Nate drove along behind his dad, keeping an eye on the stripper so he’d be in the right place when the basket was full. He timed how long it took to fill the first load, which told him how long he’d have to drive to the module builder, dump the cotton, and get back to the stripper.
He pulled up alongside his dad, who stopped the stripper. Nate pulled forward a little to line up the baskets. Father and son exchanged a grin as Tom operated the controls to lift the stripper basket way up and at an angle, tipping it almost upside down to pour the contents into the boll buggy.
Through the cab windows, Nate read his father’s lips. “Ain’t this fun?”
Nate nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. When the stripper basket was empty, his dad maneuvered it back into place and put the machine in gear, continuing down the rows. Nate pulled away, circling around toward the turn row.
He heard his dad call his mom over the walkie-talkie, “Sugar, your boy is bringing you the first load.”
“I’m ready.” She laughed and gave a little whoop. “This is like old times.”
And Nate was glad all over again that he’d come home.
His mother had abandoned the warm pickup and sat on the high seat of the module builder. She had it cranked up and ready to start packing down the cotton.
He stopped beside her and slid open the tractor cab window. She had on a heavy blue coat, multicolored crocheted hat, and leather work gloves, but it was still nippy out. “Are you cold?”
“I’m fine.”
“If you need to switch jobs, let me know.”
“Will do.”
He pulled up a little farther and tilted the basket up and over, dumping the cotton in the long, narrow rectangular container. As he drove away he had the window still open, and he heard the light squishy-crunch above the sound of the motor as the big bar began moving up and down, compacting the cotton.
They followed the same routine until mid-morning, when his mom insisted they take a break. Even when he’d worked on the ranch out West, he’d come home for harvest. He’d also made it once while he was in the service. For as far back as he could remember, the work had never stopped until noon. But his dad hadn’t been recovering from surgery then.
Nate and his mom hopped in the pickup and drove over to see how his dad was faring. To their relief, he appeared to be holding up well. They stretched their legs and walked around a little, ate some muffins and drank a little coffee, then got back to work.
At noon they shut down the machinery in the field and drove back to the house. His mom had spaghetti and meatballs ready to warm up in the microwave. Nate threw together the green salad and set it and the salad dressings on the table, while his dad poured the iced tea.
They chatted a little but mostly concentrated on eating. Chris insisted that her husband take at least a thirty minute rest after the meal. When Tom didn’t complain and went willingly to his recliner, she and Nate exchanged a worried glance.
“Is he overdoing it?” Nate cleared the dishes off the table while she put the leftovers in containers.
“Probably. But you know he’ll never admit it. If he falls asleep, let’s stretch it to an hour. Any longer and he’ll be mad as a bobcat in a mud puddle.”
“Can’t waste the daylight.” Nate frowned as he put a plate in the dishwasher. During harvest every minute counted, especially when there was another cold front up north that might come their way and bring rain. Some farmers kept stripping into the night, but they ran the risk of the cotton getting wet from the dew. “Maybe we should hire someone to fill in for him. I’ve got the money.”
“He’d never hear of it.” She paused on the way to the refrigerator and dropped her voice to a whisper. “That would be harder on him than getting worn out physically. For now, the best thing we can do is make sure he takes enough breaks and actually rests.”
Nate peeked into the living room. His dad was sound asleep. “Doesn’t look like we’ll have to push him on that.”
“You need a little siesta too.” His mom put the food in the fridge and came back to stand beside him. “Dub is working you too hard.”
In a flare of irritation, he glanced sharply at his mother. “I don’t work any harder than anybody else.”
“You look tired,” she snapped. “Worse now than when you first came home.”
He tried to lighten the mood—and distract her. “That’s not what the ladies think.” He winked at her. “From what I hear every single woman in Callahan Crossing would turn cartwheels down Main Street to get a date with me.” He’d paraphrased a bit, but the gist of it was the same.
His mother laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a sight? I doubt two-thirds of them can do cartwheels. Who told you that?”
“Jenna.”
“I thought you were dating her.”
“I am.”
“Does she want to keep seeing you?”
“Yes.” He draped his arm across her shoulders. “It’s kind of convoluted, so I won’t go into the details.” Mild disappointment flashed across her face, making him grin. “Suffice it to say that unlike another woman I know, Jenna was trying to flatter me.”
“She has a funny way of doing it.” Glancing at the clock, she nodded toward the living room. “I’m going to take a little nap. You can do whatever you want.”
He gently squeezed her shoulders again and whispered, “I don’t mind a siesta.”
She made a face. “But you don’t like me telling you to do it.”
Nate lifted his arm from around her shoulders and shrugged. “Sorry, Mom.”
“Well, get used to it, son. You may be all grown up, but that doesn’t mean I’ll quit looking after you.”
“You’ll probably be reminding me to wear a coat when I’m seventy.”
“That’s right.”
Nate pretended exaggerated consternation and pointed her toward her recliner. She wasn’t fooled a bit. He stretched out on the couch, propping his ankles on the armrest and letting his boots hang over the end. His mom was right. He looked bad. Who wouldn’t if he’d run out of reserves? He seldom managed more than two hours of sleep a night.
The previous Thursday, he hadn’t slept at all. He’d made a run to Abilene that day to get a part for the cotton stripper. On the way back, some guy in a blue souped-up Chevy had been tailgating him on the highway. The man could have easily passed, but he stayed right on his tail. Nate lost his temper and slammed on the brakes. The Chevy missed his pickup by inches. The other driver sped around Nate then slowed way down. When Nate tried to pass him, he shifted over in the left lane to block him. On Nate’s next attempt, the man moved left again, and Nate floored the pickup around him on the right shoulder, spewing gravel all over the other car.
Nate was doing over ninety on a straight stretch of road when he finally cooled down enough to pay attention to his speed. Thankfully, the other guy had enough sense not to chase him. Or maybe his car was more noise than substance. Either way, it was a blessing he didn’t show up again or he would have wound up in the hospital one way or another.
Nate had rehashed the episode all night long, bouncing between feeling guilty about how he’d acted—certainly not Christ-like—and imagining various detailed scenarios for getting even. He hadn’t been able to turn off his mind or control his thoughts.
But today he could. He closed his eyes and pictured Jenna’s sweet smile.
•• Mid-morning the next day as Nate pulled up to the module builder to dump another load, Jenna and Zach drove into the field, stopping nearby but out of the way. He parked the tractor and boll buggy and walked over to see them.
She rolled the window down on the pickup. “Good morning. Don’t let us interrupt your work. I thought Zach might like to see all the machinery.”
“Good morning.” Nate rested his hand on the pickup door. “You’re not interrupting. We’re ready for a break anyway.” His mom shut her machine down, and his dad stopped about ten rows away. When Jenna lowered the back window, he ducked his head so h
e could see Zach on the opposite side. “Hi, buddy.”
“Hi.” Zach pointed at the module builder. “What’s that?”
“It’s a module builder. It presses all the cotton together into a big block.”
The little boy pointed to the tractors. “Two tractors.”
“That’s right. And that big basket trailer is called a boll buggy.”
“Boll buggy. What it do?”
“That’s what I use to bring the cotton over here.” He spotted some bags of groceries behind the front seat. “You’ve been to town already?”
“No. We’re on the way. Those are some things for the mission. Whenever Mom’s bridge club meets at our house, they always bring donations.”
“That’s cool. I’ll have to stop by there and check it out. Not that I need a handout but to see what you have. In case I run into someone who might need something. And what you need. I can always pick up some extra groceries to help out.”
“Donations are always welcomed. We take everything from clothes to food to some furniture. I can always use help stocking the shelves or hauling furniture inside. People drop things off behind the building.”
“Next time you need some muscle, call me.”
Jenna grinned. “Okay.” Her gaze shifted to his mom as she walked up. “Good morning, Chris.”
“Good morning.” She waved at Zach. “We’re going to have some coffee and doughnuts. Will you join us?”
“Sure. I never pass up doughnuts.”
Nate stepped back. “I’ll get Zach.”
“Thanks.”
Nate walked around to the other side of the truck and took the little guy out of the car seat. He listened to the women talk as they walked to his folks’ pickup and smiled to hear them discussing cotton and cattle prices. Typical farm and ranch women.
He fished Zach’s sippy cup out of the diaper bag, then carried him over to join the adults. When Jenna noticed the little covered cup of water in his hand, her expression softened with appreciation.
Nate mentally patted himself on the back. He’d brought it because he didn’t think the kid could drink coffee, but it didn’t hurt to earn a few points with the boy’s mama. Given the approval shining in his own mother’s eyes, he’d made a few points there too.
Jenna broke off a little piece of cake doughnut and gave it to Zach, who crammed it in his mouth. When he grinned, she gently reminded him, “Chew with your mouth closed, please.”
Nate set the sippy cup on the pickup hood and helped himself to a chocolate-covered treat. When Zach eyed it, he looked at Jenna. “Is it okay if he has some of this?”
“A tiny bite.” She touched her son’s hand to get his attention. “You let Nate put it in your mouth. I don’t want a big mess.”
“I’m going to let you sit up here on the hood, but you have to stay real still, okay?” When Zach nodded, Nate eased him down onto the hood, standing in front of him in case he lost his balance. He broke off a small piece of the doughnut, making sure there was some chocolate icing on it. “Open wide.”
The little boy complied, and he popped the doughnut morsel into his mouth. Zach’s eyes sparkled as he chewed.
“Pretty good, huh?” Nate ate most of it and drank a little coffee. Jenna gave Zach a few more bites of her doughnut before Nate slipped him the last little bit of his.
Zach kept trying to turn around to look at the cotton stripper. “What’s that?”
Nate set his coffee cup out of the way and picked him up so he could see it better. “That’s a cotton stripper. It scoops up all that fluffy white cotton so we don’t have to go along and do it by hand.”
“I don’t see how anybody could have picked all this without machinery,” said Jenna. “It would take forever.”
“Not as long as that.” Nate’s dad smiled and drank a sip of coffee. “We always hired good hands that worked for us every year. Some lived around here and some were migrant workers, mostly from Mexico. Some legal, some not.”
Jenna bent down and inspected an open boll. “Those sharp points on the base look like they would cut your hand.”
“They can if you aren’t careful. That’s called a burr. It’s what’s left of the seed pod after it opens. In places where they actually pick the cotton—pluck it from the burr—people suffered a lot when they did it by hand, even though the cotton practically fell out of it. In West Texas, it’s too windy to grow that type of cotton, so we use a variety that clings to the boll. The stripper pulls off the whole thing.”
He gazed out across the farm, a hint of nostalgia on his countenance. “Sometimes we had thirty workers out there, bent over the rows, filling the long white canvas sacks as fast as they could. They got paid by the pound, not by the hour. When I was ten, Daddy started letting me drive the tractor and pull the trailer out to the field. But he spent the day out there too. He had to weigh the full sacks. I couldn’t do it because they often weighed about a hundred pounds. A good worker would pull 250 to 275 pounds in a long day.”
“How did you weigh them?”
Nate thought Jenna was interested in the history, but he had a feeling she knew she was nurturing his father’s soul by asking him to share his memories. She had a knack for seeing the need in people’s hearts. He wondered if she saw into his. Part of him wanted her to. But another part of him was terrified of what she would discover.
“We had a scale rigged up on some braces at the end of the trailer. Daddy would lift that big heavy sack up and over the hook on the scale, letting it hang free. Part of the scale slid down with the weight of the cotton. Whatever number it stopped on told us how much had been picked.
“Then my dad would empty the bag in the trailer, and I’d climb up in there and stomp it down so we could put more in. The general idea is the same as the module builder, only it packs the cotton a whole lot tighter than a kid or even a grown man could. It has a big bar that presses on the cotton. We used our feet. School closed down for a week or two in the fall so the kids could help in the fields. Of course, for the town kids it was another vacation.”
“I grew up on a farm too,” said Nate’s mom. “But it was smaller than this one. I got to tromp cotton as well. It was fun to jump up and down on it. My mother was a nurse and often worked the three-to-eleven shift at the hospital. When my brother and I were too young to stay home by ourselves, we’d go to the gin with Daddy in the evening. We’d sit in the gin office doing our homework. If there were a lot of trailers ahead of us, we’d have a long wait. I fell asleep curled up on the chairs more times than I can remember.”
Nate’s dad picked up the story. “Sometimes there would be a dozen or more trailers lined up in the evening. Trailers only held a single bale, and many farmers only had one—”
“Like my dad,” said Chris.
“So they had to make sure the load was ginned, and the trailer freed up to use again the next morning. When we switched to mechanical strippers, we had to buy bigger trailers.”
There was a note of pride in his dad’s voice that came from following in a long line of Langley footsteps. Nate’s great-grandparents had homesteaded the farm in 1908, and every generation since had lived there and raised cotton—or attempted to—through good times and bad. It was a good legacy to have, to continue.
“How did they get it out of the trailer?” Jenna helped Zach down off the pickup so he could walk around. “Stay close.”
“With suction.” Nate’s dad grinned. “Picture a big metal tube attached to a giant vacuum cleaner. A man would climb into the trailer and guide the tube around it until all the cotton was sucked up into the gin. It was noisy. You couldn’t hear anybody if they tried to talk. And it was dangerous. A man could get hurt real bad if he slipped. Then the cotton would go through all kinds of brushes, separators, dryers, and eventually wind up in a bale that weighed five to six hundred pounds.
“The modules make it easier these days. They’re picked up by a big truck and stored on the lot at the gin until they’re processed. The newes
t strippers have a small module builder included. It compresses the cotton, forms it into a big roll, wraps it to protect it from the weather, and spits it out in the field. It can be hauled to the gin when it’s convenient. Most of the gins are adding the machines to handle that kind of module as well as the big ones. The new stripper is expensive, but it’s the only equipment you need. Plus it only takes one man to do the job that requires three now. It’s the way of the future.”
Nate didn’t know how soon the future would come to them. Not this year. They’d need several good crops to make purchasing a new stripper feasible.
His dad turned to him. “Why don’t you take Zach on the stripper and show him how it works. I’ll meet you with the boll buggy, and we can switch out. He can ride back here in the tractor with you.”
Nate noticed a spark of apprehension in Jenna’s eyes. “It’s safe. We’ll be enclosed in the cab on the stripper and then in one on the tractor. I can run them both with him on my lap.” Without thinking about his parents’ presence, he caught her hand. “I’ll keep him safe, sweetheart.”
“I know you will. And he’ll love it. Go ahead. But you know my dad and brothers will rib us both about trying to turn him into a farmer instead of a cowboy.”
“No reason he can’t be both.” Nate caught up with Zach, who was gingerly touching the fluffy cotton in a boll down the row. He knelt down beside him. “Do you want to go ride in the cotton stripper with me?”
Zach raised his head and stared at the big machine, his expression serious and thoughtful. “Yeah,” he said finally.
Nate picked him up and walked over to the stripper, climbing inside and settling Zach on his lap. “You have to stay right here and don’t touch anything unless I tell you that you can, okay?”
The little boy nodded, clearly fascinated by all the gauges, buttons, levers, and knobs.
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