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.