My brother and I decided to raise cane this year (literally, not like when we were kids!) because we wanted to preserve an Appalachian tradition. My mother, from here in Gilmer Co., and my father, from Kanawha Co., have both raised it and so we're relying on their know-how--although the process so far has caused a few strident differences of opinion between them over how it should be done!

My brother got the seed in Roane Co. I don't know what variety it is, but my mom says it's not the same as is used to make processed sugar. It's somewhat smaller. We planted 24 rows, each 100 ft. long. The June flood flattened 10 rows, but if we're lucky they might still survive. We planted the seed very shallowly (?), just barely covering it. When it got about 6-8 in. tall, we thinned it to three canes to a hill, each hill about 8-10 in. apart. That was one point of difference, as Dad said that we shouldn't have left 3 canes per hill. Mom said that's the way they always did it, and her view prevailed. After thinning, and while hoeing, we pulled dirt up around the cane to make the hills. Mom says we will hoe it one more time, and pull the dirt up around again.

The rest I'll relate from what Mom has told me about how they did it during her childhood (in the 30's). In the fall, when it was "ready" (when it formed the seed heads), the cane was cut, tops cut off, and the leaves stripped. The children stripped the leaves before and after school, then Granddad cut the cane into smallish sections. Then it was ready for making molasses, and that's when the fun began.

Molasses-making was definitely a community event. After supper, everyone would come with their lanterns and the adults would work and visit and sing while the kids played games. Someone in the community brought the cane-press and horse (this is posing a problem for us, as we're still trying to find someone who can press out the juice when the time comes), and the adults went to work squeezing the juice, collecting it, and taking it to the pans. There were pits dug into the bank, fires laid and lit, and the big evaporating pans set on the fires. There were always at least two pans going at a time. As the molasses was being boiled down, it had to be continually skimmed of a greenish froth that rose to the top. Leaving it in would make the molasses bitter. This was accomplished by means of pie plates with holes driven through the bottoms, attached to long poles. There was a "skimmin' hole" dug close to the pans, in which the froth was poured. It took many hours to boil down a pan.

There was apparently an art to telling the precise moment the molasses was ready. There was one man who was the reliable authority, whose job it was to say "they're done!" (in the old days, molasses was always "plural"). If it didn't boil long enough, the molasses would sour and mold. Too long and it would be too thick and not usable. When done, the molasses was poured into big 20 gallon crocks and covered with a cloth. It was stored in the cellar, and kept all winter. Grandma would just go out and dip out what she wanted. The adults would let a little of the molasses boil longer than necessary, and (Mom thinks) soda was added to it. When it was really thick, it was spread out on a sheet of heavy cardboard to cool a little, then the kids would make taffy, pulling and folding until it turned white.

I hope come fall I'll have first-hand knowledge of the process. I'm not expecting terrific results this year, but it's a tradition I want to keep alive.