Back when we were growing up in rural Stokes County, we farmed tobacco, raised our own hogs, sometimes had a milk cow, and always kept a large garden. That was just life. When we were early teens, my brother Reginald, my cousin Gene, and I hired out together. Gene and his brother Neal spent a lot of summers with us, escaping California for the hills of North Carolina.

Those were the days—hot, honest, and full of lessons.

One summer, the three of us picked up a job helping a neighbor—I’ll call him “Lloyd” to protect the guilty, though if you’re from around here, it wouldn’t take much detective work to figure it out.

Now, Lloyd wasn’t what we’d call a “real” farmer. He was a used car salesman who had decided to give farming a try. His fields were smaller, and the tobacco plants weren’t uniform—they looked a little stunted, like the junior varsity squad standing next to our varsity rows. Something about the whole setup just didn’t feel right.

And Lloyd? He showed up in what we called church shoes—scuffed-up loafers, no socks—and tried to prime tobacco like the rest of us. We never made fun of him, but we definitely exchanged a few wide-eyed glances as he tried to keep up. It was like watching somebody try to run a marathon in wingtips.

Still, we worked hard. The days were hot, the rows were long, and the black gum on our hands was thick and sticky. But we were in tobacco-priming shape—this wasn’t our first row.

We finished the job and got ready to get paid. Everybody on a tobacco crew knew the going rate, and believe me, we had counted our money in our heads before the last row was primed. But when Lloyd paid us, we were all short—by exactly 25 cents an hour.

I said, “Lloyd, I think your math might be off.”

He waved it off. “Nah, it’s right,” he said, already turning his head like the conversation was over.

We fumed on the short trip home and went immediately to tell Mom and Aunt Dot, who
happened to be visiting that evening. They were best friends as much as sisters-in-law. A little while later, Lloyd came by the house—probably to drop off something he’d left behind. He never got out of the car—just pulled up by the road and rolled down the window.

That’s when Mom and Aunt Dot gave him what we call “a proper country correction.”

First, he claimed we didn’t add it up right. Aunt Dot turned and said, “Keith, tell him.”

So I did—laid out the hours, the pay, and the shortfall. Just simple math.

He hemmed and hawed for a minute. Then, trying to save face, he finally said, “Well, I must’ve added it up wrong.”

He paid us.

When Dad and Uncle Obie were working second shift at Roadway Express, it was Mom and Aunt Dot who looked after us. They weren’t loud or showy, but they handled their business. This wasn’t about money—it was about fairness. And they weren’t about to let somebody shortchange their boys.

It was just 25 cents an hour. But it was also about knowing your worth, standing up for yourself, and having people in your corner when it counts.

As Best as I Remember It