Turpentine , Anvil , Ben , Directory

Pickin' Cotton

The old dog crawled under the weathered building that in another area of the country would have been called a turpentine shack. The three rooms were supported by bois d'arc blocks that had long ago settled into the soft dirt giving the house a slight tilt away from the tin-covered porch which remained straight and square. He shared the cool dust with a couple of hens that begrudged him entry into their world but yielded up the favored place near the front step. It was hot and going to be hotter before this day was through.

On the porch in his favorite cane-bottomed rocker sat the tenant. He looked out over the field of cotton that was planted almost to his door stoop and judged that it was ready for layin-by. The plants were waist high and in full bloom, ignoring the summer drought. Their deep tap roots drew life-giving moisture from some two or more feet down. And, as if to ignore the blast of drying winds and scorching heat, the leaves simply wilted, giving up a bit of moisture but at the same time forcing the closing of the stoma so that the plant would survive and live to enjoy the coolness of the night and perhaps be refreshed by a morning dew. In mid-August, the field was weed free, not so much due to the attention of the farmer, his family and the pair of horses, but because the cotton plant out-competed all rivals for the meager moisture and nutrients that were housed in the soil. Given a good start, the canopy of green leaves removed the opportunity for sunlight to emerging weeds. It looked to be a good year for cotton, provided the boll worms or weevils didn't take more than their fair share. Now as he looked out over the long curving rows that were contoured to the shape of the field, skirting the pond in the distance, and winding their way alongside the field road, the glimmer of heat waves rise distorting the trees in the distance provided an illusion that the house was an island surrounded by a green sea. Tomorrow he would plow the cotton for the last time.

He thought; time to put away the hoes. Now some think that a hoe is a woman's tool, but the old man enjoyed the satisfaction of using an implement that was forged by a blacksmith long ago to unite the blade, shank and shaft into a single strong unit that withstands the labors of man (women and children too, for that matter). How many times had he sharpened the blade with a caress of his single-cut file. He was expert in carefully shaping the edge to make its passage just underneath the soil surface, smooth and effortless as it detaches any plant stalks from their root structures. The process of hoeing, or chopping if you prefer, is one of carefully orchestrated movement of foot, leg, body, shoulders and arm(1) as you move down the row. The handle is held upright almost parallel with the body. The hands are wide spaced with one almost at shoulder height and the other about at waist level. Economy of effort is important, the chopper will be in the field from just after the dew is off the plants until the sun rest in the West. Why waste the morning cool and wait for the heat of the day, you might ask? Why does the farmer wait until mid morning to enter the fields? No thought has been given, it just seems right and just to do so, but there are reasons unstated. Along with the dew, is the opportunity to spread disease. When the plants are dry, the media for bacterial blights and other death-dealing organism is removed and the plant is less vulnerable. Of course the chopper may think that the best advantage lies in not getting soaked by the drops of moisture that clings, forming a prismatic lense that is held on the triangular, three pointed leaves very tip, just waiting for a disturbance to be discharged from the surface tension that holds if to the minute plant hairs that cover the leaf.

Lay-by time meant taking Maude and the buster and running the middles for the last time. The old man knew the middle buster was ready. It had remained unused since early spring when it threw up beds to hold the fuzzy seeds. Until yesterday the fine iron had been covered with a patina of yellow oxides. Now it has been scrubbed clean and the edge rounded with the same file that saw service on the hoe. Some farmers put a coating of grease from the kitchen on the polished iron but that is unnecessary, as the first passage through the soil will return the metal to a sheen unmatched by a silversmith attempting to use rouge to give luster to his products. Why rounded and not sharpened like the hoe, you may ask? The functions of the two are quite different. In the case of the hoe it is to cut through a thin layer of soil; but the plow must reach deep, lift the dirt and throw it around the base of the growing cotton plant. The sharp edge would be quickly blunted by this passage through the soil, but just as with the hoe, nicks and dents need to be smoothed to lessen friction. So the job of preparing the buster has been done. The singletree with its wrought iron ends and rings has been brought from the shed and attached with the clevis pin to the plow and was in readiness for hitching the solitary mare for a day in the field.

Morning and the sun is well on its way to its zenith.

The mare having been taken from the barn lot, and with bridle, collar and hames in place is walked to the waiting plow. Effortlessly she is moved before the singletree and the chains attached. The plow and the harness are given an inspection(2), the old man takes his position behind the plow, drapes the lines around his neck and giving a signal that sounds more like the clucking of a setting hen than what would be expected from man, the mare is encouraged to take to the field. Resting his hands on the handles, and with a slight downward pressure, the plow skids along on its bottom plate preventing the point from entering the ground. With ease the mare moves the plow toward the first row, and almost with knowledge that the day's work is to begin at this point, the mare takes the tug on the rein as a signal to turn and with a careful step that is innate in this beast, avoids damage to the plants that crowd the edge of the field. Now it is time for work. The farmer releases the downward pressure on the handles and as if by magic, the plow bites into the dry dirt. Tuning the plow to the proper depth is by reflex as the point seeks its level. Perhaps one can see the slight strain placed on the mare by the increased load but it is accepted and she puts her weight into the collar and the day's work has begun.

Down the row they go, the waist high cotton passes by, branches reaching into the rows are swept away by the mare and her burden and they close as the farmer leaves behind his work. The soil thrown up around the plants is light, airy, free of any evidence of roots and emerging seeds. It has a tinge of moisture, that quickly leaves. The base of the furrow from which the dirt has been lifted is polished and smooth. It makes an easy path for the footsteps of the plowman as it is firm and solid. It accepts no imprint of his passing.

Occasionally, the silence will be interrupted by a gee or a haw more in a conversational tone than as a command, but the mare who seems to be paying no attention at all to her work, moves slightly to the left or right dependent on which word was spoken. And continues on her way to the end of the row. At the end, as the mare emerges from the cotton patch, she turns to the next row and in a coordinated effort, the old man pressing down on the handles with his hands causes the plow point to rise and break to the surface. Once again it skids on the bottom, the turn is executed and with minimal effort, the plow is directed to the next row, following the lead of the mare. Relaxing the pressure on the handles permits the point to bite again into the mellow earth and the cycle is repeated. How many times is only a factor of the length of the rows and the scorching heat of the day.

As the farmer plows along, his mind wanders and he remembers how this fine field of cotton began. This year like all those that have come before, has an order that must occur in a sequence that is without end, or a beginning. What is done today will be reflected in next year's cotton as surely as what was done this time last year is now shaping this crop.

He looks at the hibiscus like blossoms, but is unaware that the cotton plant is actually a relative, a part of the marrow family. It is not unexpected that the blooms are similar, they open in the morning and live their day to attract bees, an event that is unnecessary as pollination by the wind is quite adequate to ensure the production of seeds for the next generation(3). If the farmer tried to prevent pollination, he would have to encase each blossom in a paper bag, a practice in use by plant breeders. Such is the will to survive and reproduce that the plant begins blooming in early July and will continue until the first frost. This year looks to be a good one, the plants have not yet started to bloom out the top and perhaps they will continue to grow until almost shoulder high. That's both good and bad. While it's called being in "tall cotton," an expression of something judged to be good, the farmer knows that rank stalk growth makes for difficult picking and when it comes time to run the cutter over the stalks, they will be hard to break up into pieces that blend easily with the soil.

Even at this early time, there is an occasional boll that is beginning to crack and reveal its burden of lint. The green boll, turning brown properly has five sections in the sharp tipped "burr" that each contains seeds from which the lint has grown to its mature length of about an inch or more. At each junction of the plant's branches, a leaf appears adjacent to a short stem onto which the bloom is attached. The bloom starts as a tiny square. If successful, the bloom will drop away after turning from white to pink to red and the boll will form where the bloom once resided.

The plowman thinks to "savin" time when the year's hard work is rewarded by harvesting the crop no matter how meager it might be. The sacks have to be taken down from the barn rafters and if any damage is discovered, repaired by his wife using cotton threat to sew the heavy duck. His sack is over eight feet long and can hold some ten pounds of seed cotton for each foot of length. He shrugs his shoulders imagining the load on them as he drags the full sack down the middle, picking the ripe cotton from each side as he stoops and gathers several of the offered sections of lint cotton from the burrs. He straightens his back remembering the ache from this endless bending which only seems relieved when the sack is near full and gives support by pressure onto his shoulder as he drags it forward. Of course the full sack is accompanied by the necessary labor to pull the load along. In his younger days and in this same field when the cotton had enjoyed near-perfect growing conditions, he had on a good day filled that bag ten times. Trying to set his own record he had picked until his wife had insisted he stop because he was leaving tags behind. Never would he be able to approach that record again.

The cotton trailer had sat in the spot he was now passing. As he closed his eyes a bit he can see the cotton piled high. His kids, in his memory, are tromping the white fluff to get the last bit of cotton within the boards. The old scale(4) hanging from an oak board attached to the side of the trailer registered the results of his labor. The notched end which carried the numbers indicating pounds is counterbalanced by an upturned shorter end that is in complete balance with the business end. His sack would be held in a crook of metal that accepted the shoulder strap and on the bottom end, a knot of canvas formed by taking a small stone about the size of his thumb and encasing it in the duck and securing it in place with a short piece of string. Suspended free in the air, the bag and its contents are weighted. How satisfying it is to move the weight along the bar until it measures eighty or maybe more pounds.

A smile crosses his face as he remembered how some smart aleck would put a big rock in his sack, hoping to fool the scale man. Or when some who were careless pulled bolls rather than pick the lint from the open burr, perhaps hoping to gain a bit of additional weight as well. He had heard that people out West actually pulled cotton rather than picking it. Strange people those who live in Texas, Oklahoma and Arizona.

What happened to the cotton once it left the field on his wagon was a mystery. He knew that at the "store's" compress the cotton was put into bales ready for shipment to the gin where the long fibers were "sawed" away from the seed and after being cleaned by air to remove bits of trash which was mostly leaves and stems as well as bits of burrs. The fibers were sorted somehow by this same air stream and the short ones called linters were sold to a mote factory. The linters were used from everything from guncotton to mattress stuffings. The long fibers were packed in neat bales weighing four hundred and eighty pounds. Granted some bales were larger and some were smaller but that was the standard. Someone who's expert in such matters, could look at a sample of the cotton and make a judgement as to its quality. On his opinion alone, was based the price which the farmer receives. Lots of men get rich buying and selling cotton, few ever get rich growing it.

The seed, called fuzzy seed, was his if he wanted. Some of course he needed for next year's crop and some extra he got for the old cow who seemed to enjoy them. The rest he sold for just enough to buy some tobacco at the store.

Now they passed the spot in the field where lightning had struck down the previous tenant and he wondered how it was possible with all the other spots on God's earth that the bolt could descend, why here? Life and death; sickness and health, those are just part of God's plan. Little wonder that the cotton plant plays a role in that as well. If one gets the chills and fever, a pint of the seed boiled in three pints of water until only a pint of liquid remains is a sure cure; drinking this warm liquid an hour before the expected return of the chill is generally sufficient; but if not, can be repeated. When the old woman had "female" problems, the cotton root was boiled in the same way to yield a brew that seemed to help. These recipes came from his slave parents who told how the cotton root liquor was used to end pregnancies or speed up the arrival of children. Even the leaves can be used; unlike the poke-weed, the liquor was drunk rather than being thrown out; this was particularly helpful when one had trouble making water(5).

His thoughts became centered on cotton growing and he visioned the field after the first frost, white with the lint as if it were covered with a heavy snow, and then after picking, only a few tags remaining on the bare stalks of the dead plants. The cow would be turned loose to gather what she might and he could see her with her long tongue seeking out each flossy bit and extracting it from the burr as carefully as he might do so himself with his good hands. Later, he knew the cow would grow hungry and returning to the stalks would eat the shorter stems as grazing grew scarce.

Come January on a warm day with the earth dry, he would hitch the gelding and Maude to the stalk cutter and taking a row at a time would reduce the plants to stubble and broken stalks no longer than his fingers. While many rode the cutter, he preferred to walk behind feeling the land with his feet. The cutter served two functions, breaking up the stalks and beginning the process of flattening the beds in preparation of planting.

>From now, it would be a long time before the plow would return to this field. It would be next February or March, but he could smell the fresh turned soil just the same. Like as not, a big crow would return to follow in his footsteps to see what his turning plow might unearth. The plow would be hitched behind his two companions and while the buster formed high ridges on which to plant, the turning plow would level the field and turn under the stubble remaining over the winter. No plow brought more pleasure to the farmer in the old man. The smell of the fresh dirt, the sight of the smooth soil as if flowed over the blade, the uniform ridges produced when he held the horses to a straight line were a credit to his skill as a plowman.

March was a time for long hours in the field. He must get the seed in the ground by Easter and that meant forming the beds on which the seeds could be laid. This very same buster would be used to raise those ridges. Then his harrow would be drawn over them, knocking them down a bit but not to the point of leveling them. The bed thus formed was of new dirt, smooth, free of debris and firm so that the fragile seeds when planted would have a proper bed. Being raised ensured that the soil would warm more quickly, dry out a bit, and the smooth dirt placed over the seed would protect them as well as providing the needed moisture for germination. He shuddered a bit. April was the most cruel of months.

Imagine, the planter having done its duty and being returned to the shed would see no further action he hoped. But the cold wet weather that always occurs could strike his plants. Too cool and they would fail to sprout, then laying in the cold ground they would rot. Or, when spring like weather encouraged them to raise their crook from the soil, they could be caught by a sudden cold snap and the first leaf would never unfold. Perhaps, as with this year, next would be favorable as well, he could only hope and pray.

Of course that is only the beginning. With the straight line of seedlings that emerge are their competition, weeds and grass. He had not the resources to have geese to travel his rows picking the tender grass. No, he and his family would take to the field with their hoes and working from dawn till dark combat the enemy. In no more than a week if they were not diligent, a part of the field would be lost as the weeds and grass would quickly overgrow the tender cotton plant. Hoeing's necessary to thin his too thickly planted seed as well. His planter using the fuzzy seed could not place a single seed but instead dropped a cluster of two or more. While the companions helped break any crust that might have formed over the seed, they became instant competition as well and thinning was necessary. The well-chosen size of the blade of the hoe made it possible to with a single swipe clear a path of some six to eight inches between each plant. As the farmer looked at the cotton plants growing alongside him he was satisfied that they had done well in their field work.

It seems that just as they finished the first hoeing, it was time for cultivation, a task that he least liked to do. It really was unclear whether plowing with the wheeled cultivator was beneficial to the crop but since everybody did it, he did as well. It did help to control the cockleburs and crab grass. Three times through the field at a week to two week intervals, dependent on the rain would be necessary before he could make the trip with the fertilizer distributor.

At no time in his farming until the time of fertilizing, did he have to spend money. But now he must have nitrate of soda; delivered to the farm, and the dealer expected cash on delivery. The paper bags in a burlap wrap came all the way from Chile by boat. It was expensive but there was no substitute. Why anyone would put one hundred and twenty pounds in a bag was beyond him(6). They were too heavy to handle and for his money he would have preferred something that weighted one hundred pounds like everything else. One bag was enough to fertilize two acres, so for his thirty acres of cotton, he had bought fifteen. Then for the five acres of corn which he raised on the bottom land he had bought five more. The corn needed the additional fertilizer for some reason known only to God.

He reached the end of his row and turning Maude to the next, he started along. Then with a gentle whoa, he stopped her in her tracks. It was time for a rest for the horse and a smoke. If he had an ear for music he might hum the tune for the "boll weevil" song. "Just lookin' for a home," or perhaps one of the catchy pieces set to a Negro spiritual, "Jump down, spin around, pick a bale a cotton," or, "Bugs, if you live in the Delta you got-em.(7)" But more than likely, he would just rest against the plow handles stare into the blue, cloudless sky and think how lucky he was to plant and grow cotton(8).

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(1) No wrist action is involved, the motion is not unlike a golfer's swing intended to maximize distance and accuracy. The hoe held in a grip, that would make a professional golfer proud; is loose and comfortable, not forced.
(2) Not unlike a pilot's pre-flight inspection just prior to takeoff.
(3) The plant seems to have an internal management that determines just how many bolls of cotton can be produced and that internal system will cause the dropping of excessive blooms thus ensuring that the set bolls will have well formed and filled out seeds containing all the elements necessary for survival including an oil content of some 20 percent.
(4) If one looks carefully at the scale's design, one might see the symbol for the "Nike" shoe in its shape. The up-turned heavy arch is in balance with the elongated sweep on which the weight is placed.
(5) The recipes for making extracts of cotton root, seed and leaves come from Gunn's Newest Family Physician and Home Book of Health. 206th edition.
(6) Based on metric weight of fifty kilos. One kilo is equal to 2.2 pounds.
(7) A tune made popular by Bobby Gentry in the 70's.
(8) Cotton is one of the most difficult crops to grow. However, no other plant offers the visual rewards; when it emerges, when it reaches first square, when it blooms and when the field is ready for harvest. None is more cussed; when the seed rots in the ground, when it emerges and is nipped by a cold snap, when overgrown by weeds, when hit too long by drought or when it becomes a banquet for the boll worm and boll weevil, and finally when the crop is saved and at the gin, the price received is hardly enough to pay expenses much less any return for the farmer's efforts. But as Henry Cannon of Brownsville, Tennessee said, "I love to grow cotton."
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Cotton pickin' is one of a series of stories capturing the spirit of those born at the turn of the century.

**** Joe Wortham's Home Page , About Joe Wortham

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