Mississippi Cotton

by Paul H. Yarbrough

  He pulled out the big suitcase that my mother had packed. It was one of the really big ones that our family used for long trips. I mean really big. Daddy had said that it was big enough to put me in, and if we did, we could save the bus fare.

  “Think you can handle that, son?”

  Although I wasn’t sure how much my mother had packed, I was sure there were three or four tons in the suitcase at least. If I could have wrapped both my hands around the handle I might’ve been able to drag it to the door, but I don’t believe I could ever lift it up the steps.

  “Here, better let me get that,” Mr. Riley said. “We’ll jus’ put it up front. You can ride up there, too. Jus’ hang onto the safety bar til we get to Mr. Mayfield’s mailbox. Jus’ about a mile. We’ll only be a couple of minutes gettin’ there.”

  It was quarter past four as we pulled up at the mailbox. I saw Cousin Trek, and Taylor and Casey standing by the farm pickup, waiting for me. Mr. Riley lowered my suitcase for me and Cousin Trek put it in the bed of the truck. Cousin Carol had stayed at home, probably working on a big-meal welcome.

  After the big greeting and a grownup, finger-breaking, handshake with Cousin Trek, Taylor, Casey and I all piled into the bed of the truck. The truck was only two or three years old, a brown Ford, but it looked like all farm trucks. It had dents on each side and a rusty bumper. There were bits of wire and various tools scattered in the bed. The spare tire lay on its side, useful as a seat.

  Casey and Taylor had on their denim overalls. I wore my nice trousers and a clean shirt, so we couldn’t horse around in the back of the truck. We talked mostly about who was going to beat the Yankees for the American League Pennant. It looked like the Dodgers would win the National League. The cloud of dust from the gravel road descended on us as we approached the house. By the time we got there, we had the next three weeks all planned.

  As we pulled up in the front yard, it dawned on me that I hadn’t told the straw-haired lady goodbye. I hoped it hadn’t hurt her feelings. Anyway, I supposed I would never see her again.

  CHAPTER 4

  Farley and I called Cousin Trek’s father Big Trek. He had been a farmer all his life and had hoped one of his boys would take over the family farm and continue growing his beloved cotton. He owned eight hundred and ten acres; more than a section. About seven hundred were on the home place and the rest were out in the county. He worked some of it, rented some of it, and hired sharecroppers to work the rest. Some families had been there forever it seemed like, and most would live out their lives in the Delta. My daddy had once said that some lives were tragic, some were brilliant, and all were held together by the stretch of Mississippi sinew.

  I once asked Daddy if Big Trek ever grew anything but cotton. He told me only during crop rotation did he grow anything else. The Delta soil was rich and could grow whatever a farmer had a mind to grow, he said, but cotton had always been king. And as far as Big Trek was concerned, it always would be.

  Cousin Trek was the only one of the four brothers who didn’t go to Ole Miss. He had gone to Mississippi State College and become a farmer. Farley said it was the cow college; something I didn’t understand. Cousin Trek didn’t have any cows, just cotton. Why hadn’t they called it the cotton college? Something else over my head.

  Cousin Trek’s wife, who I called Cousin Carol even though she wasn’t blood-kin, was from Bastrop, Louisiana. Trek had met her when he traveled there for a meeting of some kind about farm equipment. I think her daddy was the manager of John Deere over in Monroe.

  “Well, my goodness, look how you’ve grown, Jake,” said Cousin Carol.

  Cousin Carol always acted excited to see me. She had always been special to Farley and me. She had treated us almost like we were her own children because she and my mother had become good friends after she married Cousin Trek. She wasn’t really a cousin, but we called her one because she had married our cousin. And she did seem to give us special attention.

  She had those polite habits that most grownups I knew had, where they would say things like, ‘look how you’ve grown.’ If a grownup hadn’t seen you in fifteen minutes they were liable to say, ‘look how you’ve grown.’ But it was okay. They were just being nice. After she squeezed me in one of those hadn’t-seen-you-in-forever bear hugs, she gently pushed me away, keeping me at arm’s-length. She stared at me and said, “Yes, indeed you sure have grown.”

  “Your daddy must be workin’ you, huh, Jake?” Cousin Trek said. “That makes a boy grow. Hard work and rain.”

  “Yes, sir, a little.”

  He and my daddy had some of the same way of thinking. When it looked like rain my mother would worry and say, ‘Now get your raincoat and hat.’ My daddy would say, ‘Oh, Leslie, nothing to worry about. Rain’ll make ‘em grow.’

  Farley and I had to work at whatever jobs our daddy could find for us. We were responsible for cutting the grass and helping my mother water her flowers around the house. My daddy would often have stuff for us to do on weekends at his lumber and supply business

  But the worst job of all was painting. House, garage, anything that had to be painted, we painted. Never did we hire anybody to paint. I hated it. I would rather be stung by a million yellow jackets than paint.

  My country cousins worked like men, and it built into them toughness. They chopped cotton, clipped cotton, cut cotton, hoed cotton, and worst of all, they bore the back-breakin’ duty of picking cotton. If you could have peeled and canned cotton they would have done that, too. Their school year started three weeks later than mine, so they could help get the cotton in.

  Always before we had visited earlier in the summer when there was less to do, so Farley and I had never been to the fields. But now, late in the summer the cotton was getting high. This visit I would get a sense of where that toughness came from. I was going to hoe cotton.

  Farley had found out about tough farm boys a couple of years earlier when he got into a fight in the park downtown. Farley was thirteen and the guy was barely twelve, but the guy had bloodied Farley’s nose and split his lip before a couple of men came over and broke it up. I think Farley was glad they had. Every time Farley knocked the farm boy down he got up. That boy kept fighting like the rest of his life depended on it, when all they were fighting about was who had a better football team, Jackson or Greenville. Farley was ahead on points, but his opponent had taken everything thrown at him.

  “I hope you’re ready for some good fried chicken, Jake,” Cousin Carol said. She started back to the kitchen. Her apron, tied behind her back, had a sunflower printed on it.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I am. That’s my favorite.”

  “Did you have any dinner?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Tuna fish, and some bologna sandwiches, and three marshmallows. I ate them on the bus.” Actually, I had given one of the marshmallows to the straw-haired woman, and I remember her talking while she chewed it. It looked like she was rolling taffy with her tongue, but I didn’t say that to Cousin Carol.

  “Well, that’s been a while ago, so you’ll be good and hungry by suppertime. We’ll eat about six.”

  “Oh, by the way, Mother told me to give you this. It’s for y’all.” I handed her the notebook. “It’s some things Granny wrote about y’all and the home up here. I read some of it on the bus.”

  She took it and thumbed through it, pausing in a couple of spots to read to herself. She smiled at one spot. “Well, thank you, Sweetheart. I guess I’ve got a thank-you note to write.”

  She kept flipping through the book, stopping after a few pages, looking a second, then thumbing some more. When she stopped at a particular page she would run her finger across the page and then smile. She seemed happy with it. It hadn’t seemed such a fun thing to read to me. And it didn’t have any pictures.

  “Well, Granny has certainly a talent. We’re going to really enjoy this. Now, y’all go on up stairs.”

  Cousin Trek had brought my suitcase inside. “Y’all take Jake to your room and help him put his grip
up.”

  I grabbed the handle with both hands and tried to pull it. Casey and Taylor stepped over to help. Although Casey was just a little guy going into the third grade, he would tackle most anything. The three of us thrashed around with it until we finally maneuvered it off the floor and carried it like a coffin. Like pallbearers, Taylor held the front and I held the rear with Casey hanging onto one side. We trudged up the stairs.

  Cousin Trek said, “How much did your momma pack? She got enough for the winter?”

  Before I could answer, Cousin Carol called from the kitchen. “Now just don’t be talking about Leslie. She put in what he’ll need.”

  Cousin Trek put his finger to his lips, signaling for us to hush and just move it. He whispered, “She’s got ears like an elephant.”

  The Mayfield house always seemed like another home to me. Even though I wasn’t here but a couple of times a year, I never felt like I was walking in after a long time away. I once asked my grandmother why some places seemed this way. She told me it was because it was a family home. And to Southerners, family was the most important thing next to God. She said Yankees, though cordial, would when first meeting ask what the other did. Southerners meeting for the first time would ask where the other was from. Or, ‘who are your people?’

  “Momma said you get the top bunk or the bottom one,” Taylor said.

  “Okay, I’ll take the top.” I took the top since Farley and I didn’t have bunk beds.

  Casey and Taylor each had their own room, connected by double doors which stayed open when somebody was sleeping-over. Both rooms had bunk beds.

  There was a bedroom for their sister, Cousin Sally, but it had a regular bed and a big mirror and a bunch of pink things, and stuffed bears and kittens and other pretty useless stuff. We were not allowed in her room under any circumstances. Girls’ rooms were like national monuments. You could know about them, even look at them from a distance. But if you trespassed on them, it was like a national crime.

  Sally had won a scholarship to Vanderbilt in Nashville and had stayed in Nashville for some extra classes over the summer. I would sleep on the top bunk for the next three weeks and stay as far away from her room as possible.

  “So are we goin’ to the picture show tonight?” Casey asked. He was two years younger than Taylor and me, so a lot of the time when he wanted to do something, he made it a question.

  “There’s an Abbot and Costello one on tonight,” Taylor answered.

  “Yeah, whatever y’all wanna do,” I said. Actually I wanted to go and had hoped they would bring it up. Friday night—picture show night.

  “Daddy’ll take us into town and pick us up after it’s over. Better get your stuff out of the suitcase and stuff it in a drawer. Momma always wants things put away.”

  “Just shove it under the bed,” Casey said.

  “You better not listen to him,” Taylor said.

  Taylor had no sooner spoken than Cousin Carol walked in and began giving instructions, the kind that were about organizing clothes so you could find them, and that neatness kind of stuff. It was the same kind of thing my mother always said. And you had to do it.

  “Now y’all help Jake put up his clothes. He can use the bottom drawer of your chest-of-drawers, Taylor. Be sure and fold them. Don’t just dump them in. And hang your Sunday clothes on a hanger in the closet. What do y’all have planned for tonight?”

  “Picture show, if it’s okay.”

  “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with your daddy. He’s the one that’s got to drive you back and forth. Now Jake can wear what he’s got on if he wants, but you boys are going to have to put on something nicer than those overalls. And you both have to bathe. You’re filthy.”

  “Where is Big Trek?” It wasn’t considered rude if you called a relative by a family nickname.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Carol said. “You didn’t know. Well, he’s in Clarksdale ‘til Wednesday. Just a little business.” She tried to hide a smile. “Or so he says. Probably just swapping old stories, mostly. But you’ll see him Wednesday. He’s sure looking forward to seeing you.” She turned back to Casey and Taylor. “Let’s see now, what time does the picture show start—about seven fifteen. Now y’all get to moving, if you’re going to bathe. It’s almost five and we’re going to eat around six.”

  Suppertime was a big event at my cousins’, just like at our house in Jackson. It seemed like the biggest part of the day. Everybody was at the table, and there was plenty to eat. You had to keep track of your manners, all the knife and fork stuff. No talking with your mouth full, and absolutely no playing with your Jello, like at school. But you got to relax and listen to everybody’s stories from the day. We ate in the kitchen, one of the few rooms without a ceiling fan. It had one of those fans that swung back and forth and hummed like my mother’s sewing machine.

  Cousin Carol was a good cook, just like my mother. She always had something you liked, and she didn’t overkill with stuff like squash and beets. At least she didn’t have them at the same time. That was thoughtful. That night we had fried chicken, mashed potatoes, crowder peas, turnip greens, a giant fruit salad and dessert.

  Cousin Carol also made terrific pies. She had even won prizes at the fair. She and my mother often traded recipes and the two of them were co-champions of the world when it came to making pies, as far as I was concerned.

  Cousin Carol’s best, no doubt, was her cherry pie while my mother’s was apple. Their only point of disagreement was coconut. My mother made them and loved them. Cousin Carol hated them. She called them hair pies. They were okay as far as I cared. I would eat any pie, any time. That night, we had cherry.

  “Now I’ll pick you boys up in front of the picture show,” Cousin Trek said. “Y’all oughta be out by nine-thirty. The movie, news, cartoon and serial all last about two hours—maybe a little more—right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Taylor said. “But can’t we go o’er to the square ‘til you get here?”

  “Well, I don’t see why not, but be on the lookout for me.”

  “Now, Trek, you tell them I don’t want them playing around in their good clothes,” Cousin Carol said.

  No playing in our good clothes. I think she and my mother had some long distant mental communication or something, the way they always had the same things to say.

  “Okay, I’ll pick you up, and you can go to the park. But you heard your mother. No rasslin’ or rollin’ around in your good clothes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Casey, did you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now who wants cherry pie?” Cousin Carol asked.

  After dessert we helped clear the table. On my first night, Cousin Carol didn’t make us wash and dry the dishes. We also could have gone to town on our bikes since it wasn’t too far. Although I didn’t have my own, there were at least six bikes around the farm—old ones, new ones and Sally’s girl bike. But Cousin Trek was going to take us that night because I had just gotten there in the afternoon. Cousin Carol said she wanted us home as soon as possible since it was my first night, but Taylor and Casey had told me once that, really, she was a little nervous about crossing Highway 49 after dark.

  Like most places in the South, summer time in Mississippi meant two things—baseball and swimming. If you lived in the country there was a third, fishing. City boys fished, too, but it took more planning, since you had to get past the city limits to find a creek or pond. In the country you could usually just walk out the back door.

  “You wanna go fishin’ tomorrow?” Taylor asked. We were waiting on the bunk bed while Casey finished brushing his teeth following supper.

  “Where to? The branch along ol’ Cottonseed Road?” I asked.

  We had been there before. It was only about forty feet wide at the widest point but deep enough and had some pretty big catfish and some bream. There was a bridge over it that was a pretty good place to get underneath and fish. We sometimes walked up or down
stream if they weren’t biting under the bridge.

  “Yeah, might as well. Say, what’s Farley doin’ now that he’s got his driver’s license?”

  “Aw, he’s always talking about driving all over the country. But he doesn’t even have his own car. Even if he did I don’t think Daddy would let him jus’ drive anywhere he wants to. But he talks about it all the time. You know, he’s got that teenager big-shot status.”

  “Is he playin’ football still?”

  “Yeah. That’s one reason he didn’t come. They have summer practice. But I think Daddy’ll make him come the weekend they pick me up. I think their first game is about the middle of September.”

  “Is he gonna play in college?”

  “Maybe. He wants to go to Ole Miss though. I don’t know if he could play there. You have to be very good to play there, what with all the good players they have. Daddy said he might be able to play at Mississippi College or Millsaps. Anyway, he’s got two years left in high school after this year.”

  “Why does he want to go to Ole Miss—Johnny Vaught?”

  “Dixie Daniels.”

  “You mean our Dixie Daniels? From Cotton City?”

  “Yeah, same one.”

  “She’s already at Ole Miss. Has been for the last three years.”

  “Yeah, I know. But there’s something about a guy when he starts gettin’ close to drivin’ and havin’ a driver’s license.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, they start payin’ close attention to girls for some reason. And two years ago, when we were here at Christmas, I noticed he was noticin’ her down at the park. And that was jus’ about the time Daddy started teachin’ him to drive. I’m tellin’ y’all—it’s weird.”

  “Why good grief, she’s old enough to be his mother. She’s gotta be over nineteen or twenty. Besides, I notice girls,” Taylor said.

  “Yeah, but not like guys that have drivers licenses do. I asked him what it was about them. I asked if was because they started using lipstick or something.”