An American Harvest Read online

  AN AMERICAN HARVEST

  AN

  AMERICAN

  HARVEST

  How One Family

  Moved from Dirt-Poor Farming

  to a Better Life in the Early 1900s

  Cardy Raper

  Copyright © 2016 Cardy Raper

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Printed in the United States

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Green Writers Press is a Vermont-based publisher whose mission is to spread a message of hope and renewal through the words and images we publish. Throughout we will adhere to our commitment to preserving and protecting the natural resources of the earth. To that end, a percentage of our proceeds will be donated to environmental activist groups. Green Writers Press gratefully acknowledges support from individual donors, friends, and readers to help support the environment and our publishing initiative.

  Giving Voice to Writers & Artists Who Will Make the World a Better Place Green Writers Press | Brattleboro, Vermont www.greenwriterspress.com

  ISBN: 978-0-9962676-2-5

  Visit the author’s website at

  www.cardyraper.com

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  To the memory of my precious husband John,

  the reddest of the redheads

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  1. Never Be Idle

  2. Be Always Learning

  3. Strive to Please

  4. Beware of Evil

  5. Leave Evil Companions

  6. Do Wrong to None

  7. Be Polite

  8. Obey the Conscience

  9. Never Give Up

  10. Do Your Best

  11. Harken to Good Advice

  12. Strive to Do Right

  13. Knowledge is Power; Wisdom is Strength

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  The Raper Homestead.

  PROLOGUE

  FRANK RAPER didn’t feel too good. He’d survived a massive heart attack about a year earlier in 1910 and hadn’t been much use since. His older boys helped out as much as they could: preparing beds for the Bright Leaf tobacco seeds to sprout their way to seedlings, plowing the fields in readiness for planting, tilling, topping, suckering as each plant put out unwanted shoots. Then followed harvesting and stringing the good leaves on poles over in the curing barn where Frank and the boys took turns stoking the fires night and day till each blade reached that perfect yellow gold.

  The crop had gone to market. Frank rocked on the porch, savoring the lingering sweet smell of well-cured tobacco. He gathered strength as wife Julie lay in bed with early signs of labor bringing forth their eighth child. The older two, Cletus and Luther, had gone back to high school away in Churchland.

  Frank called the rest together. “Arthur, Ralph, Howard, Blanche, Kenneth, you’re all going to Uncle Dave’s for the night. Arthur, you see to it your brothers and sister get there with pajamas and clean clothes for the morning.”

  Oh, I know what’s coming, thought Arthur. They’re going to call Doctor Bob with his little black bag, and when we get back home there’ll be another squalling baby in that worn-out cradle.

  Sure enough, the very next day, October 3, 1911, those five Raper children came home after breakfast to find a tiny baby boy sleeping peacefully beside their loving mother. This one had red hair like the last three, Kenneth, Blanche, and Howard. They called him John. In a few more years, he’d be another welcome farmhand in this rural North Carolina community called Welcome.

  I married grown-up baby John in 1949. A distinguished scientist by the time I knew him, John’s childhood haunted him still. The youngest of eight, he grew up tasting the red dust of that farm of his youth and its main cash crop: tobacco. Resentful memories of never-ending chores: hauling water, slopping pigs, milking cows, plowing fields, setting crops, suckering tobacco—row upon row in the blistering sun of summer—all took hold and stuck. It wasn’t so bad when the brothers shared, but ultimately they left to seek more profitable livelihoods elsewhere. It was a time John could not forget. Yet John’s ties to his brothers and sister stayed strong. All urban professionals, they nonetheless gathered in family reunion every five years and exchanged Round Robin letters in between.

  In 1965, it was our turn to plan the reunion. After sixteen years of marriage and thirteen years of parenthood, I’d heard about this family from John’s point of view. I wanted to learn more. Why did each and every one leave that hard-working God-fearing way of life, where discontented peers found mischievous and shocking diversions: stealing watermelons, bullying, mutilating, even murdering the vulnerable? Not one of John’s siblings grew up to continue farming, like so many of their neighboring friends and relatives. From a one-room schoolhouse, they all sought higher education and professional accomplishments elsewhere— though their parents never went beyond seventh grade. How did that happen?

  John and I booked an inn in Boothbay Harbor, Maine, because of its ocean breezes, its lobsters, clams, and pleasant dining spot facing an expansive lawn that sloped to a shimmering pond with a swimming dock and paddleboats.

  Forty-eight members of the Raper family, all related in some fashion to long-dead William Franklin and Julia Crouse Raper, assembled the first week of August. All but one of John’s siblings attended. Cletus, the oldest, had died since the last reunion.

  I asked them to come prepared to talk about their time together as youngsters on the farm. John and I had just purchased a tape recorder to preserve their words.

  After three days of romping about, chatting, swimming, boating, and feasting on fruits of the ocean, we settled down in one large room to hear what these brethren had to say.

  This is the scene: It is evening. Children and spouses crowd on and about two king-sized beds facing a large rectangular table at one end of the room where the Raper siblings position themselves in the following order.

  Arthur, third son, presides at head of table, and, by common assent, assumes the moderator’s role. With shaggy grey hair, he sits erect looking every bit the part of a man in charge. As an official of the US State Department, Arthur had traveled the world—Japan, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan—advising heads of government on matters of sociological and agricultural importance during the aftermath of World War II. Extensively published—author of seven scholarly books—he comes equipped with many writings and documents.

  Ralph, fourth son, perhaps the handsomest, sits properly straight and tall. With neatly trimmed hair, light rimmed glasses, and half smile, he is the only brother wearing jacket and tie. A cotton economist with the US Department of Agriculture, Ralph comes bearing poems that set the scenes with vignettes of nostalgic childhood memories.

  Luther, former director of membership relations for the Southern States Farmers’ Cooperative, and eldest of the living lot, sets his younger siblings straight on some of their recollections. Of jovial temperament, he is mindful of differing feelings and tends to smile a lot.

  Howard, middle child and first of the redheads, manifests an overseeing manner befitting his profession as president of a savings and loan company. Although the wealthiest family member, he displays a tendenc
y of self-deprecation for not having done so well in school, especially when it came to spelling. Howard, like Luther, sits relaxed and smiles often.

  Blanche, the second redhead and only female, appears determined yet demure. She teaches history and English in high school and has a penchant for writing poetry of philosophical and romantic bent, setting some to music. Blanche holds her own vis-à-vis all those brothers, refusing to suffer their guff.

  Redheads Kenneth and John sit side-by-side and vie for attention as youngest of the lot. Both are distinguished university professors specializing in the science of fungi, and both are recipients of numerous accolades for their contributions to science.

  Ken, the older, balding with red hair, claims fame as discoverer of the first strain of Penicillium capable of producing industrial amounts of the antibiotic penicillin during World War II. Tenured at the University of Wisconsin, he is author of four scholarly books.

  John, fully redheaded, is professor of botany at Harvard University and a world-renowned expert on sexual reproduction in fungi.

  Despite similar interests, Kenneth conveys an air of acceptance, smiling benignly most of the time, while John, not so benign, expresses resentment for having been put upon by all those older brothers.

  Cletus, the oldest sibling, now gone, became the office manager of a large construction company and co-invented a balloon tire (for which he never won a patent). He had died of a heart attack since the previous family reunion and is fondly remembered here by all his brethren.

  These siblings speak of life growing up on a dirt-poor farm with no modern conveniences but a plentitude of religious teachings and manual labor. They recount their hard-fought struggle to get an education and leave the farm for a more rewarding livelihood elsewhere. Their family reminiscences personalize a widespread movement from farm to urban ventures in early twentieth-century America.

  Organized more or less by subject, the Rapers’ readings are in italics; their discussions are in Roman and here is what this family has to say along with occasional musings of my own set off by italics and an ornament.

  You are invited to listen.

  Raper siblings at 1965 reunion: Howard, Ralph, Luther, Blanche, Kenneth, Arthur, and John.

  Julia and Frank just married.

  AN AMERICAN HARVEST

  Julia and Frank with six of their offspring: daughter-in-law: Rachel and Luther next to them; John, Howard, Kenneth, Ralph, and Blanch, seated in front yard of homestead in 1927.

  CHAPTER 1

  Never be Idle

  ARTHUR:

  Now we shall think about things that happened long ago, when Momma and Papa were alive and we were children about the age of some of our own youngsters here. They will be interested to know what life was like when we were coming along at the ages they are now, and I think it will be satisfying for us to recall it. Some of us have written things down in preparation for this. Ralph, I know you have; let’s start with you.

  RALPH:

  I have entitled this “I Remember.” Although my main interests now are not generally associated with yesteryears, I shall respect Cardy’s request and list a few of the impressions, experiences, conditions, and situations I still remember. The mere fact that another’s memory may be different from mine doesn’t mean that mine is wrong and his is right, or that his is right and mine is wrong. They may both be wrong.

  I remember the house in which I was born

  Located on the crest of a hill

  Containing, first, four finished rooms and two porches,

  Then another room finished

  Still later another

  Then two more rooms along with an upstairs porch.

  I remember the old well in the yard

  And the problems involved in keeping an adequate supply of water

  Taking out the walls and digging it deeper on two occasions

  And the unwelcome guests that occasionally fell in the water

  Before the concrete floor was built around it.

  I remember the persimmon trees in the cow pasture across the road from the house

  Picking the persimmons up off the ground

  And eating them without a thought of bugs, germs, filth, or radioactivity.

  I remember pitching hay from small shocks in the meadow

  Onto the wagon and, from it, onto stacks,

  Going from one to five

  Stopping for supper

  And again, from six to eight, before calling it a day.

  I remember stooping over

  Moving up and down the rows

  Setting out tobacco plants

  hour after hour

  And upon trying to stand erect,

  finding it almost impossible.

  JOHN:

  Ralph, I’m still stooped over! Planting and suckering tobacco made a lasting impression on me. I would like to know how many of you feel as I do—that I was singled out for particular lone duty on hot afternoons in tobacco fields when everybody else was doing something less onerous. I have grown up, boy and man, feeling that I spent more unattended and unaccompanied hours in the smelly, dirty tobacco fields than any of the rest of you could have, and I want to know if there’s any basis in fact for this; or was it just that I was particularly sensitive or lazy?

  LUTHER:

  I have known all these years you’ve felt this way, John, and there are some grounds for it. The primary difference is this: In the early years there were four or five of us in the tobacco field; when you carried the burden, all the rest of us were gone off to school. Papa wasn’t able to be out with you, so you were all by yourself. And it is an uninteresting thing pulling worms and breaking suckers with nobody else to help.

  “What’s suckering?” asks one of the assembled.

  LUTHER:

  Suckering is pinching off the smaller unproductive leaves so the bigger healthier ones can grow better—you get more smoking leaves that way. It’s a right sticky, messy job. You can make it a social affair if there are several of you, and a lot of talking did go on. I see it this way, John, and I know how you have felt.

  JOHN:

  I think one reason I’ve smoked so much is that I’ve been trying to get back at it.

  Howard:

  Papa didn’t have anyone else to call on and nobody else to pass it on to.

  JOHN:

  You would know, Howard, being in the middle. But that’s not the whole of it. Recall also, you chums knew our father when he was well and not so irritable. He had his massive heart attack before my birth. I never knew him as a strong, robust man. By the time I arrived, the hard labor on the farm was left mostly to those of the sons who were temporarily unable to find more diverting and less strenuous occupation elsewhere; and you all were better at finding that than I.

  HOWARD:

  We’d had more experience; we were older than you!

  JOHN:

  And still are—as you often care to remind me. I envy Ralph that he can recall the bucolic diversions with so much pleasure. These made less lasting impression on me than did the work, or perhaps worse, the ever-present threat of work.

  As John’s wife, I shared his vexation over dominating older siblings, for I too was born last in a large family of boisterous older brothers. Perhaps as the only girl, I felt the domination more than he, although in different ways. Our family had a farm. We didn’t live on it—my father grew up there. Then, urged on by his much older brother, he left to become a smalltown lawyer around 1907. By the time I came along, the farm still stood, run by my oldest brother, Paul. I and the other brothers helped out now and then. I thought it mostly fun, a break from city life and schooling. I pitched hay, picked apples, fetched water, tramped the silo, and ultimately felt proud to get promoted to driving the manure spreader all by myself. John found that kind of work no fun at all—just a burden.

  I think I didn’t realize how deeply it affected him until I listened to his comments.

  LUTHER:

  There was right much w
ork, always something to do. I brought along a diary I’d kept for two to three years when I was in my teens. It’ll give some idea of all the different kinds of work there was to do on the farm in those days. This was of course before I’d defected, as John put it—defected for good anyway.

  I was getting my schooling down at Churchland then, so I wasn’t around the better part of the winter months, but it seems like I made up for it come spring, summer, and fall; we didn’t have many months of school in those days like the children do now.

  Here are some entries right after school was out in April, 1915, a week after Easter:

  Monday, 12. Cut a spoke tree (an oak used primarily for wagon wheel spokes), sawed and split posts and went to singing at Enterprise. Weather fair.

  Tuesday, 13. Hauled rails (I spelled it ‘halled’!), dug post-holes, harrowed, and planted posts. Went to store at night. Weather clear.

  Thursday, 15. Planted corn, about 6 acres, and split spokes. Weather fair.

  Thursday, 22. (You see, I skipped a day or so here and there—must have been too tired from working to write every day.) Cut out cantaloupe ridges, Went to Giles Glen’s funeral. Hauled manure and plowed. Weather fair.

  Wednesday, 28. Plowed by mill pond and hauled water, harrowed, cemented smokehouse floor. (I have that cemented spelled with an “s.”) Made a milk trough and went to Miz Ida Carver’s at night to sing, Weather fair.

  (Then, just to give an idea of what August was like, I’ll skip over.)

  Monday, 16. Helped work the road towards Friedberg and worked Irish potatoes. Went to preaching at night. Weather fair. (You see, that time in August we were working right much with the tobacco crop, and we had to go to preaching too. That was part of the annual revival meeting. We all went and had to fit the work around it somehow.)