Tanneries, buffers and cherry bombs

By Gary Carden

Gary Carden

Lloyd's memory is much better than mine; also, he has a greater regard for the truth than I do, so I don't doubt it for a moment. In case you don't know what script money was, it was a system whereby the tannery owner issues his own currency. That means that the tannery workers could only redeem the script money at stores owned by the tannery owner. I guess it is pretty evident that this system eventually ran into legal difficulties and the script system was finally abolished.

I am told that the same system operated in other tanneries in this region - the Silverstein operations in Rosman and Brevard, for example. I have never seen script currency and would love to see a sample if anyone has any.

I once had the "opportunity" to work in the Brevard tannery back in the early '50s and I consider that particular employment as the second worst job I ever had. I have always considered my three months at the Silverstein Tannery as a punishment anyway. My grandfather was displeased with me at that time and had sent me to live in Brevard with my Uncle Albert.

"Get out of my sight!" said my grandfather. "Maybe a little physical labor in Brevard will improve your character."

So, I went to work at the Brevard tannery. It was awful. Part of the operation involved the processing of "green hides." That means that the hides are coated with decaying flesh; consequently, that section of the tannery could easily make a young man of delicate sensibilities upchuck. If matters weren't bad enough, the local cafe (also owned by Silverstein) was called "The Green Fly," and the majority of the employees ate there. Scripts were no longer used, but the management kept a weekly tab on the customers and deducted their meals from the weekly paycheck.

As I remember it, everyone worked an eight-hour shift with half-a-day on Saturday. There were two 15-minute breaks plus 30 minutes for lunch, thereby reducing the number of daily work hours to seven. My Uncle Albert got me a position in the "buffing room" - an upstairs area that resembled an inner circle of hell. The air was thick with the smell of singed hair and the constant whir and thump of the buffing machines actually made the floors shift and move beneath the employees' feet.

I guess I need to explain the purpose of "buffing." Silverstein processed a large number of inferior or thin hides. The purpose of buffing was to make the hides thick. This was done by repeatedly adding a gluey, foul-smelling gunk to the hide and then "buffing" it until the gunk became a part of the leather. I was one of a half-dozen workers who strapped long, absorbent brushes to our arms, dipped them in the gunk and smeared the inner side of the hides, which were then run through the "buffer," which smoked and thrummed.

Most of us looked like tormented souls in the smoky recesses of Hades. I also remember that it took a while to become accustomed to the rocking motion of the floor. It was sort of like walking the deck of a ship in a storm.

I have very distinct memories of my fellow workers. One had a Bible in his bib overalls and each time we got a break, he got on the buffing machine and preached until the foreman blew a whistle for the work to start again. Another was a 6-foot, 4-inch woman with orange hair that laid down and slept like a baby through every break.

But the guy I will never forget was an elderly man named Elwood. I guess it would be accurate to say he was "the salt of the earth." His whole life seemed to revolve around cigarettes, payday, cheap whiskey and firecrackers.

Each Saturday at noon, he cashed his check, drove to the South Carolina line, bought a fifth of Paul Jones whiskey and a bag of cherry bombs. He then spent Saturday night driving over the dark country roads, drinking, smoking and throwing lighted cherry bombs at kids, cattle and pedestrians. By Monday morning, he was broke and hung over, but eager to relate his adventures on the previous Saturday night.

A typical adventure went like this: "There was these four people standing in front of the pool room on Carver Street! Well, I jest drove by and throwed that cherry bumb out the winder, 'n you should have seen 'em!" Here, Elwood would bray like a donkey and hassle for breath. Tears would stream down his cheeks. "They jumped straight up! Well, I jest laffed and laffed."

Every Monday, Elwood related his wonderful adventures during the first 15-minute break.

There came a Monday when Elwood didn't come to work. Nor did he come on Tuesday, but on Wednesday, he showed up in the buffing room with his head encased in adhesive tape. There was a tiny little slit for him to speak through and in which he inserted a Lucky Strike during the break. I had to admit, for the first time since I had met Elwood, I was curious. What had happened to him? At the 10:30 break, I inquired.

"Well," said a muffled Elwood, "Last Saturday night, I got my Paul Jones 'n my Lucky Strikes 'n my cherry bumbs, 'n drove down to the church on Carver Street where they was having a big revival. I waited for the people to come out of the church 'n it was late when they finally did. I done drunk that Paul Jones up, but I rolled my car winder down, 'n I lit a cherry bomb with my cigarette, 'n I throwed that cigarette at them people, 'n I put that cherry bumb in my mouth."

Friends, I'm not making this up.

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