Going Over Home by Charles Thompson Jr

Author:Charles Thompson, Jr.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chelsea Green Publishing

Jim Smyre and family planting tobacco, 1987. Photograph by Rob Amberg.

Cultivating | 1980–81

The springtime sky seemed to expand as I left Kentucky and passed through the Valley of Virginia for an interview at the Graham Center, the Rural Advancement Fund’s organic demonstration farm situated in North Carolina’s Anson County, on the South Carolina border. Upon seeing the ad for garden manager in a newsletter I received that spring, I knew immediately that I wanted the job. I had to admit that I was desperate to leave the coalfields. Living on the north side of a roadcut, where the sun rose as late as eleven, and jockeying with coal trucks every day had taken its toll. Also, a personal relationship was going sour, and I was sure the place we lived had as much to do with the failure as any personality clash. When I got word about the interview, I was elated that I might work on a farm again, even though the program I was applying for with VISTA (Volunteers in Service to America) paid only a subsistence wage. The whole prospect gave me a glimmer of optimism despite the loss of salary.

After an eight-hour drive, I finally reached Wadesboro, the Anson county seat, and headed southward on 742, a two-lane road leading toward the small hamlet known as Cason Old Field at the South Carolina line. After eight or so miles, I stopped at a small country store to ask directions, thinking I must have gone too far. Inside were two white men sitting in chairs in the center of the store near the Nabs rack, and another man, the store owner, leaning on the front counter. All three watched me warily. I was familiar with the “you-ain’t-from-around-here” look, but this one was more hostile. Acting as if I hadn’t noticed the glares, I nodded to the men in the chairs and then greeted the man at the cash register as I paid for some Lance peanuts and a drink. Then, feeling as if my purchase gave me the right, I asked how I might find a place called the Graham Center. I thought these rural men might have welcomed a place that helped farmers. Immediately, the seated ones clammed up and gave a sidelong glance as the owner sneered and almost spit. Showing off, he laid into me with these words:

“Boy, you better turn around right now and go back to where you come from. There ain’t nothing down there but niggers and white women having sex. They ain’t no real farm down there, just Yankees pretending to farm with government money.” More explicit and vile language followed. I quickly took my change and walked out, wishing I’d never stopped. But in the midst of his tirade, the store owner had said the words, “down there,” so I took that as an unintended hint and continued southward. I found the Center not three miles farther down the same road, almost within sight of South Carolina. I should have trusted the odometer.

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