In days gone by, it was about this time of year when my father would return from a close inspection of his tobacco crop and announce at the dinner or supper table, “Boys, we got bud worms! We got to get after ‘em first thing in the morning.”

First thing in the morning meant as soon as the dew dried off. The next morning tobacco patches were assigned to all sons who were big enough and old enough to man a tobacco sprayer. I especially remember one tobacco patch that consistently fell to me.

It was located in a little creek bottom just behind our house. No more than an acre and a half, it was bounded on the west and north sides by a narrow, high-banked creek fed by a spring that ran year-round. The spring flowed from under a bluff guarded by

the massive, tangled roots of a giant oak tree. The water ran cool and clear and formed little pools along the course of the creek.

I gathered up everything I would need to get the job done – a two and a one-half gallon metal pressure sprayer, a baby food jar filled with insecticide, a patch of old tobacco bed canvas and a short piece of electric fence wire. On my way by the barn, I picked up a discarded tin can for dipping water out of the creek.

When I arrived at the tobacco patch, I skirted the south side of the tobacco patch until I reached the west end where cow paths had worn the creek bank down to a gentle slope. I measured out two lids-full of insecticide from the baby food jar. Then I folded the plant bed canvas a time or two and placed it over the mouth of the sprayer. With that done, I was ready to start filling the sprayer with water, one tin can full at a time.

I checked under the canvas to see the water turning milky-white as it merged with the poison. When the sprayer was full, I replaced the pump (I called it the plunger) and lugged it back to the top of the creek bank. I sat it down at the end of the first row and made the necessary adjustments to start spraying.

I pumped until I could pump no more. I tapped the spray nozzle against the sprayer and squeezed the handle on the sprayer. If the nozzle was not clogged it formed a perfect, moist “shadow” of a circle on the brown soil. If that was the case, I was ready to proceed.

Spraying tobacco had its challenges. I found out early in my career that a 12-year-old boy does not have much meat on his shoulder bones. And a full pressure sprayer

weighs in excess of 20 pounds, which means the nylon strap on the sprayer can do some serious damage over the course of a morning. That nylon strap cut like a knife.

And then there was the issue of the sprayer nozzle stopping up. You could strain water till the cows came home and trash still managed to get in the sprayer nozzle.

In my early days, I took off the cover, stuck the nozzle in my mouth and sucked the trash out. The Environmental Protection Agency finally convinced me that was not in my best interest. That’s why I carried a piece of electric fence wire with me. It was the perfect size for running through that little hole in the side of the sprayer nozzle.

I, like my father, took the business of bud worms very seriously. As I stumbled and struggled down those long tobacco rows, I made sure to stick that sprayer nozzle down in the bud of every tobacco plant just as I was taught. You see, I learned from the best.

On the next day, after another close inspection of the crop, my father would announce, with some fanfare, as we gathered at mealtime, “Boys, I mean we got those bud worms!” Then he would laugh an easy laugh --- a laugh that was uniquely his.

I like to imagine that in the 1960s and 1970s in that Big Bud Worm Round-Up in the Sky there was much discussion among those who gathered there -- how they lived and how they died. And I’m quite sure that many a bud worm shook his head and said, “One of Frank McCall’s boys done me in.”

Jack McCall is a motivational humorist, Southern storyteller and author. A native Middle Tennessean, he is recognized on the national stage as a “Certified Speaking Professional.” He can be reached at Copyright 2021 by Jack McCall.

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