THE PICKING AND GINNING OF COTTON

In my growing up years the fall was my favorite season. The leaves on the cotton plants would turn slightly brown and the cotton would start to mature inside the bolls and force it to open. Four locks of pure snow-white cotton would then come forth forming a fluffy, rose shape. When we walked in the field and looked all around and saw this beauty it gave us the feeling of great satisfaction. We’d planted, chopped, plowed, and prayed over this precious crop. Pest, wind, drought, and hail could’ve come at any time and robbed us of our summer’s work. But that soon would all be forgotten. After struggling against nature and toiling countless days in the fields, the crop now stood before us ready to be gathered. At last we could start receiving some hard cash for our long, hot summer's work.

I’ve never known any man, or woman, who went into a field to gather cotton by hand that was not extremely proud of their heritage and that experience. It’s humbling and hard-stoop labor that leaves you tired, and slightly bent forward, after a ten-hour day. In those days cotton was picked and put into long sacks. The size depended on your age and strength. The picksack, as they were called, came in 7 1/2 and 9 1/2-foot sizes and was made from a thick, white muslin material. Little tote sacks were made for the very small children from feed bags. The picksacks were equipped with a strap that went over your head and rested on one shoulder. You would then place the bag behind you, lean into the strap, bend at the waist and reach for the cotton boll on the two and one half, to three-foot, high plants. The sack would be dragged along behind you and would get heavier with each hand full of cotton you put in it. We were paid at the rate of $3.00 a hundred. It was equal opportunity. Everyone was paid at the same rate. Gender, color, or religion were not important. The only thing that mattered was how much you could pick.

Picking time usually started in September. We were always in a hurry to get out that first bale of cotton. My Daddy would first walk the field and count the open bolls on the plants. I’d be at his side and he’d estimate how many pounds we could expect from each acre. We would gather the cotton as it opened. The fields would normally be picked over three times. A good yield in those days was considered to be a bale per acre, which was about fifteen hundred pounds before it was ginned. We’d calculate at the end of the harvest how many bales we’d hauled off and how many acres we’d cultivated. If we’d hit our goal of a bale to the acre we considered ourselves to have had a successful year.

The planting, growing, and picking of cotton was a team effort by the whole family. This was a no nonsense business. The whole family went into the fields together. Fried chicken was traded in for balogna sandwiches, moon pies and Pepsi Cola. We’d no time to waste, for the season was short. If the cotton didn’t come out of the field as it opened, we could lose it to excessive rain or an early winter. Our very survival depended on cotton production, and this last phase was equally important as the first.

Normally, the fall days in Arkansas were beautiful. The hot weather had by this time faded. The skies were blue and free from smog and contamination. The grasshoppers rubbed their legs together and the sweet sound drifted out over the fields. Autumn was the pause between the long hot summer and the coming cold winter. The brisk cool days added to the joy of cotton picking time. The pickers were paid immediately after the owner of the fields would return from the cotton gin. Being the only time any real money was ever earned, getting paid on time was a top priority.

When it was time to pick cotton, My Daddy would put big high sideboards on the wagon. They reached up about five and a half feet from the bed. The tongue of the wagon would be removed, stuck through the spoke of the wheel, and secured about six feet off the ground. A set of scales would be put on the end of the tongue. As the sacks were filled, they’d be carried to the wagon and weighed. My Daddy would do the weighing, and duly note each pound that was picked under the name of the picker. His reading and writing skills were minimal, but he could calculate in his head, to the pound, what had been picked and who had picked it.

In those days, there were families that did what we called day labor. Their primary function was to chop and pick cotton. Several old houses were scattered here and there on the various farms and the workers were allowed to live in them free. It was important to have them available when they were needed. Although these work seasons were short they were critical.

As I looked out over the cotton field in those days, I’d see snow-white cotton mixed with the brown to green leaves covering the two, to three-foot high plants. The wagon would be near a road on a high spot. This was to enable us to make a fast exit in case it rained. Little groups of pickers would be clustered together up and down the long rows. Normally, family members would stay close to each other and try to encourage the younger children to work harder. Often fast pickers would be with others of similar skills. Cotton pickers were very competitive. I didn't like for anyone to pick more than I did. I’d practically kill myself to keep that from happening. “Dick is a great hand at picking cotton, but he leaves more in the field than he gets in his sack,” My Daddy would say. This meant I left the cotton locks strewn up and down the row where I’d picked. It always got a good laugh, but I couldn’t deny that there was some truth in it.

At lunchtime, little groups would gather up at the end of the rows under a shade tree and eat a quick lunch. The laughing and talking would float across the fields and give me a feeling of belonging. We all shared the common bond of hard labor. Picking two big sacks of cotton weighing fifty pounds each was a good morning's work. In the afternoon, as the dew disappeared, three big sacks, each weighing forty to forty-five pounds, would make for a good day. Provided you managed that in one day, you’d earn about seven dollars. That was a small fortune to a family who could seldom manage to pay off their crop loan. Once we did get it paid, we’d buy a few clothes for the coming school year and try to lay in a few supplies for winter. When that was all done, if we were lucky, we’d have two hundred dollars left. If we could manage that, we thought of ourselves as being quite prosperous.

Going to the gin with My Daddy on a big load of cotton was one of the delights of my youth. When fifteen hundred pounds were picked and on the wagon, it was ready to go. The gin was in the heart of the community known as Light. Now, when the wagon was loaded and tromped down, it would be piled high above the sideboards and look as if it might overflow. The scales would be taken down, and the tongue placed back in the wagon and the mares hooked up to it. My Daddy would be the driver as this would be a heavy load. Skills in handling a team of horses would be needed to get us there safely and this was no time to be messing around. I never missed an opportunity to go to the gin. It was a delightful experience for me, as I loved the little community village called Light.

Coming from the Company Farm, we’d come in from the north and turn back east. On the left, we’d pass Mrs. Davis’s and Mrs. Houston’s little eating joints, the theater and a little four-room bungalow that was covered with blue brick siding was also on this side. Across the street, in front of them, were the big, white apartment building and the Vance Cupp General Mercantile Store. On the backside of Light's frontage street were the Darrel Kennemore Gin and store. That was another world as far as I was concerned. We were Vance Cupp people. The road from 228, coming from the south, passed between the mercantile store and a magnificent yellow brick home of the Cupp family. A couple of little white houses were on the same side a little farther down. Light also, had a post office that was located at different places throughout the years. It was a thriving little village in those days, especially in the fall of the year.

I want to now take you on a tour as I saw it as a thirteen-year-old coming into his fourteenth year.

We go onto a scale that’s adjacent to what we call the scale house in front of the big roaring gin. A little window is slid open and someone says something to My Daddy. They both laugh. The wagon is then weighed. This process will be repeated when we are unloaded. This procedure will give us the number of pounds on the wagon. These figures needed to correlate with My Daddy's or there would be a problem with paying the pickers. Later, when we leave we will collect in cash three cents for each pound. This is called “The Picking Money” and is used to pay the people who picked the cotton. We then move onto the gin lot and tie up the horses. There are several full wagons waiting their turn to be emptied. It will take about fifteen minutes to unload each one. We’re going to be here for a little while.

Climbing down from the wagon we go into the scale house. It’s great in here. One of Mr. Cupp's daughters, Evangeline, is the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. She doesn't wear the old rough work clothes like the field hands. She is wearing a canary yellow sweater with a green chiffon skirt. Her beautiful full lips are painted a bright red. She looks prettier than any movie star. The sweet smell of perfume drifts over to me and my heart skips a beat. She’s talking to My Daddy and calls him Johnny and smiles at him sweetly. She’s asking about the General and calls her Ocie. She’s looking at me and asking me how I am. I tell her fine. I’m proud to know these people. They’re rich, but they treat us with dignity. I think they really like us. One time Evangeline told me that the General was the prettiest woman in the whole county when she was young. She said she cried the day the General got married. That one, I never quite figured out. My Daddy being such a good guy and all.

Here’s Mr. Vance Cupp, the one all dressed up in the slacks, white shirt, and blue tie. He looks like one of the business fellers from over in town. He’s asking My Daddy how we’re doing with the picking. He always chuckles like that when he talks. He wants to know how many more bales we think there’ll be from our crop. It sure is loud in here from the roar of that gin. No one seems to be paying it no mind though. When outside you can hear the Darrel Kennemore gin too. The noise from them both will deafen a person.

Let’s go out to the gin. You can see it’s a big long two hundred-foot aluminum building. It looks to be about thirty-foot wide to me. That area on the south side is where you pull your wagon under to unload. Don’t need some old skittish horse hooked to the wagon. That big tube sucks up the cotton into the heavy machinery that you hear making all that noise. Up there somewhere it separates the seeds, hulls and trash. Let’s go where the lint cotton falls out after it’s ginned. See this big green basket it’s falling into? Watch and you’ll see a big press come and mash it down. That process will continue until the whole load is baled. That fifteen hundred pounds will be reduced down to about five hundred when the ginning is all done. They’ll then drape it with that big brown heavy netting. Metal straps about two inches wide will then be placed about every ten inches and buckled into place. The press will then be released and it’ll be ready to be put out on the loading platform. Mr. Cupp has two big trucks to haul the bales over to the cotton compress in Hoxie.

It’s always festive here at Light. These kids have all come with their daddys to the gin. Let’s go over to Mrs. Houston's. It’s my favorite place to eat. She makes a great hamburger for fifteen cents, and sodas are only a nickel. I love the taste of the burnt hamburger meat on a store bought bun like she makes. She always stacks lettuce, tomatoes, and onions on top of it. I’ve never found another place that makes it quite like she does. These four stools and two tables are always full during ginning season. I always try to sit at one of these three booths. Someone is always playing them two pinball machines over there against the wall. You can’t hear them dinging for the noise from the gins. If you want to play you’ll have to just watch the lights.

While we’re eating burgers, and visiting with my friends from school, My Daddy will go over to the general store and do some shopping for the General. He loves to joke around with Mrs. Cupp. She doesn't take him too seriously. He always kids her about wanting to sell him things now that he has money. He accuses her of not being so anxious when he has to put it on his account. They both laugh, usually him a little more than her. When he buys the bologna, he always asks if he has to pay for the paper she’s put it on. This always gets a good laugh if some of the other men are standing around.

It has been three hours and we better get back in the scale house. There’s My Daddy leaning over the desk where Evangeline is figuring out what they owe us. She’ll give My Daddy three cents a pound for the cotton we brought in. He’ll need that to pay the pickers. The balance, she’ll put in a check. My Daddy always watches her like that when she calculates everything. She’s counting out the cash for the picking money now. I don’t know how she can talk and be so sweet while she’s figuring all that out. I think she must be pretty smart. Looks like they are all done, she just handed the money and all the papers to My Daddy. He just snapped it in the top part of his bib overalls. I think My Daddy is feeling pretty good long about now. Did you see him wink at me? That means he’s ready to go.

Let’s pile in the wagon now and head for home. The General will be waiting up for us to make sure we get there safely. She’s heard of people hiding in bushes and robbing people when they know that these cotton farmers are carrying cash. One time, a bunch of gypsies set up this tent and had a Hoochie Koochie show. The General said that an old silly man from over around Fontaine went in there to see them old mean, wicked women dance. One of them threw her skirt up over his head. While he was trying to get out from under there and over the shock of such a deed, she lifted his wallet. The sheriff had to come and get his money back for him. The General said the old fool had no business being in there in the first place.

When we get home and get the horses put away, we’ll go into the house. Everyone will get up and gather around the kitchen table. There we’ll figure out how much money we all got coming. My Daddy will then pay us all up in full. We have to save enough money to buy our school clothes and keep a little cash to get through the long, hard winter. The General will then run us off to bed, as tomorrow is another day and we still got a lot of cotton left to pick.