jg.paintedhouse-第3章

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　　　〃Bottomland？〃　Mr。　Spruill　asked；　as　if　he　were　being　sent　into　a　swamp。
　　　〃Some　of　it　is；　but　it's　good　land。〃
　　　Mr。　Spruill　glanced　at　his　wife　again；　then　looked　back　at　us。　〃Where　do　we　set　up？〃
　　　〃You'll　see　a　shady　spot　in　the　back；　next　to　the　silo。　That's　the　best　place。〃
　　　We　watched　them　drive　away；　the　gears　rattling；　the　tires　wobbling；　crates　and　boxes　and　pots　bouncing　along。
　　　〃You　don't　like　them；　do　you？〃　I　asked。
　　　〃They're　good　folks。　They're　just　different。〃
　　　〃I　guess　we're　lucky　to　have　them；　aren't　we？〃
　　　〃Yes；　we　are。〃
　　　More　field　hands　meant　less　cotton　for　me　to　pick。　For　the　next　month　I　would　go　to　the　fields　at　sunrise；　drape　a　nine…foot　cotton　sack　over　my　shoulder；　and　stare　for　a　moment　at　an　endless　row　of　cotton；　the　stalks　taller　than　I　was；　then　plunge　into　them；　lost　as　far　as　anyone　could　tell。　And　I　would　pick　cotton；　tearing　the　fluffy　bolls　from　the　stalks　at　a　steady　pace；　stuffing　them　into　the　heavy　sack；　afraid　to　look　down　the　row　and　be　reminded　of　how　endless　it　was；　afraid　to　slow　down　because　someone　would　notice。　My　fingers　would　bleed；　my　neck　would　burn；　my　back　would　hurt。
　　　Yes；　I　wanted　lots　of　help　in　the　fields。　Lots　of　hill　people；　lots　of　Mexicans。
　
　
　Chapter　2
　　　
　　　With　the　cotton　waiting；　my　grandfather　was　not　a　patient　man。　Though　he　still　drove　the　truck　at　its　requisite　speed；　he　was　restless　because　the　other　fields　along　the　road　were　getting　picked；　and　ours　were　not。　Our　Mexicans　were　two　days　late。　We　parked　again　near　Pop　and　Pearl's；　and　I　followed　him　to　the　Tea　Shoppe；　where　he　argued　with　the　man　in　charge　of　farm　labor。
　　　〃Relax；　Eli；〃　the　man　said。　〃They'll　be　here　any　minute。〃
　　　He　couldn't　relax。　We　walked　to　the　Black　Oak　gin　on　the　edge　of　town；　a　long　walk…but　Pappy　did　not　believe　in　wasting　gasoline。　Between　six　and　eleven　that　morning；　he'd　picked　two　hundred　pounds　of　cotton；　yet　he　still　walked　so　fast　I　had　to　jog　to　keep　up。
　　　The　gravel　lot　of　the　gin　was　crowded　with　cotton　trailers；　some　empty；　others　waiting　for　their　harvest　to　be　ginned。　I　waved　again　at　the　Montgomery　twins　as　they　were　leaving；　their　trailer　empty；　headed　home　for　another　load。
　　　The　gin　roared　with　the　chorus　of　heavy　machines　at　work。　They　were　incredibly　loud　and　dangerous。　During　each　picking　season；　at　least　one　worker　would　fall　victim　to　some　gruesome　injury　inside　the　cotton　gin。　I　was　scared　of　the　machines；　and　when　Pappy　told　me　to　wait　outside；　I　was　happy　to　do　so。　He　walked　by　a　group　of　field　hands　waiting　for　their　trailers　without　so　much　as　a　nod。　He　had　things　on　his　mind。
　　　I　found　a　safe　spot　near　the　dock；　where　they　wheeled　out　the　finished　bales　and　loaded　them　onto　trailers　headed　for　the　Carolinas。　At　one　end　of　the　gin　the　freshly　picked　cotton　was　sucked　from　the　trailers　through　a　long　pipe；　twelve　inches　around；　then　it　disappeared　into　the　building　where　the　machines　worked　on　it。　It　emerged　at　the　other　end　in　neat　square　bales　covered　in　burlap　and　strapped　tightly　with　one…inch　steel　bands。　A　good　gin　produced　perfect　bales；　ones　that　could　be　stacked　like　bricks。
　　　A　bale　of　cotton　was　worth　a　hundred　and　seventy…five　dollars；　give　or　take；　depending　on　the　markets。　A　good　crop　could　produce　a　bale　an　acre。　We　rented　eighty　acres。　Most　farm　kids　could　do　the　math。
　　　In　fact；　the　math　was　so　easy　you　wondered　why　anyone　would　want　to　be　a　farmer。　My　mother　made　sure　I　understood　the　numbers。　The　two　of　us　had　already　made　a　secret　pact　that　I　would　never；　under　any　circumstances；　stay　on　the　farm。　I　would　finish　all　twelve　grades　and　go　play　for　the　Cardinals。
　　　Pappy　and　my　father　had　borrowed　fourteen　thousand　dollars　in　March　from　the　owner　of　the　gin。　That　was　their　crop　loan；　and　the　money　was　spent　on　seed；　fertilizer；　labor；　and　other　expenses。　So　far　we'd　been　lucky…the　weather　had　been　nearly　perfect；　and　the　crops　looked　good。　If　our　luck　continued　through　the　picking；　and　the　fields　yielded　a　bale　an　acre；　then　the　Chandler　farming　operation　would　break　even。　That　was　our　goal。
　　　But；　like　most　farmers；　Pappy　and　my　father　carried　debt　from　the　previous　year。　They　owed　the　owner　of　the　gin　two　thousand　dollars　from　1951；　which　had　seen　an　average　crop。　They　also　owed　money　to　the　John　Deere　dealer　in　Jonesboro　for　parts；　to　Lance　Brothers　for　fuel；　to　the　Co…op　for　seed　and　supplies；　and　to　Pop　and　Pearl　Watson　for　groceries。
　　　I　certainly　wasn't　supposed　to　know　about　their　crop　loans　and　debts。　But　in　the　summertime　my　parents　often　sat　on　the　front　steps　late　into　the　night；　waiting　for　the　air　to　cool　so　they　could　sleep　without　sweating；　and　they　talked。　My　bed　was　near　a　window　by　the　porch。　They　thought　I　was　sleeping；　but　I　heard　more　than　I　should　have。
　　　Though　I　wasn't　sure；　I　strongly　suspected　Pappy　needed　to　borrow　more　money　to　pay　the　Mexicans　and　the　hill　people。　I　couldn't　tell　if　he　got　the　money　or　not。　He　was　frowning　when　we　walked　to　the　gin；　and　he　was　frowning　when　we　left　it。
　　　
　　　The　hill　people　had　been　migrating　from　the　Ozarks　for　decades　to　pick　cotton。　Many　of　them　owned　their　own　homes　and　land；　and　quite　often　they　had　nicer　vehicles　than　the　farmers　who　hired　them　for　the　harvest。　They　worked　very　hard；　saved　their　money；　and　appeared　to　be　as　poor　as　we　were。
　　　By　1950　the　migration　had　slowed。　The　postwar　boom　had　finally　trickled　down　to　Arkansas；　at　least　to　some　portions　of　the　state；　and　the　younger　hill　people　didn't　need　the　extra　money　as　badly　as　their　parents。　They　simply　stayed　at　home。　Picking　cotton　was　not　something　anyone　would　volunteer　to　do。　The　farmers　faced　a　labor　shortage　that　gradually　grew　worse；　then　somebody　discovered　the　Mexicans。
　　　The　first　truckload　arrived　in　Black　Oak　in　1951。　We　got　six　of　them；　including　Juan；　my　buddy；　who　gave　me　my　first　tortilla。　Juan　and　forty　others　had　traveled　three　days　in　the　back　of　a　long　trailer；　packed　in　tightly　together；　with　little　food；　no　shade　from　the　sun　or　shelter　from　the　rain。　They　were　weary　and　disoriented　when　they　hit　Main　Street。　Pappy　said　the　trailer　smelled　worse　than　a　cattle　truck。　Those　who　saw　it　told　others；　and　before　long　the　ladies　at　the　Baptist　and　Methodist　churches　were　openly　plaining　about　the　primitive　manner　in　which　the　Mexicans　had　been　transported。
　　　My　mother　had　been　vocal；　at　least　to　my　father。　I　heard　them　discuss　it　many　times　after　the　crops　were　in　and　the　Mexicans　had　been　shipped　back。　She　wanted　my　father　to　talk　to　the　other　farmers　and　receive　assurances　from　the　man　in　charge　of　labor　that　those　who　collected　the　Mexicans　and　sent　them　to　us　would　treat　them　better。　She　felt　it　was　our　duty　as　farmers　to　protect　the　laborers；　a　notion　my　father　shared　somewhat；　though　he　seemed　unenthusiastic　about　leading　the　charge。　Pappy　didn't　give　a　damn。　Nor　did　the　Mexicans；　They　just　wanted　to　work。
　　　The　Mexicans　finally　arrived　just　after　four　o'clock。　There　had　been　rumors　that　they　would　be　riding　in　a　bus；　and　I　certainly　hoped　this　was　true。　I　didn't　want　my　parents　straining　at　the　issue　for　another　winter。　Nor　did　I　want　the　Mexicans　to　be　treated　so　poorly。
　　　But　they　were　in　a　trailer　again；　an　old　one　with　planks　for　sides　and　nothing　over　the　top　to　protect　them。　It　was　true　that　cattle　had　it　better。
　　　They　carefully　hopped　down　out　of　the　trailer　bed　and　onto　the　street；　three　or　four　at　a　time；　in　one　wave　after　another。　They　spilled　forth；　emptying　in　front　of　the　Co…op；　and　gathered　on　the　sidewalk　in　small　bewildered　groups。　They　stretched　and　bent　and　looked　around　as　if　they　had　landed　on　another　planet。　I　counted　sixty…two　of　them。　To　my　great　disappointment；　Juan　was　not　there。
　　　They　were　several　inches　shorter　than　Pappy；　very　thin；　and　they　all　had　black　hair　and　brown　skin。　Each　carried　a　little　bag　of　clothing　and　supplies。
　　　Pearl　Watson　stood　on　the　sidewalk　in　front　of　her　store；　hands　on　hips；　glaring。　They　were　her　customers；　and　she　certainly　didn't　want　them　mistreated。　I　knew　that　before　church　on　Sunday　the　ladies　would　be　in　an　uproar　again。　And　I　knew　my　mother　would　quiz　me　as　soon　as　we　arrived　home　with　our　gang。
　　　Harsh　words　erupted　between　the　man　in　charge　of　labo