If Congress had discovered Daylight Savings Time in the 1950’s, there would have been a half-day of cotton picking left after school let out at mid-afternoon. The sun showed little mercy in late August and early September. We let the garden hose spew the hot water out before we got an earth temperature outdoor shower. We ducked up close behind the house when a car came down the road.
Picking cotton was one of my least favorite farm jobs. The heat and humidity simply did not appeal to my creative aptitude. The work was monotonous. My fingers grasped four or five small fluffy “locks” of white fiber and pulled them from a dried burr. Before there was an open dried burr, there was a closed green boll with small moist wedges of cotton inside. The boll opened and became a dried burr, exposing the fluffy locks of cotton.
A burlap cotton sack was attached to a strap of folded cloth. The strap rested on top of one shoulder while the sack lay against the leg on the opposite side. As I picked the cotton, I placed it in the burlap sack. Each time I filled the sack, I emptied the cotton onto a burlap sheet spread on the ground. At the end of the day, the corners of the sheet were pulled together and tied for weighing.
Some field hands (workers) picked 300 pounds, or more, of cotton in one day. This field (pun intended) of endeavor was not exactly where I excelled. I tried really hard one full day to see how much I could pick. But my cotton-pickin’ OCD worked against me. I stood between the rows and took time to pick the bits of trash and rain-spattered dirt from my cotton before placing it in the sack. The cotton in my sheet was the cleanest in the field. Clean, yes, lots of it, no. At the end of the day, 80 pounds!
I did not follow in my dad’s footsteps, those he made between rows of fluffy white cotton. My “field” of endeavor has been in the area of words and people. I enjoy communication and relationships much more than weighing up at less than 100 pounds after a day of wilting in the cotton-picking heat!
Words and People 