The above rock wall photograph was sent to me by Pennington Gap’s own Ben Culbertson, a good friend and former classmate from Berea College. This picture reminded me of an amusing incident that transpired during my early days up on Rock Lick. I was about 8 years old at the time.

Our small homestead on Rock Lick was comprised primarily of steep hillside fields with one relatively flat plot near the house where we grew the “garden”. The upper fields grew mostly corn and hay which were used to feed the livestock on the place. We did however plant “cornfield beans” along with the corn in some fields. The bean plants would climb right up the cornstalks which provided a good structure to keep the beans off the ground.

These hilly fields were not very productive and working them was labor intensive. Everything had to be done manually, from the horse-drawn plowing, to planting, and cultivating (“hoeing”) right up to picking the corn and beans, then cutting the stalks for fodder. Even during the “good” years, yields were skimpy at best.

The one item that the hillsides did produce in quantity was rocks. All shapes and sizes of rocks would be uncovered each spring during the “turnover” plowing. These rocks then had to be manually moved out of the main body of the field to allow for the planting and processing of the crops to follow. Rocks from the upper parts of the field would be moved about half-way down and stacked up across the width of the field to form a rock wall. This wall took care of the rocks and also created a barrier of sorts to slow down field run-off and help inhibit crop erosion. The lower portions of the fields were not quite as steep and produced fewer rocks. These were usually just piled up at the ends or bottom of the field.

Each year a wall would gain at least one layer and by the time my little escapade occurred, this particular wall was between three and four feet high. We always left a few feet on either side of the wall untilled, because my grandfather, an avid hunter, said the weeds and brush would provide good small game habitat. Well, he certainly was right about “small” and “habitat”.

Our garden plot was located right across the “road” from the house but the corn fields were “up the holler” anywhere from an eighth to a quarter mile from the house. On the way up to the fields we would always stop at the small spring near the bottom of the closest field and fill up a gallon jug of water. This would be carried up to the field and buried in the ground to keep the water as cool as possible.

Tradition, reinforced by trial and error, dictated that corn crops be cultivated (hoed) three times during the growing season. It was during, I think, the third time around for this particular field and the weather was simply atrocious. Hot, humid, not a breeze to be felt anywhere. As fate would have it, that day we were working the top half of the upper most field.

My grandfather, grandmother, and I would each take a row of corn and work it across the field then move to the next rows and work back. The edge of the woods came right to the ends of the corn rows so after a couple of turns back and forth across the field we would usually move into the shade, rest a minute, and have a drink of water. During these small respites my grandpa would take out his twist of “King B” tobacco and bite off a chunk to chew during the next round of rows. Grandma had her own version of habit called “Bruton Scotch Snuff”. She would take a pinch from the tin and put it between her front lower lip and gum, thereby achieving some form of pleasure. She called this “dipping snuff”.

On this fateful day we had finished a set of rows and retired to the shade as usual. We each had a good drink of water and in doing so we emptied the water jug. No problem as we were about due to break for the day fairly soon. As we sat in the shade, my grandmother pulled out the snuff box, extended her lip, deposited a “dip”, and started to put the box away. Well, I was acting a little smart and leaned forward, pulled out my lower lip and said “Give me a dip”. I never would have expected what happened next.

Reaching out, she took my lip and with her other hand she dumped what seemed half that box of snuff right into the front of my mouth. I had never tasted anything so vile in my life. Spitting and coughing didn’t get the job done and the water jug was empty, so I took off running toward the spring down at the foot of the hill. The rock wall was directly in my path but there was no time to go around, so it was up on it and over the other side. When I landed on the other side, my foot came down on one of the larger rocks that had been in place for many years and the underside of which was indeed providing “wildlife habitat”.

A colony of hornets (wasps) had constructed their paper-like nest beneath the rock and they did not take kindly to having their home squashed by a runaway human. They came out in droves and provided “un-invited” escort the rest of the way to the spring. By the time I got to the spring I had numerous stings on my head and neck, not to mention the concoction still in my mouth. My grandparents had heard my screams when the hornets attacked and they soon arrived at the spring. I had just finished washing the snuff out of my mouth and feeling OK other than the pain. Then Grandpa gives me the old fashioned treatment for stings: he immediately smeared tobacco juice all over my face, head, and neck.

Eyes were swelled shut for two days and didn’t have to work in the fields. No, the time off was not worth the trouble.