OF COTTON FIELDS AND MOON PIES

 Back in the 1950's, Daddy grew restless with so many houses around. (We were living in the Paradise Community near Tioga and Ball, Louisiana at the time.) We had one house next door on the left and one house across the street, plus about three on the other side of the one on our left. There was plenty of room to roam. The problem was, people were buying up some land behind our small pasture and developing it. This was too much for Daddy. He was feeling crowded and had to move on. He needed a place where he could grow crops and animals, he said. We had too many neighbors, he said. We had moved to Paradise when I was four and now I was finishing the third grade. I didn't remember ever living anywhere else. Mama loved this house and our neighbors, and Becky and I enjoyed going to Tioga High School (all twelve grades were in one building). We didn't want to move.

But, Daddy being daddy, bought some land out in the country without asking anyone's opinion, and we moved, the summer before my fourth grade, to Jackson Street Extension in Alexandria, Louisiana. I know you are wondering about my sanity, if you know the place, but, truthfully, in 1951, Jackson Street Extension WAS in the country. Our property went all the way back to Prescott Road. The only houses were one on the left and one on the right. Nothing on the front and nothing on the back. In fact, except for our three houses, there was nothing but open fields all the way to MacArthur Drive. There was plenty of land to have three cows, our horses, some pigs for slaughtering, and a barn. Around the barn was the dog pen where daddy kept his prize hunting dogs. The pasture lane ran down the middle of the property. On one side of the lane Daddy grew soybeans and corn, on the other, our animals were pastured, but on the majority of the land he had a cotton and corn fields.

My life was beginning to change:

1. Becky and I had to go to a new school; Brame Elementary in town on Bush Ave. (which later named Rugg Elementary), Cherokee Elementary was not yet built so we had to go one year to school in town and then move again to the school in the country. I didn't like change, and this was hard on this shy boy.
2. I was now expected to actually work around the place. I had to feed the hunting dogs, by myself, and not just with daddy. I was expected to help weed the garden and help feed the animals. (Oh, my brother was involved, too, but he was small and got away with stuff, a lot).

Now, that was the extent of my hard work. So you have no need to feel sorry for me. Besides, I had no problems with this arrangement because the rest of my time I enjoyed riding my horse, and hiding in the hay barn, throwing China balls down on my sister from the Chinaberry tree, roaming the countryside, being a free range boy with his dog.

Friends on the other side of MacArthur Drive loved visiting us country folks, and we loved having them share country living. We had an idealistic life.

The second year on the farm, Daddy decided to grow cotton. He pulled out his books and studied. He went to meetings and co-ops and did research. He prepared the land for a bumper crop. Daddy always liked a challenge. As a child, he was frequently pulled out of school to hoe, or work in the fields, for his sharecropping father. He was always embarrassed to be called “that sharecropping Blair boy”. Daddy constantly needed to prove himself. If someone told him he couldn't do something, Daddy tended to do just that to prove to himself and others that he was more than just the son of a poor sharecropper.

Daddy planted cotton on the back part of the land, closest to Prescott Road. (This is the land where Brame Junior High and Camellia Place are now). Early in the mornings, Daddy and I would take the pickup to Samtown and slowly drive down the streets, blowing the horn and asking if people wanted to come hoe cotton each day. Those wanting a day's work would hop into the back of the pick up truck. Later, as I got older, I was expected to be working in the cotton field, too. This meant hoeing weeds on hot summer days, until the rows became covered over and we couldn't see snakes lurking in the shade of the cotton plants. I spent my days hoeing. Long, hot, summer days, hoeing and playing in the cotton fields. Actually, I spent a lot of time daydreaming, looking at the billowing cumulus clouds, picturing myself falling on my back against those beautiful, fluffy pillows and listening to Dave, and others, singing gospel hymns. This may be where my love of gospel music began. I also spent an awful lot of time searching and worrying about snakes.

When noon time came we'd haul ourselves into the pickup truck and go to Cicardo's grocery or the Tic Toc and get our lunches. With voracious appetites we'd load up on honey buns, moon pies, Vienna sausages and R-ah C cola, always putting it on Daddy's tab. Then we'd head back to the field and enjoy sitting under the shade of the pecan trees while we ate or took a short nap.

This lovely life continued all the way through the actual picking of cotton.

I did pick cotton, once, but only because I wanted to see if I could. That is extremely hard work, picking cotton. First, you have to have a strong back that is used to bending over while picking cotton all day long. Second, you had to be strong in order to drag that huge, five foot canvas bag up and down the rows as it became heavier as more was picked. Third, you had to have very tough hands and fingers. Those open cotton bolls are tough and have sharp points on them and can do serious damage to a finger that isn't used to being pricked every time one pulled the cotton from the boll. On top of all that, you had to be constantly aware that snakes frequently were slithering around the rows of cotton and most cotton pickers were barefoot or had unprotected shoes. I've never known anyone that had been bitten by one while picking, but I'm sure it was a common occurrence.

My heart goes out to all those strong people who have ever had to spend long, hot days in the cotton fields. It is extremely, demeaning, horribly, hot work for a few dollars to help put food on tables.

During cotton picking season, my job was to stand on the cotton wagon and watch while daddy weighed each bag, recorded the amount, and the person's name, in his book. Actually, I was assigned to watch as they emptied their bags, after weighing, to see if anyone slipped clods of clay or dirt in the bottom of the bag to increase the weight.

At the end of the day, everyone would gather in our garage and wait for payment. This was always an eye opener as I listened to the men and women sitting around waiting. I got to witness a completely different culture than this little sheltered white boy was used to. It made me appreciate all people, no matter their skin color, as human beings.

By the time everyone was paid and taken back to Samtown, it would be dark and the fun would begin, at least for us children. The Blair kids, and sometimes, our friends, would pile on top of the wagon and pretend we were on those cumulus clouds after all, romping on top of the cotton.

Mama would give us snacks for the ride to the cotton gin.

There is nothing so pleasurable as riding down a highway to the cotton gin, on top of a wagon filled with cotton, stars shining above, the wind in our hair, eating moon pies and singing silly songs with family and friends. There is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

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