawassee, and Crow’s Gap, forming clouds laden with moisture to be deposited upon the mountains and vales of this favored country. They often present scenes of sunshine and clouds so inspiring and grand that they seem to encircle us with the majesty of Almighty Power. This rain upon a well-drained soil is very adaptable to the growth of splendid apples.
“On seeing what fine apples could be grown without cultivation, one naturally asked what could not be done with modern scientific culture. I wished very much to plant an orchard in that favored section. At first I tried to interest persons with capital in this enterprise, which I felt confident would be a profitable investment. I met with no success so, in spite of my limited resources, I determined to make the venture myself.”
In The Story of an Apple, published by Cornelia Enterprise Press in Cornelia, Mr. Fort documents his apple-growing experiment and successes in Rabun County.
“In pursuance of a long contemplated desire, I purchased, in 1906, fifty acres of land near Rabun Gap, in Northeast Georgia, for the purpose of planting an apple orchard.
“The position chosen was within a mile and one-half of Rabun Gap, on the Tallulah Falls railroad. The place was known as Turkey Cove, on Black’s Creek, forming the headwaters of the Tennessee River. [Editor’s note: Black’s Creek runs into, rather than forms, the headwaters of the Tennessee River.]
“There was upon the place about fifty apple trees that had been planted fifteen or twenty years previous. They were over-grown with wild vines, and presented a very neglected appearance. I had the old trees cared for, and I planted a young orchard of twelve hundred trees on the place, of approved varieties of apples.
“The young apple trees I planted grew, and the old trees responded to the care given them. After the first year’s care and cultivation, there appeared among the old trees in the orchard four trees that produced a red apple that surprised me with its splendid appearance. They ripened about the first of November, 1908.
PLATE 41 Alvin Alexander and Chet Welch surveying the ruins of the orchard foreman’s home in Turkey Cove
“About this time, I received by mail a pamphlet showing that there was to be held at Spokane, Washington, the first national apple show. A prize was offered for the best two barrels or six boxes of apples grown in the sixteen Southern states. This prize was called the Southern States Special and was divided into first, second, and third prizes. I conceived the idea of sending six boxes of my apples to the contest for the Southern States Special. I had about twenty-five bushels from the four trees. I shipped six boxes by express to the secretary of the national apple show to enter for the premium. In return, I received a check for $50 for the second best apples. North Carolina received first prize, my apples from Georgia the second, and apples from Oklahoma the third prize.
“Being elated with my success, I had my four apple trees specially cared for. November 1, 1909, they presented an appearance superior to any similar sight I ever beheld. The National Apple Show was again held in Spokane in November, 1909. I again contended for the first prize above all competitors. The chairman of the committee making the award was the most renowned pomologist in our country—Mr. H. E. Van Demar of Washington, D.C. Besides, I obtained a diploma for the best new variety of apples.
“This apple, having been pronounced a new variety and worthy of being put upon the pomological books at Washington, was listed and given the name of Fort’s Prize.
“The apple having demonstrated those qualities that make a financial success, such as appearance, color, taste, and above all, keeping without decay until the spring time, I at once proceeded to investigate its origin. I was fortunate in finding the man who had grafted and planted the four apple trees whose products had made so much commotion among the apple growers. The originator of this apple is named Kell. He lives near Clayton in Rabun County. His story is this: About sixteen years prior to 1908, he lived at Turkey Cove. At this time, while on a visit to his uncle near the source of Warwoman’s Creek in Rabun County, he noticed an apple tree growing from beside the chimney of his uncle’s cabin, upon which was a beautiful red apple. His uncle informed him that the tree was a seedling, and that he had named it after his niece, Mollie. From this tree Mr. Kell cut a switch, and from a graft made upon young trees, planted the four trees in Turkey Cove.
“Anticipating that an orchard of this new variety of apple will be valuable, I have obtained grafts from the old trees and have put out an orchard of three hundred of them.”
Recently, interest has been rekindled in the Fort’s Prize apple. Some people claim that it is actually the Jim Kell Thin Skin that Mr. Fort named after himself when the apple won first prize in the National Apple Show in 1909, and even Mr. Fort stated that the apple was originally grafted by a man named Kell. Be that as it may, the trees from which the apple grew have apparently been “lost” as houses deteriorated and burned or collapsed and orchards were overtaken by the surrounding forests.
PLATE 42 “I like to see anything grow.”—Ross Brown
Ross Brown also remembered growing apples commercially. However, unlike John Fort, who came into the area because of its favorable apple-growing climate, Mr. Brown inherited his first apple orchard from his father.
“We came down here and began to clear our land because it was all timberland. Then we began to plant the orchards. When my family started growing apples, there were no orchards around here [Hiawassee] except just home orchards, you know, just a few trees for home use. Everybody said that Brown was as crazy as a lunatic to put an orchard in this region here because there was no railroad, no market. There were lots of orchards over in Habersham County in that region around Clarkesville, but none closer.
“My dad grew apples commercially. He grew Winesap, Arkansas Black, Yates, and the Terry Winter. Yates is just a small red apple, and it and the Terry Winter will keep all winter. He ran both a nursery and an orchard in here above Hiawassee. There was six of us kids and he worked all of us. He had no other help. He had about a hundred-acre orchard, and he kept adding younger trees on up until he died in 1928 of a stroke. That was around the Fourth of July. He didn’t last but just for a few hours after he got sick. I stayed on and ran the nursery for a while longer.
“All they knew back in those days was standard-sized trees, so that’s what we had. They made a big tree, and [the trees were] set approximately thirty feet apart, each direction. That would figure out around between thirty and forty trees per acre.
“Then we began to get some diseases in our section of the country. We had apple worm. I know you’ve bit into an apple, maybe bit a worm half in two. I don’t think they’d hurt you, though. Had a lot of protein in those worms that you ate. There were the worms, and then the blight, the scab, and the ground rot, belly rot, and what they called the apple blotch. You’ve seen an apple with black spots on it? That’s what they call the blotch.
“So in 1917 we bought the first spray pump that ever come in this county. We always bought our sprayers, didn’t try to make them ourselves, and Hardie Pump was the best pump that was made. We had to spray the whole tree. Our main spray was lime-sulfur. We boiled fifty pounds of lime and one hundred pounds of sulfur for about one hour. It would be real strong, and that controlled most of the diseases. When we first started spraying, people wouldn’t even buy our apples. They claimed the apples were poisoned.
“We had two large storage houses dug out in the side of the mountain. They were square and had dirt floors and walls, hard sandrock, you know. It wouldn’t cave in. The walls were straight up and down, and we could st
and up in there. One was about thirty by fifty feet and the other about twenty by twelve or fourteen feet. I don’t remember exactly, but they’d hold a bunch of apples. We had double doors on them and had it real tight. We had slatted bins in there made out of one-by-fours, and the air would circulate through them. There were overhead ventilators bringing air in. Of course, we didn’t have electricity, and there weren’t any fans in there. We’d just cut a hole right up through the roof and run a pipe through. The air would just circulate through, forming a suction.
“We’d let the apples get almost ripe, and then we picked them. That way, they’d stay real juicy and crisp all winter long in storage. When it was real cold on the outside, below zero, it was warm in there. And when the weather began to warm up, it still stayed cool in there. The apples would be real juicy, and they would have a real good flavor. Those apples had a better flavor than any cold-storage apple you eat now. The bugs wouldn’t get in them after they got ripe in the storage houses.
“Years ago, we took apples to the fair, and they always got prizes. It was probably good advertisement. We sold our apples at Young Harris, Georgia, and Murphy, North Carolina.
“During World War I, good apples would bring around four and five dollars a bushel. Most everybody had enough money. People would come in wagons and buy a wagonload of apples. There wasn’t but just a few trucks, one just once in a while.
“My dad bought a Ford truck in 1922. After that, he would haul apples to Athens and Gainesville. They’d take maybe some dried fruits and chestnuts and Irish potatoes, maybe a jug of moonshine, you know, to sell it. They’d be gone about ten days or two weeks.
“In 1929 it was rough going! Apple growing was just like everything else. It was hard to make a go at it during the Depression. We had a real fine apple. We sold some of ’em three bushels for a dollar, but a whole lot of ’em we couldn’t even sell. So, still your labor and your spray and fertilizer had to go on just the same.
Foxfire 11: Wild Plant Uses, Gardening, Wit, Wisdom, Recipes, Beekeeping, Toolmaking, Fishing, and More Affairs of Plain Living Page 9