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And the winner is…….Jolene Anderson. Jolene won the drawing for the Red Frilly Apron! Congratulations! Don’t you love prizes?

Apron lovers please add a picture of you wearing your favorite or most interesting apron? Or just a picture of your apron. There may be a prize…..

Watch for our next drawing to begin soon!

New Things

So my new adventure begins. I didn’t really plan to have this adventure. So how did I embark on it? It all started with being cold. As many of you know I am very cold natured. Yes, I am using my heater by my desk even in June in Tennessee. Confession time, I don’t really like air conditioning. It is 88° in Antioch, Tn this morning. So, the outside temperature is not the problem. When I go outside in the summer I am hot. When I come inside I am cold. In the winter I have the opposite problem. So you see, I really don’t like being hot or cold. I bundle up in the house to please the rest of my family who is always hot. If I am going someplace where there will be air conditioning I almost always take an overshirt or jacket.

How Did My Adventure Begin?

Anyway, back to my story. In February I was getting ready for my day with my little heater running in my bathroom. I got a little too close and tripped over it and landed in my bathtub. I know this is too much information but this is how I embarked on my new adventure. This really took me by surprise. I ended up with a little bruise and iced it for a bit but it didn’t improve so I called my physician and went in for his opinion. He said to use heat and ibuprofen. I did that for a few weeks and still no improvement. Two months later it is getting worse and actually starting to interfere with my life a bit, especially my sleep.

So I go back to the doctor and he ordered an MRI. I have had the blessing of a long healthy life so I didn’t know what I was getting into. I was actually excited about getting to the root of the problem until the put me on the table and laid a weighted cage on me and put earplugs in my ears. And I knew that there was no way I could go in that tube. Thankfully, the tech realized it too, and gave me the option to try the open MRI machine. I did much better with it. Not great but better. He was very understanding and I greatly appreciated his attitude.

How did I survive the MRI?

Prayer first, plus I knew I had a praying sister nearby that I could call. (she works there). Next, I closed my eyes before going under the machine. Then I started going through all of my memory verses. This is good on many levels. Scriptures give me comfort and remind me of God’s promises, and then I started to go through the memories of all my births. I know this seems a strange thing to do but it actually makes sense. I recently completed my doula training and thought this would help me to remember what helped me the most. Plus this kept my mind on good things. During the test, the tech would update me on how many scans were completed so that I knew there would be an end to it. This helped a lot!

Four Months Later

After four months I realized this situation was not getting better. I made the suggested visit to the Orthopedist that had treated James when he broke his ankle. He was very good with James so that made sense to me to go with him. He read my MRI results and gave me the good news that I would not need surgery. He suggested I visit the Physical Therapist and get some exercises to help.

After my visit to the Physical Therapist and setting a plan, I am feeling very hopeful that I will be back to normal in a couple of months. By the way, it was fun to make a connection with my PT. He used to go to church with my older sons and he knew James through his journey with his broken ankle.

So now you know all about my new adventure.

Here’s what I’m going to be doing for a while.

With the setting of the sun not too far away, we looked back over the picked field, elated that it was finished. There were many green bolls remaining on the stalks, some of which were bulging at the “seams” from the expanding cotton inside them that would need to be picked later. But for now, we were tired and glad that there would be a few days before the next picking. On the ground between the rows were scraps of cotton that had fallen as our hands reached to put it into our sacks. Some had been knocked off by playful young pickers or by dogs chasing rabbits up and down the rows of white cotton. The scraps were dirty and ugly from having been dragged under the heavy cotton sacks that stretched the fibers into long thin slivers and ground the dirt into them as they went. The once beautiful field of snowy white cotton hanging loose and fluffy from the fanciful dry brown bolls was no longer beautiful to those who passed by. The picture that is presented to the landowner and to us cotton pickers, however, was one of a job well done. That called for a special treat…

As the farmer finished weighing up the sacks of cotton and emptying them into the wagon, we sat on the ground laughing and talking, waiting to be paid for our day’s work. Some of the older pickers took their money and started for home, thankful for having made enough to buy a little something special for dinner that evening. Others went home, thankful for the opportunity to have made a little toward paying off debts for food and clothing that had already been eaten or worn. We, who were younger, were planning what we could buy with our hard-earned cash. In our daydreaming, it always went twice as far as in reality.

“Who would like to go to the gin with me?” was a welcome question for many of us who were still young and inexperienced. It was not always asked, but today was a perfect day. The wagon had about 2000 pounds on it and there were no other fields waiting to be picked. The cotton needed to be taken to the gin where it would be turned into a bale that the farmer could sell on the market. “Who wanted to go?” I did!

We climbed onto the top of the white fluffy cotton and waited expectantly as the team of horses was hitched up to the long tongue in front of the wagon. The horses shook their harnesses and snorted from the feel of the bits in their mouths. They were not quite so happy with the prospect of this trip as we humans were!

When we finally started the bouncy ride, cushioned by the cotton underneath us, I had a sense of owning the world. The breeze that blew the hair back from my face could have been a nice cool shower for the clean feeling that I got from it. I still looked dirty to other people, but I felt clean. My hair was disheveled, my face was sunburned, but I felt good. I had a small amount of money in my pocket, and I felt rich!

I felt like singing and laughing and joking with my cousins as we passed the many farmhouses along the way to the gin. People were friendly and waved back at us. Some of them were still picking cotton in the fields half-finished, and I was glad to be where I was.

When we arrived at the gin, we had to wait in line for the big suction tube that would pull the cotton out of the wagons and send it in to the big machinery inside. It didn’t take long before we had our turn. We even stayed in the wagon as the cotton was sucked up into the big movable metal tube. In fact, we each got to try our skills at pulling that big tube around over the cotton, but it was not nearly so easy as it looked.

After the cotton was inside the gin it went through some processes that removed leaves, sticks, and pieces of cotton bolls that had found their way into the sacks of cotton. Then we watched as the big long bins with rotating “teeth” bit into the cotton fibers and removed the seeds which spilled into conduits that carried them to the seed house. The clean, seedless cotton was whisked through a passageway that ended at a press that had been lined in the bottom with a big piece of material that looked like heavy “toe sacking”, under which long metal bands were waiting to be tied around the whole bundle as it was compressed into a very compact bale of cotton which would weigh around 500 pounds. As the bale rolled from the press into the yard it was ready to take home or to sell there. The cotton seeds were also the farmer’s to take home or to sell to the gin company.

The cycle was near the end. From the planted seed to the bale of cotton, a farmer put in many hours of hard work and provided many hours of opportunity for others to earn money and to experience a great miracle of nature. Today, man’s processes have changed drastically, but God’s has needed no improvement.

If cotton fields could talk, they would tell you many more interesting stories than I have, from the lives of others who learned some of life’s great lessons while bowing their wills to work in a cotton patch! May each of you have had your own special “cotton patch”.

This was the last “Cotton Patch” article written by Jo Redding originally published by Redding Magazine.

What can I say? I love old buttons. Who can understand why such small things as the first violets in spring, old buttons in a cup, bookshelves filled with books, or old fashioned teacups can bring such joy? I’m not sure I really can understand why but they really do make my heart happy.

Yesterday I took a little drive to a friend’s house. I took the back roads over little bridges and winding roads. I saw the first daffodils of spring poking their heads through the soil. My heart rejoices at God’s creation. It was a cold but happy day.

On my drive, I passed the Rock Springs Church of Christ established in 1832. This little building holds such history. If you visit this little church which was the first Church of Christ in Rutherford County, Tennessee you will see pictures of the history. It is very interesting to think about the people who have come and gone who have had a connection to this church. Not just the building but each person and the lives they have lived. These are my people. People who were trying to serve God, love their families and the lost of their community. Imperfect people yes. People who needed God. And the story continues. Imperfect people still meeting in this little building still trying to serve God. When I was younger these little churches did not hold the same fascination for me as they do now. Now I appreciate that there is a light still shining in that same place for 188 years! A light dedicated to the Lord Jesus Christ. If our world ever needed light it is now.

When cotton blooms fall off the plants, little leafy squares form, and they, in turn, grow into egg-shaped green bolls that hold the tight, wet cotton fibers inside. As the bolls mature, the hot sun performs one of nature’s wondrous works. The wet cotton inside its neat little package gradually dries out, becoming fluffier and fluffier until it bursts the shell and pops out into long white strands. In the days of manual labor, a field was ready for the first picking when about one-third to one-half of the bolls were open.

The main piece of equipment for a cotton picker was a long sack made of heavy ducking or canvas material. For the adults, there were sacks six to seven feet long, and for the younger ones, the sacks were three to five feet long. Each sack had a strap that went around one side of the neck and under the opposite arm. The opening hung loosely under the arm to make it accessible for receiving the handfuls of cotton. One might choose to wear gloves and knee pads, but long sleeved shirts and wide-brimmed hats were necessities.

Hats offered protection from the hot sun and the long sleeves helped protect the arms from scrapes and scratches from rough stalks, briars and sharp points of the drying out bolls. The long sleeves might also protect one against an unseen “stinging worm”, a vicious little critter that was the same shade of green as the leaves on which they liked to hide. These worms were two to three inches long and had many hair-like stingers, each of which was capable of raising a red whelp on one’s skin. I don’t recall being stung many times, but the dread of being stung was part of the job.

I have no memories of my mother picking cotton, but I have been told that she would set me on her cotton sack and pull me along as she picked her way down the rows. It was a rather common sight to see parents or older siblings pulling a young child on the sack. Sometimes it was for entertainment, but often it was out of necessity.

When the cotton is white and fluffy in the bolls, it needs to be picked before the rain can beat down upon it and ruin it, so every available hand in the family was expected to help. Often farmers needed extra hands and would pay between 75 cents and $2.25 per hundred pounds of picked cotton. My average day was in the range of 100 to 150 pounds, which at $2.00 per hundred would make my day’s wages come to only 2 or 3 dollars! Today that sounds outrageous, but remember, one could buy a coke, a candy bar or a package of gum for a nickel in those days.

I had an elderly aunt who picked an unbelievable amount of cotton in a day’s time. I want to say that she could pick in excess of 500 pounds, but I was so impressed that my memory may have embellished the number a little. I was young and able-bodied and could barely pick 150 pounds, and here was this frail-bodied woman who could pick three to four times as much as I could. It was incredible, but it was not nearly as humiliating as the fact that my brother, who is three years younger than I, always beat me by weighing out about 200 pounds a day. That ought not to be.

One day I was determined to pick 200 pounds, and I worked relentlessly to reach that goal. We were working for a gentle, easy-going uncle, who continued to encourage me during the day. At the last weigh-in, the scales balanced at the right spot and I was elated. I had reached my goal but I was too tired to look forward to the County Fair that we had planned to attend that night.

Bathing must have been minimal that evening in preparation for the fair because I remember walking among all the jovial people knowing that my hair was stringy and dirty and that my face was sunburned. I was too tired to do much, and I had worked so hard for my money I didn’t want to let go of it. I had learned an important lesson in the real cost of things.

I have no particular memories of picking 200 pounds ever again. Characteristically, I have worked more slowly than other people with whom I have worked side by side in many situations. While this could have been interpreted as laziness, it was not my intention.

Having to work hard for one’s spending money is probably the quickest way of learning the value of money and what it costs to have the things we desire. Our values or priorities can change when faced with the reality of earning our way.