From that tobacco field looking out was not so bucolic and no warm fuzzies attached. Tobacco croppers were covered in black tar and nicotine and squishy remains of juicy green tobacco worms, crushed as those leaves were snapped off for the tobacco sled. Row after row, hour after hour, joining mad dogs and Englishmen, hoping to finish before dark to wash the tar away with kerosene, then sprint to the swimming hole to wash off the kerosene, and any water moccasins were on their own. Education certainly made me middle class mobile, but those field crops concentrated the mind. I suppose, Cheese, it all depends on which end of the tobacco/cotton/peanut field you're on. (I drive past a cotton field today, leveled with mechanized pickers, and there is more cotton left in the field than baled. But I never have the urge to pick it.)