HONORING GEORGE

Today is the anniversary of my brother George’s death. He really wasn't my brother but he was. You would have to know and understand how I grew up for me to really explain. I was raised on a tobacco farm in NC. Tobacco was the cash crop, just like the pot in Humbolt CO, CA. (Just wanted to say this as a joke). 

As one of five boys, we worked. But, none of us worked like George. George really belonged to the Orphanage. Belonged is the true concept, he was viewed as property. 

As was the custom when tobacco harvesting took place, farmers would go to the orphanage and hire kids as laborers. The orphanage kids worked and the meager wages would go to the Orphanage. My details are sketchy because I didn’t pay it a lot of attention when George showed up for the first time. (Not totally sure about how it all came about but how I think it might have happened). 

Priming/cropping tobacco was back breaking work. More than likely a miserable sickness went along with the work. The tobacco had been sprayed with chemicals to kill worms which were maxed out deadly to tobacco. The poison (toxins) would get on the workers and a type of sickness would descend where you would have to get better to die. Once the workers went to the fields, they never stopped until dark. Therefore, they brought their meager lunch with them. George never had anything. Then one day my Dad showed up with a lunch for George. Then began an unusual bond between my Dad and George. 

One day George came to work with bruises and not one but both eyes black. My dad was incensed. I don’t know what happened but soon my Uncle Craven showed up. He and Dad did some heated talking. Uncle Craven was heavily involved with the Klan. He had been in WWll and wounded badly. My Dad and Uncle were two of five brothers. All five had come to America from Ireland as indentured servants to work in the tobacco fields. 

They worked,  according to my brothers, for years and would never have gained their freedom had not one of the brothers killed the wealthy land owner in a saloon brawl. Three of the brothers fled west. This is about all I know. My Uncle was a violent man and according to my brothers, nobody messed with him. Mainly they were scared of the Klan. George never went back to the Orphanage but lived with us the rest of his life.