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Mother’s Day Ela Morgan Bullington – Cotton Patch

December the fifth was my mother’s birthday, so I thought that it would be appropriate to write some special memories of her. The year of her birth always eluded me, and in trying to recall that and some other facts, I began to read Dad’s memoirs that were written after her death. I found the following statement dated December 5, 1969:

“Ah! This glorious Anniversary- I retired about 12:15 A.M. thanking God who so wonderfully blessed us all sixty-five years ago by sending into the W.E. Morgan family such a bright, sweet little daughter, Ela. This placed the town of Henry, Tenn. firmly on the map. I’m sure the quiet little town could not dream of the far-reaching effect and blessings of this, seemingly, common event. This, the first birth to the family of the principal of their High School………”

This statement was written by a lonely man who had lost his wife of forty-six years. Overtones of emotion tend to discredit the reasonableness of the statement about the far-reaching effect of her birth, but I knew the unpretentious, mature woman who gave so much for as long as she had strength. She may not have been recognized in any newspaper or magazine, but in the schools and communities in which she served, she was well known for she gave of herself generously.

Because of her selfless support, her husband was “known in the gates”. Enabled by her hard work and her willingness to forego the ownership of silver, china, crystal, and fine furniture, he gave of himself to build up and broaden the scope of schools and churches for which he worked religiously. They lived in hard times, but theirs were made even harder because of his devotion to others and she aided, if not encouraged, him in doing so.

Throughout this series of stories, I have referred to many of Mother’s talents, but the most vivid impression that she ever made on my childish heart came at the end of a long hot day of work in Uncle Lake Bates’ cotton patch. When I came home very dirty and very tired, I was presented with a pair of white and pink flowered flannel pajamas, complete with buttonholes and buttons on the front of the shirt and on the cuffs at the bottom of the long sleeves. This within itself was not unusual, for Mother was a very efficient seamstress, and I was used to her making all of our clothes. This time, however, she had not only made me a pair of pajamas, but she had also made an identical pair for my doll, Robbie Joe!

This gesture of love was the most meaningful of any that Mother ever demonstrated to me. Even in my small untrained eye for quality, I saw the labor of love that went into that small pair of pajamas for my doll. Not only was it an extravagance of material, but also of her time. The tiny band at the bottom of the sleeves, the collar, the front placket, and the tiny worked buttonholes on the small pajamas were every bit as artfully done as the ones on the larger pair!

I do not remember what I said to my mother, but I know that the surprise and joy in my heart had to have been visible to her. Perhaps she was sufficiently rewarded by my delighted response to her “gift”.

By the time that I went away to college, Mother had so many responsibilities she could not make all of our clothes, but she made two dresses for my college wardrobe that became favorites. They were made of cotton blends so that laundering was fairly easy. One was a medium blue and white checked gingham, made simple, but neat and comfortable. The other was made of red, white, and black plaid material, and it was not so simply made. It had a peplum effect on the skirt, which was trimmed with white eyelet embroidery through which black grosgrain ribbon was run. A square neckline was also trimmed in the same eyelet and ribbon, and a big full bow tied the rounded ends of the peplum in the back. It was beautiful due to the details and workmanship rather than to the quality of material, and it helped me catch the attention of a young man, named Bill Redding, as he waited in a line across the cafeteria…. and the rest of this story is still under construction.

Giving of ourselves unselfishly is one of the most effective ways of making someone feel our love. Mothers may go unrewarded and even unrecognized for the things that they do, but recognition does often come when their children grow up and have children of their own!

Ela Morgan Bullington
Ela Morgan Bullington
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Emotions

I have been feeling like God wants me to share from my heart.  I can talk about things, recipes, procedures, children, etc. But share my innermost thoughts? That’s a different thing altogether. One thing that I think holds me back is my fear of judgment from others. Or fear that I will hurt someone’s feelings if I share my heart. I’m really not sure what I would share at this point in my life but I will say that I am exploring the thought and trying to be open to whatever that brings.

I wrote the above paragraph over a month ago. Things were going along pretty smoothly. I was recovering from surgery which gave me a lot of time to read, do projects and visit with loved ones.

I am now back to work and in the middle of struggles on all sides. I have been a weepy mess lately. We have suffered several losses. Dear friends of many years passing away too soon, young people we knew during their teen years leaving this earth unexpectedly. And other losses. Life is oh so short and precious. Make the most of it! That is so much easier said than done.

How can I  make the most of my life? Following God first, loving his people, and loving those the Lord puts in your path.

Following God carries me to the peaks and to the depths and stretches me beyond what I thought possible. When I am at the peak it is hard to keep my feet upon the earth. When I am in the depths I know he will rescue me and bring me out! How do I know? History. My history with God.

Isaiah 41:10 ESV 

Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

Isaiah 46:4 ESV 

Even to your old age I am he, and to gray hairs I will carry you. I have made, and I will bear; I will carry and will save.

John 16:33 ESV 

I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.”

Proverbs 3:5-6 ESV 

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.

1 Peter 5:7 ESV 

Casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you.

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Growing Creative Children

Are you surrounded by geniuses? If you look for the genius in your child you will find it. Children are creative, gifted, and geniuses! Cultivate what is naturally growing in your child.

Dwell on their strengths. Encourage and build up their weaknesses but don’t spend all of your time or focus on the weakness instead of their strengths. Give them some time to devote to the things they love, the things they naturally and joyfully pursue. If they have not discovered a direction give them time to pursue a variety of things. Introduce them to various experiences especially with God’s creation. Whether it is learning higher math, building catapults, rebuilding mini bike engines, building rafts, hunting, making gaga arenas, jumping ramps (or cars) on roller blades or bikes, drawing, painting, starting their own businesses, taking care of chickens, starting a band, playing football and learning all the stats, perfecting the budget, baking, or designing clothes your child has a gift! The list goes on and on.

As a mother have you ever felt like you just needed to create something? Something tangible? Or the need to feel like you have truly accomplished something visible? Even though there are so many things that you need to do and are pressing in on you, you still have this need to be creative. You get overwhelmed because there are so many things which you need to do but inwardly you have one thing you really want to pursue. If you let yourself create you have probably found a feeling of great peace and strength and joy. You may find more energy to take care of the other needed things in your life too.

Homeschool families are especially blessed to get to see the gifts in their children and watch as they blossom and grow. Parents have hours to see their children grow and struggle with their strengths and weaknesses. Not only do they get to spend an amazing amount of time living and growing with their children but the children have hours to discover their gifts and put them to use. That’s if we let them. Whether you are a homeschooling family or not I would suggest that you avoid the temptation to fill up all of your children’s free time for them. Give them time and space and watch what happens. Maybe you don’t have much time during the school year but you can plan chunks of time during school breaks and especially the summer for creativity. Remember lazy days of summer?

My best planning efforts have never produced the natural excitement of a child with a new idea. One of the best gifts our children can receive is time to devote to the things they delight themselves in exploring. Most people think of boredom in a negative way. I believe it can be a positive thing for your child. Let your children be bored. Don’t rescue them. Let them come up with some ideas. Some amazing things come from boredom and from having to come up with your own source of entertainment.

Today take some time to breathe, to create, and to let your children grow! Your geniuses will amaze you with their creativity!

 

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Games Your Grandma Played- Cotton Patch

Recently, I had a conversation with my grandson, Jonas about his outside play. I found out that he made up many of the games he and the neighbor kids were playing. This thrilled me! I really enjoy seeing children outside, making up their own games and sharing their creativity. Just watch and see, they are having a great time doing it! Whether they are making up their own games or playing with toys these are great experiences.  I believe it is so good for children to spend a lot of time outside and to come up with their own fun. I have many fond memories of homemade fun and of my children and nephews playing all over Redding Mountain. Below is another Cotton Patch article that was written by my mother-in-law on her childhood games. After you read the article please leave a comment about one of your favorite childhood games. –Reda

What did children do to occupy their minds and free time when there were no TV’s, no Jam Boxes, no stereos nor even radios? There were, also, no telephones on which to talk to friends. During, and for several years following the Great Depression, most parents that I knew did not have money to spend on gasoline to run around from one activity to another. There were basketball games associated with the schools, but even those were not attended by many people that lived beyond walking distance. So what did the children do for recreation?

If you can imagine having no TV’s, no computers, no radios, etc., and if you can picture a home that is not filled with things from Toys ‘R Us or Schwinn’s Cyclery, from K-Mart or even the Dollar Store, then you may be able to understand the task of “finding something to do”. Families were somewhat larger, then, and parents relied on the older siblings to watch for and entertain the younger ones. What better way to keep up with the little ones than to play games with them? Many of the games played during that time had survived through several generations, and some of them are still being played even today. It continues to amaze me to learn that people who grew up in Texas and West Virginia played a lot of the same games that I played while growing up in Alabama.

Some outdoor games that were favorites for groups of children included Hide and Go Seek, Red Rover, Red Rover, Farmer in the Dell, Drop the Handkerchief, Mother, May I?, Hop Scotch, Annie-Over, and many others. Kick the Can was not so popular, but it was so ingenious, that I must mention it. Most children could not afford a new ball every time something happened to their old one, but they always had access to an old tin can. What can one do with an old can? It can be kicked from a base, and while the player in the field is retrieving it, the kicker can try to run to a base and back home, before being tagged. Who needs a ball?

The tin can was also used to provide other forms of recreation. With its label still intact, it could be a can of food on the shelf in a make-believe home. But the most fun that I experienced with tin cans was by using them as a short version of Tom Walkers. (You may better know them as stilts). Tin cans were substituted for the wooden legs, and it was not so far to the ground if one fell down. To make the “walkers”, two holes were punched in the bottoms of two cans by using a “rock” hammer and a nail. (If you could get the holes punched without smashing a finger or causing the nail to fly through the air and land in some unknown place, you were quite lucky!) A rope was then threaded through the holes so that both ends of the rope were on the outside. While in a standing position, a would-be walker held the ends of the rope firmly in his hands as he placed each foot on the bottom of a can. Holding the ropes tightly enough to keep the cans in contact with the feet, one could thus walk around feeling like a giant. Taller cans made taller giants, naturally, but they were not nearly so scary as Tom Walkers on which one’s feet were about 36 inches off the ground.

Playing House was definitely for girls, but sometimes the younger boys were persuaded to join in to help make a *real *family. I enjoyed two different kinds of playing house. One was definitely a fair weather activity, but the other one could be played indoors or outdoors, and the cost of all the equipment in either case was practically nothing.

The fair weather house was built outside, preferably in a lightly wooded area. The “house” was outlined on the ground with limbs and sticks, or rocks and occasionally bricks. Rooms were also outlined, and sometimes pretty green moss was laid like carpet on some of the floors. Inside the house, various lengths of wooden boards laid across two rocks became anything from a chair, a sofa, a bed, or a table. If one had bricks, layers of boards and bricks made good cabinets with several shelves. Pieces of colored glass made beautiful dishes, and leaves of various sorts became green vegetables to be cooked. Dirt and water could be mixed up to make mud pies or anything you wanted it to be.

The amount of fun that one had with these simple activities was limited only by one’s lack of imagination. Were those the “Good Ole Times”? I’ll leave that to your imagination.

When a child’s imagination is not directed by ready-made toys, programs and directed activities, he does not as readily suffer from boredom. A child, who creates an object or a situation, will not be as critical as when someone else creates it…he will more likely be content.

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Oxford School – Cotton Patch

Revisiting the familiar territory around Oxford School where I had attended fifth and sixth grades under my father, brought back more memories of the years between 1939 and 1943.

We lived in the teachers’ home which had 2 small bedrooms, living room, kitchen, pantry, 2 porches and a “car shed”.

The bathroom was an outdoor building that also served the school. It was on a slight hill on the other side of our large fenced garden spot making it quite a distance from the house. Because such a walk was unthinkable in the dark, we used a small portable facility called a “slop jar” at night. The job of emptying it was not a favorite thing to do, but we each had our turn. Once, it had gotten dark when I remembered that I had not brought the “jar” in for the night and, being somewhat afraid to go get it, I mentioned it to my oldest sister and asked her what I should do. Well, she gave me an extremely effective answer; one that has also become a very popular saying among Christian young people today. She merely asked, “What would Jesus do?” I didn’t have to think …I knew…and it gave me the courage to accept my responsibility. Knowing that I was doing right empowered me to lay aside my fears that night, and that question has been useful to me many times since. When the WWJD bracelets began to be worn a few years ago, I was excited about the positive influence they could have in the lives of those who used them properly.

On December 7, 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and we entered into World War II. It was a hard time for many families whose boys were drafted into armed services, but it was a time when patriotism was at a peak. We sang patriotic songs at school, and we were encouraged to buy ten-cent war stamps which, when enough were accumulated, could be exchanged for war bonds. The smallest bond cost $18.75 mature at $25.00. Gasoline, coffee, sugar, etc. had to be rationed, and communities worked together on many common causes.

In 1941-1943 I attended a Jr. High school whose principal had served in World War I and was a high ranking official in the National Guards. He incorporated army style marching (including presenting arms) into our physical education program. We learned to do right turns, left turns, about face, column march, march in place, attention, at-ease, etc. It connected us to the boys who were fighting in faraway places.

Aunt Ethel Bates, Dad’s sister, lived in a nice big yellow house about a quarter of a mile up the road in one direction and Aunt Vona Davis, Dad’s aunt, lived about half that distance in the other direction. Both families were a big part of the enjoyment of living in that community. Each family had a girl near my own age with which I shared some good times. Bessie was the youngest child and only girl in Aunt Vona’s family. Evelyn was the fourth child and the first girl in Aunt Ethel’s family of four boys and two girls.

Both of these aunts were good homemakers, diligent in providing for their families and in sharing with neighbors. Both husbands did well with farming and their homes reflected their prosperity. The homes still look good today because someone has continued to care for them.
Few tragedies have touched my immediate or extended family, but one which can’t be surpassed occurred in the Bates’ home. I seldom speak of them without the memory surfacing to haunt me still.

Aunt Ethel’s washing machine was on the side porch, and one day as she was busy with her wash, she had hot water in the washpot. Some of the children were playing marbles out in the yard and had been cautioned to be careful, but in the excitement of the game the youngest boy backed into the fire and fell into the pot of hot water. He was not killed immediately but died on the way to the hospital or soon thereafter. A sister-in-law related how Brice tried to comfort his mother on the way to the hospital saying that he didn’t hurt. Evidently, his feelings were gone and he felt no pain!

For months I witnessed the unbearable pain suffered by a parent in the loss of a child. The months became years before grief did its healing process well enough for that household to be restored to its former state of joyfulness.

Tragedies, though hard to bear, can teach us lessons that help us survive hardships that follow. They can also help form within us the softer qualities of compassion and concern for the feelings of others.

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Piney Chapel – Cotton Patch

Recently, I had the privilege of revisiting several of the places where my childhood memories have taken me in the stories from the Cotton Patch. It was a rewarding visit, complete with the nostalgia that we experience when we realize that those times of the past are only memories. The joy of the experience was made greater by the presence of two of my sisters, who have shared in my memories, and my husband who has encouraged me to write about them.

The Piney Chapel community was the place where we moved in with the bedbugs and waged an all-out war to get them out of the crevices of our beaded ceiling walls and where our mother persistently treated us for scabies every time we scratched. It was there that my anger got the best of me and I hit a first grade classmate in the head with a piece of coal for following me and singing, “She’s My Curly Headed Baby”. Of all the events that I have recounted that had nothing to do with cotton, most of them occurred in this little corner of Limestone County, Alabama.

As we drove around looking for familiar sights, we were dismayed by the changes in and the loss of many buildings, but we were equally amazed at the unchanged condition of others. Sixty-four years ago, I was running around playing on the swing sets and climbing on the monkey bars of the school that still exists. A small area of the schoolyard was familiar, but the addition of many buildings has displaced the teacherage in which we lived. The house had been about halfway between the school and the church building, and, although we missed it the first time we drove by, the church building is still there. It is not so magnificent a place as I remembered it, but it gave me a thrill to see it. Best of all, diagonally across the street stood the house where the Broadways lived.

We could not believe how little this neighbor’s house had changed. The cellar, with its sloping tin door, was there, validating my memories of sliding down the cellar door and singing, “Come Out My Playmates, come out and play with me…and bring your dollies, three…climb up my apple tree..shout down my rain barrel….slide down my cellar door, and we’ll be jolly friends forevermore….”! Windows that opened out over the roof of the front porch reminded me of times Rebecca and I had played “dress-up” in that upstairs room.

We left Piney Chapel and went west of Athens to the very rural community of Oxford Elementary School and Pleasant Valley Church. On the way, we tried to find an old favorite spot for swimming and fishing. We almost despaired of finding it, but eventually, we got our thrill of knowing that we had located it. The “end” of the backwaters from the river and two streams through which we had driven before they put culverts across the road were foolproof evidences that it was “our” spot.

A few miles from the river we located the old homeplace of one of my dad’s aunts. Some of her children and grandchildren established homes on nearby farms, and we were able to recognize a few. One that I was most interested in was Ross Holland’s home that had sat among some big shade trees and had a porch that went around two or three sides of the house. The porch always intrigued me and I thought the house was handsome. Well, it has changed a great deal and if houses could shrink, I would say it has shrunk to about half of its original size!

I saw fields where I had picked cotton and the barn looked the same as I remembered it. There were cows in a pasture and the country store building across the street is still useful. Except for the house itself and the paved street, the place looks as if life has continued in the same way for sixty years.

Oxford school no longer exists, but the concrete bell tower that I watched being built is still standing, and the teachers’ home where we lived looks very much the same. It was here I had the great Halloween scare and in turn frightened my parents by hiding so successfully. It was here my father taught me in fifth and sixth grades. It was here we lived between an aunt and a great aunt whose houses appear so wonderfully unchanged.

Time is forever moving forward, never backward, and so our experiences come and are gone. We will never relive a moment of time, but our memories enable us to vicariously play pleasant scenes and emotions over again and again.

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Halloween Cotton Patch 14

I have decided to keep the articles in their original order. Even though Halloween is not in July! Sit for a spell in the cool and enjoy a story of long ago. -Reda

Whenever our rural Alabama schools celebrated a major holiday, it was always a special and joyous occasion for me. Not only did the holidays contribute to my joy, but the seasons themselves, each with their own unique beauties, were just as delightful..

The autumn season in which Halloween and Thanksgiving are celebrated was especially impressive to me, as it is today. The beautifully colored leaves stirred up a wonder in my soul, and the fresh, crisp air renewed the physical energy that had been sapped by the long, hot summer. An abundance of acorns lay everywhere inviting me to step on them in order to hear crunchy, crackling, delightful sounds. Gathering scaly bark hickory nuts, pecans, black walnuts, beechnuts and just plain old hickory nuts, gave excuses enough to take long, lazy walks in the woods, either alone or with other family members. Celebrating a holiday, however, was most often a public experience that centered around school functions.

Pilgrim costumes, complete with black top hats for the boys and big white collars and aprons for the girls, made the acting out of the first Thanksgiving feast an impressive extension of our reading and history lessons.

Halloween was announced, as it is today, with figures of ghosts, witches, bats, skeletons etc. hanging from wherever they could be hung. The teachers and parents of the community usually took advantage of this season to make money by staging a school carnival.

Very little money was spent on preparations for the carnival. A “fishing pond” containing cheap, but neat, trinkets allowed those who paid a fee to throw in their fishing lines to go “fishing”. People behind the scenes attached a prize to the line with a clothes pin and then gave a strong tug on the line as a cue for the fisherman to pull out his “fish”.

The “haunted house” was full of all sorts of things to create weird or icky feelings and sounds. A rubber glove filled with oatmeal, attached to the end of a stick, became a dead man’s hand to be shaken. An “airplane ride” for blindfolded customers jostled and shook them around on a board which was never more than six inches off the floor! (Such was the simplicity of it all ). Fortune-telling, cake walks, and other fun-filled activities rounded out the evenings of fun and fellowship with neighbors, both young and old.

We did not go “trick or treating” in those days, but people made a lot of strange noises in their attempts to create a scary atmosphere. One homemade instrument that produced a horrible sounding noise was made from stretching a cowhide over the open ends of a metal cylinder. After punching a hole in the middle of each stretched hide, a cord or heavy string was pulled back and forth through the holes in the hide. What an **awesome **sound it made! That sound was a major force that precipitated the events of the following story.

On this particular Halloween, we were living in the teacherage which was located between Oxford Elementary School and the country road below. The secret “rooms” had been set up at school, ready to thrill and perhaps frighten those who would pay to be thrilled and frightened. I was chosen to stay home with a young sibling that evening, but from the front porch and living room of our home, I could see all the lights at the carnival, and I could see silhouettes of the parked cars and of people going in and out of the building. In the beginning I felt pretty secure, yet as it became darker and darker and the noises got louder and louder, my secure feeling began to feel shakier and shakier.

I turned out all the lights in our house so that I could see into the darkness better, but eventually the din of noises (which included some cow hide contraptions) reached a level that was intolerable. I had had enough Halloween “fun”, so I took the baby to the car and locked the doors. We were not long in feeling safe enough to fall sound asleep.

When my family came home to an empty house, it was not long before neighbors joined in a desperate search for the two of us. Someone even peeked into the car and missed us, but eventually we were found, and my most memorable and frightful Halloween was over.

Unfounded fears are not limited to children, and the fact that they are unfounded does not make them any less real to the fearful individual. If a child’s unfounded fears are dealt with realistically, his mental perception will probably develop so that he is better able to distinguish between real and unreal fears as an adult.

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From the Cotton Patch-Memories

We may truly believe in the accuracy of our memories, only to discover years later that our version of what happened disagrees with the versions of others who were there. This can be particularly true of children who blindly trust others and who tend to take things literally. Children whose older siblings tease or use scare tactics may have memories of what was told them or what was impressed on their emotions rather than what really happened.

Having two older sisters who sometimes worked together in creating impressions on me, I had some ‘memories’ that were later “put to the test” and found wanting. In laying the foundation for one particular story, however, it seems reasonable to relate things that they did to me before my memory kicked in. As you read this, please, keep in mind that all is told in sisterly love… for they have long since been forgiven.

My birth weight was guessed by the country doctor who delivered me as he hefted me up in his hands….. twelve pounds! (As you can imagine, even if he were off by a pound, I must have been a very large baby). As my mother became strong enough to take on her household duties, she relied a great deal on my sisters to keep watch over me. They probably did as good a job as any six and seven-year-olds could do, but the imaginations of the two together sometimes led them to try things that one, alone, might not try.

A proposed fun thing to do was to put me into our rural mailbox. Here, my weight turned out to be a blessing. As they tried to stuff me into the box, I was too big…. but that’s not the end of the story! They weren’t satisfied to give up on such a neat idea, so they ran to tell our mother that they had stuffed me into the box and couldn’t get me out. Needless to say, Mother was not nearly so thrilled with their joke as they imagined she would be, even after she saw that I was not harmed.

Another before-memory escapade that must be told concerns two china-head dolls that belonged to my sisters. They had each received a doll, of which they were extremely proud, so there was no need for jealousy. Right? Well, so it was in the beginning, but dolls with china heads are quite fragile, and it was not surprising that one of them got broken.

The tragedy happened at the hands of the doll’s owner so she could not blame anyone else, but she could be jealous that her sister still had a doll. In fact, she was so jealous she plotted to have baby sister “accidentally” break the surviving doll. After laying the doll down on a hard surface, my envious sister placed a stick into my small hands and instructed me to hit the doll. She had not counted on my inability to hit the doll hard enough to break it, so she did what she had to do… she broke it herself! Naturally, the owner was told that I had broken her doll, and that account was believed for several years. I ‘learned’ of the wrongdoing when I was about ten years old, as we were riding home from the funeral of a young cousin. The seriousness of the occasion must have pricked an over-burdened conscience, for the guilty sister made a full confession!

Memories of ‘sister abuse’ all center around my fifth and sixth years. The reality of ‘mad dogs’ gave rise to scaring little sister over any strange dog that came around. Once a dog wandered into the school building where some of us were playing, and one of my sisters declared that the dog had rabies. I was duly terrified and clambered to safety where I remained until the dog had gone on its way.

Sometimes fears that are impressed on children make them overly fearful as adults, but I had the story of “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” to help me develop a “wait and see” attitude. I was also blessed with a very practical mother whose calmness allayed many fears that were self-induced as well as those projected by others.

It is with good feelings that I recall my family and our rural Alabama home. The cotton patch is one identity of those years, but for now there are several sister stories left to tell.

This is the eleventh basic article of “From the Cotton Patch”. As a grandmother, I have seen older siblings tease the younger ones in ways that sometimes seem cruel. I prefer to believe that teasing within the family can help buffer one against trials of teenage and adult years.

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From the Cotton Patch

From the Cotton Patch
by Someone’s Grandma

We awoke early, had a good hot breakfast of biscuits, butter, sausage, eggs, gravy, and jelly, all of which were homemade or home processed. There was also good, fresh, wholesome milk to drink. The biscuits and gravy contained flour and a few other ingredients that were “store-bought”, but everything else was made from things grown or raised on Granddad’s and Granny’s farm. I *could* have milked the cow, churned the butter, gathered the eggs, picked some of the fruit (apple, grapes, cherries, blackberries or strawberries) for the jelly, turned the sausage grinder by hand and stuffed the sausage into a “stocking” cover. I *may* have washed and peeled fruit washed the canning jars with water that was drawn out of a deep well with a contraption called a windlass. (A windlass was a big cylindrical wooden drum with a handle). A rope, attached to the windlass, went up and through a pulley in the ceiling of the well-house and down into the well. When a bucket attached to the rope filled up with water, the windlass was turned by hand to bring the fresh cool water up out of the well. It took a lot of buckets of water to make sure the jars were clean and rinsed, but the windlass was fun to let go flying round and round as the bucket fell into the water. The flying handle could be treacherous if you got in its way, but we all learned that scientific fact rather quickly! …But, back to my story…

After breakfast, the adults busied themselves with various chores, while we younger ones watched the sun creep up over the treetops, revealing a very beautiful dew-drenched earth. It was rather cool and damp out on the front porch as we waited for the signal to load up so we could get to the cotton field for a day of work and fun. We youngn’s each wore a straw hat and a long-sleeved shirt to protect us from the hot sun, and we each had a garden hoe, and some of us may have worn cotton gloves so the hoe handle would be less likely to rub blisters on our hands as we chopped at the weeds in and around the young cotton stalks.

Often there was one last ritual before we climbed into the wagon to head for the field. That was hoe sharpening. One or more of the older folks would take a metal file and sharpen the cutting edges of the hoes. In the process of thinning the cotton stalks and chopping out the weeds, our hoes would often strike rocks. It was kinda neat to us youngsters to see the sparks fly when the metal struck against the rocks, but the veteran cotton choppers knew sharp hoe blades would work faster and more efficiently than ones that had been dulled. Hoe sharpening was essential to getting the job done better and more quickly.

Well, the sun, which was finally up, was causing the dew all around to turn into a vapor and rise into the air. Little low lying patches of fog were just as beautiful as the dew-covered plants. No one needed to tell us how beautiful God made the earth…we not only saw it….we felt it!

At last, it was time to climb into the wagon pulled by a team of mules. We bounced up and down on wooden seats as we were carried along the long country lane edged with sweet-smelling pink hedge roses, and not one of us had a thought about being discontent nor deprived of the luxuries that may have belonged to somebody…somewhere….There were songs waiting to be sung, butterflies waiting to chase, and cool shade trees at the end of the long rows of cotton waiting to be enjoyed by hot, sweaty, tired bodies as they shared a gourd dipper and drank from a cool bucket of water.

 

This is the first article of a series in an attempt to give the younger generation a glimpse into the past that belonged to and helped to shape the ideals and principles of their grandparents and great-grandparents. Not every one belonging to those generations had the privilege of working in a cotton patch, but they all shared a closeness to nature that has all but been destroyed by our modern lifestyles.

Windlass at Cannonsburg Village Murfreesboro, TN

Special thanks to my wonderful mother-in-law, Jo Redding, who agreed to let me share these articles. Thanks to the editors of Redding Magazine for letting me reprint them here. This article was first published in Redding Magazine in 1996.