FALL, COTTON AND SWEET

Ah, Fall. What a glorious season it is. A season where our senses awake from the dull heat of summer. On cool, crisp mornings our breath seems to hover around us like a misty, early morning fog as we breathe in the freshness of the earth. In fall, people are friendlier, happier, less sluggish here in the south. We actually begin to enjoy the outdoors and move about with a new sense of purpose. We begin to prepare for the winter, like squirrels gathering nuts. The excitement of the arrival of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas puts a lighter step in our gait. We visit with neighbors, leaning against our rakes in front yards, catching up on families. Long walks in wooded areas are planned to see the changing leaves. Decorations are hauled from the attic or garage, dusted off and displayed with pride. 

Pumpkins and mums are placed on front steps with Indian corn and other fall squashes. 

Tables are covered with candles and fall leaves. Annual checkups for the heating system are arranged. Menus are planned for football gatherings, or block parties. 

Favorite quilts that grandmother, or a favorite aunt, lovingly made are brought out of storage and placed on beds while memories and stories are told and re-told.

As mornings become cooler, we switch our summer closets to winter ones but still hold on to those blue jean shorts and summer tee shirts. Fall here in the south, though exciting, is still unpredictable and the summer heat may still cling to the trees tenaciously, unwilling to accept change. Yet, we sense its arrival in the air and see the difference in the position of the sun and how it slows its early morning arrival and lingers longer in the evenings. We know it is coming and are more than willing to accept it with open arms.

Fall is the time to recharge, to connect again with nature, build stronger bonds with families, prepare jams and jellies and gather pecans. Fall is the time for carnivals, festivals, state and parish fairs.

Fall also means harvesting of crops.

 

In the 1950's my dad raised cotton for several years and October meant the crop was ready. We didn't have machines like today and relied on human labor to pick the cotton. Every morning he would drive his pick-up slowly through Samtown in the quarters, honking his horn asking for people willing to come pick cotton for the day.

All day long they would do back breaking work, work that wore fingers raw from the cotton bolls, without complaint.

 These were strong, prideful people, who were willing to work for extra money.

 One of these people left a lasting impression on me. Her name was Sweet, which was her name, not her disposition. She was as wide as she was tall, 4 feet, 9 inches. Her husband, Rufus, would snuggle up to her and with his wide, toothless grin, say, “Acres and acres and she's all mine.” Sweet would just smile and hit him hard over the head. Might be where he lost those teeth.

It was a Saturday and hot and humid for a fall day, with rains expected. Everyone was relieved when noon came. We piled into the truck and headed for Tommy's Grocery or the Tic Toc.

 Buying moon pies and R-ah C colas.

 Sweet wasn't there. Some worried that a rattler may have gotten her, but Rufus denied it, saying that she was so mean she would just bite that ole' rattlers head off and have it for lunch.. Everyone laughed.

At the end of the day everyone came in dragging their full bags of cotton, waiting for daddy to weigh each bag. Here came Sweet. Not only did she have a full bag of cotton but she also had a new born baby girl. No one even knew that she was pregnant, not even Sweet, she admitted. We named that baby Cotton.

After all the excitement and everyone had been paid and shuttled home I climbed in the wagon and stretched out on the clouds of cotton, with friends, and enjoyed the ride to the cotton gin under the brilliant stars. It was better than any hayride could ever be. Laughter surrounded us as we talked about Sweet and that baby being born in the cotton field, while burying ourselves or pummeling each other with cotton bolls.

*Note: the field  no longer exists but is now the grounds of Brame Junior High school. Cotton visited on occasion, with her mama, until she became a teenager. I have lost touch with Cotton Caulder and often wonder at this time of year about her.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.