Daddy would take the most sketchy backroads into deep backwoods Alabama, Georgia, Mississippi, Louisiana, or Tennessee to follow the handwritten signs nailed to trees in search of sorghum. It would inevitably be found stacked in paint cans or some such anomalous container, sold by the most authentic toothless sharecroppers you ever. My brother and I were the most relentless godawful snobs until we realized how real these folks were. Now we value them above rubies, but alas they have almost all died off.