Those Mississippi Cotton Fields
I was only thirteen-years-old.
“I want a summer job so I can buy my own clothes,” I said.
He didn’t say much. Dad simply looked at me and nodded, “Okay.”
Several weeks later, before the sun rose, he walked into the bedroom Pee Wee and I shared and shook me awake. I pulled on the oldest pair of jeans and the raggediest long-sleeved shirt I could find. While brushing my teeth, I heard a truck’s engine idling out front. The squeaky screen door moaned as we walked out. Stepping over dogs and cats asleep on our front porch, I walked down the steps in an old pair of his work boots. Dad tossed me a tattered red cap.
I crossed the lawn, still damp with dew, and climbed into the bed of a red pickup with men twice my age. Cousin Leon was there, too. With a startling jerk and a grunt, the truck rumbled off. We turned left, and after a few minutes, made another left heading west on Highway 14 toward Mayersville. We crossed Steel Bayou Bridge over Eastprong Creek. After another mile or so, we made a left onto Willett Road. The sun began to peek over the trees.
The truck rumbled to a halt. Cousin Leon and I, along with the older men, climbed out. We stood in the middle of a long dirt road, staring silently at rows and rows of freshly grown cotton. I was still short, barely a teenager, and hadn’t yet hit my growth spurt. The long, green cotton stalks loomed over my head.
Chopping cotton was grueling, back-breaking work. The sun blazed hot, and those rows seemed to go on forever. In the early morning hours, the damp and leafy fields would saturate my clothes with dew. The stickiness clung to my body. Thick, wet cotton leaves scraped the top of my cap and slid across my face as I made my way down each row.
I could see only a few feet ahead. Eventually, we’d pop out the other end, clothes covered with dew and silkworms. I’d shake my body like a wet golden retriever, worms falling and wriggling all around me. One row complete, I’d turn around, choose another row, reenter the field, and trudge on back to the other end.
Today was my first time working a cotton field, and after a couple hours the heat from the sun started to wear on me. At one point, I fell to my knees, exhausted, dehydrated, dizzy. I’d skipped breakfast, so I was starving as well. I tried, but couldn’t get up. I stayed on my knees, hearing the older men’s footsteps grow faint as they walked on, not realizing I was no longer with them. Silence replaced their steps; I stared at my fingers, clenching the dirt. Cotton stalks stared down.
“Get up,” a voice said from above. “Get up.” Someone grabbed my arm and yanked me to my feet. It’s was Uncle Joe Nathan, Dad’s younger brother.
“Keep moving. Don’t stop.” He was already walking away.
I followed.
At the end of the row was an orange cooler of ice-cold water.
Uncle Joe Nathan pointed, “Drink that.”
I took a few gulps, wiped the sweat from my brow, chose a new row, and trailed Uncle Joe Nathan and the older men who had already reentered the field.
For the next several summers, throughout middle and high school, I worked those cotton fields and learned that earning my own money — being able to provide for myself — was incredibly empowering. There were times when those cotton fields nearly broke me down. Over time, though, I realized those experiences actually built me up.
Many days some cousins were out there with me. Other times it was just me. Out there all alone, I’d listen for the sound of a vehicle traveling the perimeter of the field. Every hour or so, I’d hear the truck. Whenever I felt the vibration of the engine was close enough, I’d jump as high as I could. The red cap Dad had given me would pop up out of the cotton, just high enough for me to see over. I’d get an airborne, split-second glimpse before disappearing back into a sea of cotton stalks. Though my view didn’t last long, what I saw was unmistakable. In the distance would be an old, mint green pickup truck — Dad.
Although he didn’t talk much, Dad made up for it with his actions. Like clockwork, he’d pass each cotton field I worked in. He’d given me that red cap for a reason; he made sure to look for the top of it each time I popped up. After he saw my red cap, Dad kept driving, and I kept working, just trying to get to the end of yet another row of cotton. All of this was, in the end, preparation for an incredible journey ahead.
I hope you enjoyed this post — if you want to connect, you can reach me here via email at ty@typinkins.com or connect with me on social: LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. Also, you can purchase my book, 23 Miles & Running, on Amazon.
