When I came along in the late ’40s, my grandparents still owned what they called the Joe Place, although they had moved to a 50-acre farm close to Rockingham.
For years, Granddad leased the Joe Place to other farmers who grew corn on the place, but he still loved to visit the ol’ farm above Ellerbe.
So happened, my Bolton family was Methodist and every third Sunday (when the service started at 11 a.m.) we would attend church at Concord Methodist Church in northern Richmond County. I always enjoyed the third Sunday because we would take a picnic lunch to eat after church. Sometimes we would eat along the banks of Capel Mill Pond, at the Ol’ Ewing Place, or under a shade tree at the Joe Place. Either way, we would finish the afternoon riding or walking over each place.
As I got older, I could just about walk over each place with a blindfold on and not get lost. Not being old enough to drive, I would jump at a chance to get a ride to the old places to hunt or fish. Usually in the summertime, after Dad got off at 12 on Saturdays, we would ride up to the old place, cut the grass at the Ewing cemetery, and fish in the Capel Mill pond and Mountain Creek. In the winter, Dad and my uncles would take a cross-cut saw and cut firewood while I roamed the woods with my .22 rifle. When it came the time to load the wood, Dad blew the truck horn letting me know I needed to come help.
I remember one Thanksgiving day in the late ’50s. My Dad and I left home early so we could hunt squirrels at the Joe Place. There had been a lot of corn planted that year at the Joe Place and, for some reason, it hadn’t all been harvested.
Won’t many deer back then in that part of the county, but the raccoons and the squirrels were having a feast eating all that corn.
We didn’t have a dog, so we were shaking squirrel nests and watching the tree for any movement. Why, it won’t long, we had killed nine squirrels and a fat coon; a friend of ours loved coon meat.
As we walked on either side of a small creek bank, we spotted what Dad said was the remains of a whiskey still. The site didn’t look that old, but all the equipment for making liquor had been removed. I reckon with all that corn close by and running water, the shiners had all they needed. Maybe that’s why all the corn hadn’t been gathered out of the fields.
As we were looking around the abandoned still, I spotted something white in the top of a tall hickory tree. Dad also saw it and said, “I be dog-gone, it’s a white squirrel.’’ He went on to say there was a small colony of white squirrels on the place when his Daddy had bought it years ago, but it was the first he’d seen since then.
Before Dad could hardly get the words out of his mouth, two more white squirrels ran to the top of another tree close by.
I had never seen a white squirrel before and, in my way of thinking, I just figured them three squirrels had once been gray but fell into a barrel of whiskey mash and it turn them white. What did I know?
Well, needless to say, we had a good morning of hunting. I never saw another white squirrel until years later when a colony took up in front of Eastside Cemetery on U.S. 1, north of Rockingham. Reckon there is a moonshine still close by!
Another thing I remember, when I was little, there were a lot of plum bushes and blackberry briars around the Joe Place.
My grandma used to make the best plum and blackberry jelly around. Also, she would bake a blackberry cobbler in her wood stove that would melt in your mouth.
Every spring, my mom, Grandma and myself would ride up to the Joe Place and pick blackberries. Before we started, we’d pour a little kerosene on our clothes to protect us against the redbugs. Why, them little rascals loved to hang around blackberry briars just waiting to bite someone.
On most trips, we could pick at least three or four gallons of blackberries at the Joe Place. I enjoyed picking berries — but before I started filling my bucket, I’d have to fill my stomach first.
I remember one year while picking berries, I got a little ahead of my mom and Grandma. You know, the berries seemed to look bigger on another group of briars. I spotted several big berries in a group of briars and — not looking first — I stuck my hand in to pick them. Wouldn’t you know it, there was a large nest of big red wasps attached to the briars. I bet there were 25 of them wasps flying around me and several stung me on the top of my hand.
Why, I went to screaming and hollering and running back to my mom and Grandma. After they discovered what I was screaming about, they took me back to the car where my grandma kept her tin of snuff.
Grandma got her snuff can out and told me to dampen a little of it and rub it on the stings. I grabbed the snuff can and instead of putting some in the palm of my hand and spitting on it, I dumped a bunch in my mouth. This old folk remedy was supposed to take the pain from the stings. Wrong! Well, I’ll take that back. It did make me forget about the wasp stings but I started feeling green up under the collar, and until this day, I ain’t never wanted another dip of snuff.
Time went by and Bermuda grass took over the farm and folks quit renting the farm land on the Joe Place. The D.O.T. offered Granddaddy so much a load for the dirt to use on the shoulders of the highways. They hauled dirt for over a year and the land began to wash. This was about the time the large paper companies were buying up a lot of land to grow timber on and they offered to buy the Joe Place. Granddaddy thought about their offer for a while and ended up selling the farm to them.
That was several years ago, but just last week, my wife and I rode down Johnson Road (still a state-kept dirt road) that divides the old farm. Don’t know who owns the land now, but to me, the memories of the Joe Place are forever etched deep in my mind. I still love telling stories about the many adventures that happened on the ol’ farm we called the Joe Place.
J.A. Bolton is a member of the N.C. Storytelling Guild, Anson County Writer’s Club, Anson and Richmond County Historical Societies and author on his new book, “Just Passing Time.”