As I was on my way to Shell Knob today I drove past an old decaying, falling in building that was built by my Dad and a cousin named Harold (my Dad’s nephew). They had a dream, and desire to supply an income for their families, and grow in the process of making this dark, syrupy, fragrant, and sticky stuff called sorghum.
I have some pictures I want to share with those who will come here to read and see them. The first one is of a plaque my wife made for me of the old can label they had put together for the sale and promotion of their business.
The next two pictures are of the old mill which they built using cedar logs set in the ground. They then built a base to set the sorghum pan upon of rock and clay or cement. They were a couple of men who did not have much money, but they had a little bit of a dream, and desire to make a good product; and they set to it.
I was standing next to the road by the gate into this property which belongs to a brother of Harold’s now.I was able to figure out how to do a zoom in on the camera of my phone.
I remember this quite well as a young boy in the early 1960’s When they were making sorghum there were trees all round the back and to the east side (right) and my cousin who was nearer my age at the time ran through those woods having a great time.
Sorghum is made through squeezing sorghum cane, which my Dad and Harold grew on the ridge somewhat nearby. They would take a tractor and wagon, go with cane knives, and cut down a heaped up load, and bring it back to the mill to make the sweet sorghum.
Before they squeezed the cane on the press, they would light a fire under the pan, get the heat going, then they let the juice roll down the delivery chute.
We used to eat quite a bit of Sorghum cake. Pretty good stuff putting butter on while it was still hot is delicious.
Most sorghums you find in store nowadays is mixed with corn syrup which ruins the good flavor.
Well that is really only part of the story. My Dad and Harold are in heaven together now.
I just thought I would share something that was part of my upbringin’ as a child.
from the banks of Flat Creek,