Ian Jackson • Inspired By Ellis Wilson. Pulling Turpentine. 1944
The beaming sun, the sounds of distant birds, sweat trailing down the back, the rough tree beneath fingertips. The heaviness of the axe, the smell of the pines, the weight of meeting the next quota.
Take your axe and chop through the tree, strip the bark around the desired area, attach your collection bucket, and funnel the resin. Repeat.
Chop with axe, strip bark, collect resin.
Eight of us work diligently in our borough. One group works to the North, close to the train tracks that lead into town. Another group works to the West, moving round the river. A third to the East, closest to the coast. But this spot in the South is our place, this area belongs to the eight of us.
Chop with axe, strip bark, collect resin.
The company employs us workers to collect resin to make into turpentine – the country’s lifeblood.
Chop with axe, strip bark, collect resin.
Over and over, tree by tree, day after day. The company is our bond – every worker is here because of their debt. Each tree we tap is money in the company’s pocket. Every day our bills become greater and we work to stay even. Like bondage, our dues keep our group working, keep us harvesting. We’ve traded cotton for turpentine.
Chop with axe, strip bark, collect resin.
Our boss stands over us, always out of frame, watching to see who falls behind – to see who doesn’t meet their quota. Somedays he sits patiently on his horse, so quiet we forget he’s there. On days when the heat embraces us, he makes himself known, throwing insults, as well as injuries, our way. We’ve exchanged the title “master” for “boss”.
Chop with axe, strip bark, collect resin.
We glance sidelong at one another, sending silent signals. Sympathetic support when the boss yells at us for moving too slow. Cocky confidence when one of us finishes their work before the others. Days go by where no words are spoken, but we share a connection nonetheless. We’d much rather work the trees than hang from them.
Weeks and months pass, sometimes new faces join as old ones leave. Always eight remain. We work pine after pine, moving across different fields. It never ends. We finish one area and move on to the next. Carving through bark, collecting whatever nectar the trees leave us.
Chop with axe, strip bark, collect resin.
Blurry faces because our identities have no purpose, denim overalls to soak up the sap that’s left behind, hats to block out the unforgiving sun – our great enemy. Trees surround us, barrels at our feet, grass softening the firmness of the earth.
Chop with axe, strip bark, collect resin.
Summer. Our busiest time of year - bigger quotas, less time, the boss watching closer than ever. The sun burning our skin, sweat dripping down our brows, less time to sip water – times like these, we mutter to ourselves.
We convince each other, our families, and ourselves, that we’ll find something better. We chant in our heads, over and over, that someday we won’t have to tap trees – but we know this isn’t true.
With each day the sun gets hotter, the trees get stronger, and the boss becomes viler.
With each day that passes, our identities become fainter, our clothes become more stained, our barrels heavier, the grass harder.
With each day that passes, it becomes apparent that there isn’t any escape from this life. This is our people’s past, present, and future.
…Chop with axe… Strip bark… Collect resin…