COTTON' PICKIN' TIME

It is fall in the panhandle of Texas. Hot and dry; the cotton is ready to pick. As far as the eye can see, lush dark green cotton grows, promising several days' labor for a hundred or more workers.

Willard is an energetic worker and has gained permission to strip the stalks. He puts his hands to the base of the stalk, interlocks his fingers and forcefully pulls upward, stripping the stalk of cotton bolls and leaves. the 150-pound cotton sack lays open between his knees. In one fluid movement, he bends forward, strips the stalk and dumps the remains in the sack. He stops often to compress the contents of the long, slim sack in several ground-shaking thuds. The bag must be packed down tight and full before his trip to the scales.

I glance around, keeping an eye out for my babies. Leaving them by the car at the other end of the field leaves me feeling anxious. My fingers feel clumsy in the brown cotton gloves. I stifle a gasp as I prick my finger on the stiff, sharp point of the cotton boll.

Dust devils swirl around the trailer at the end of the field, then the air grows still. The foreman sits beside the trailer, country music drifting across the field from his radio.

It is late October and the sun climbs higher in the sky, the stifling heat waves mocking the autumn season. My body protests as I remove the strap from my shoulder and stand up straight, stretching to ease my aching muscles. Some workers stop for lunch and to tend to their children. 

Walking toward the car, I hear Hazel Ruth scolding 10-month-old Chris. She takes her mothering way too seriously to be only three years old. Chris smiles up at her and continues pitching dirt into the air and laughing as it rains down on him. I scoop him into my arms and use my shirt-tail to wipe the sandy dirt from his laughing face. 

I feed the kids and fix Willard a couple sandwiches. I wolf down my lunch as the smell of warm lunch-meat permeates the air. Willard strolls over to the car, sits down in the front seat and wipes his brow. He seems to swallow his food whole and is ready to return to the field. He has the energy of 10 men and I am always amazed at his stamina. Impatient, he grabs our cotton sacks and growls over his shoulder at me. I hug Hazel Ruth, prompting her to keep a close watch on Chris.

We have finished four more rows, now I can check on my babies. My back feels like it will break as I lay my sack aside. Willard weighs in our cotton, stopping at the water barrel for a drink. Chris is playing cars with a small wooden block, pushing it along the ground. He peeks at me, lifting his tiny arms skyward. With Chris in my lap, I sit in the shade of a trailer full of cotton. No air stirs and the heat wraps itself around me, stifling hot, sapping what little energy I have. Hazel Ruth carries Chris' glass milk bottle to the water barrel for a refill. She is bad about talking to strangers so I send her when I am close by. Smiling, she clamps her hand over the top of the bottle, rushing to my side. A bird circles overhead, drifting on the mile-high current, his shadow glides across my face. Oh, to be carefree, if only for a moment. Willard rounds the trailer and demands food and drink. I stand, dust myself off and lay the sleeping Chris on the pallet in the shade.

The stifling heat and dusty cotton chokes me as I pack the cotton down. Dust swirls, filling the hot dry air. Squinting, I pluck the fluffy white cotton from the boll, savoring the softness before dropping it into my sack. The sandy dust pelts my face and I pull the bandana from my pocket, tying it across my nose and mouth. 

Finally, it is time to weigh-in, the welcoming end of the workday. The pay is five cents a pound, better than most fields we've worked. We are making  enough money to keep us for a few days. Willard can pick ten sacks a day in a field like this one, so they ask us to come back. 

My babies made it all right. We'll park under that tree over there tomorrow. Everything went well, so all in all, it was a good day.