Cotton Field

Beautiful as always and so heartfelt … Ian

House of Heart

It was the dog-days  of Summer. No more trips to the river  for fear of the dreaded disease lurking in the muddy bottom. Fish fry’s at Johnson’s Ferry were over for the year.From the  porch I peeled peaches and read scripture to Grandma,  from there I could see the field hands that had been  picked up before dawn and carried in the back of the  truck to  gigantic polka dot fields beneath the blistering sun.  Fastened around their necks were  long sacks of burlap that trailed six feet behind them. Some  wore  gloves but  most were  without and  plucked the miniature clouds of cotton from the prickly  bristles with bare fingers, swooping in and  out like small birds, their backs bent nearly to the ground. I  begged to join them  and  after many rejections  I was sent off with the rest. Soon I begged and pleaded to leave the field…

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