A story about cotton {A Tale for Tuesday}

Today I'm sharing a story that I published on my blog in November 2011. The post is complete with comments that were left for me {including one from my mom! ♥}, as well as some gratitudes for the month of November. I've been blogging for almost six years now, and there are a few stories that I think are worth sharing again. I hope you enjoy this little piece of history, both from my blog and my childhood.

♦ ♦ ♦

 

{cotton field in Scottsdale, Arizona}

November 5, 2011

I grew up in a small town in California's San Joaquin Valley - a vast agricultural utopia. My uncle was a cotton farmer, and most of the kids I went to school with were farmer's kids. Me? I just grew up there.

♦ ♦ ♦

When I was young, we lived on a country road that faced a large field. Crops in the field would rotate from year to year, and my favorite was always cotton. I loved the color of green on the fresh stalks, and then - as if it were a miracle every time - cotton. I was always amazed at its organic awesomeness - the way the seeds were wrapped tightly inside that soft natural cotton ball growing right there on a plant!

At the end of our road, right on the edge of the cotton field stood an old shack - a small building where Hiawatha Jones lived. In hindsight I realize he was a farm hand - he tended the field and looked after irrigation and the likes. My younger siblings and I were goofy little white kids, and we were in awe of Hiawatha, an old black man with a swagger {read: drinking problem}.

One of the things we loved to do as kids was to fish for crawdads in the irrigation ditch at the end of the road, past Hiawatha's home. Our great-uncle Homer would tie a piece of liver on a string for us, and we'd sit on a board that was perched across the irrigation ditch and dip the strings into the water. Slowly pulling the string up after a minute or so would result in a crawdad (or two or three) hanging onto the bait. We'd collect the crawdads into a bucket and exchange them at the local liquor and bait store for 2¢ a tail. That traded for a lot of penny candy back then!

One day while we were crawdad fishing, minding our own goofy business, along stumbled Hiawatha Jones. He wanted to cross the ditch so we accommodated him by stepping off of the board and allowing him to walk across. Well, his balance wasn't all that great and he fell off the board and into the ditch water! My younger sibs panicked, but I - being the oldest - took charge. From the ditch bank I held out my fishing stick to him, allowing him to steady himself and helping him out of the muddy water.

Now, mind you, the water in the ditch was merely waist high on Hi, yet to this day my brother Ron still tells this story and starts, "Remember that time you saved Hi's life?" We laugh every time like it's a brand new tale.

These days when I think about Hiawatha Jones I wonder what his life must have been like in that little shack at the end of that road, right on the edge of that cotton field - with goofy neighbor kids who stared at him wide-eyed and feared him for no reason other than he was different. And my elderly great-aunt Floy, who knocked on his door from time to time to deliver plates of  food for which he was always grateful.

And I wonder if I'll ever see a field of cotton and not think of Hiawatha Jones,
Aunt Floy and Uncle Homer,
and crawdad fishing with my sibs.

♦ ♦ ♦

 

November Attitude of Gratitude:

* I am thankful that I grew up in a rural area and share these zany memories with my awesome siblings.
* I'm also thankful for the same rural area, and the opportunity to experience cotton growing in a field.
* ...and crawdad fishing.