jg.paintedhouse-第8章
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cause we had to be in the fields by sunrise。 My father rapidly milked two gallons； which would've taken me half the morning。 We delivered the food to the kitchen； where the women were in charge。 The ham was already in the skillet； its rich aroma thick in the air。
Breakfast was fresh eggs； milk； salt…cured ham； and hot biscuits； with sorghum optional。 As they cooked； I settled into my chair； ran my fingers across the damp； checkered oilcloth； and waited for my cup of coffee。 It was the one vice my mother allowed me。
Gran placed the cup and saucer before me； then the sugar bowl and the fresh cream。 I doctored the coffee until it was as sweet as a malt； then sipped it slowly。
At breakfast； conversation in the kitchen was held to a minimum。 It was exciting to have so many strangers on our farm for the harvest； hut the enthusiasm was dampened by the reality that we would spend most of the next twelve hours unshielded in the sun； bent over； picking until our fingers bled。
We ate quickly； the roosters making a ruckus in the side yard。 My grandmother's biscuits were heavy and perfectly round； and so warm that when I carefully placed a slice of butter in the center of one； it melted instantly。 I watched the yellow cream soak into the biscuit； then took a bite。 My mother conceded that Ruth Chandler made the best biscuits she'd ever tasted。 I wanted so badly to eat two or three； like my father； but I simply couldn't hold them。 My mother ate one； same as Gran。 Pappy had two； my father three。 Several hours later； in the middle of the morning； we would stop for a moment under the shade of a tree or beside the cotton trailer to eat the leftover biscuits。
Breakfast was slow in the winter because there was little else to do。 The pace was somewhat faster in the spring when we were planting； and in the summer when we were chopping。 But during the fall harvest； with the sun about to catch us； we ate with a purpose。
There was some chatter about the weather。 The rain in St。 Louis that had canceled last night's Cardinals game was weighing on Pappy's mind。 St。 Louis was so far away that no one at the table； except for Pappy； had ever been there； yet the city's weather was now a crucial element in the harvest of our crops。 My mother listened patiently。 I didn't say a word。
My father had been reading the almanac and offered the opinion that the weather would cooperate throughout the month of September。 But mid…October looked ominous。 Bad weather was on the way。 It was imperative that for the next six weeks we work until we dropped。 The harder we worked； the harder the Mexicans and the Spruills would work。 This was my father's version of a pep talk。
The subject of day laborers came up。 These were locals who went from farm to farm looking for the best deal。 Most were town people we knew。 During the previous fall； Miss Sophie Turner； who taught fifth and sixth grades； had bestowed a great honor on us when she had chosen our fields to pick in。
We needed all the day laborers we could get； but they generally picked wherever they wanted。
When Pappy finished his last bite； he thanked his wife and my mother for the good food and left them to clean up the mess。 I strutted onto the back porch with the men。
Our house faced south； the barn and crops were to the north and west； and to the east I saw the first hint of orange peeking over the flat farmland of the Arkansas Delta。 The sun was ing； undaunted by clouds。 My shirt was already sticking to my back。
A flatbed trailer was hitched to the John Deere； and the Mexicans had already gotten on。 My dad went up to speak to Miguel。 〃Good morning。 How did you sleep？ Are you ready to work？〃 Pappy went to fetch the Spruills。
I had a spot； a nook between the fender and the seat of the John Deere； and I had spent hours there firmly grasping the metal pole holding the umbrella that would cover the driver； either Pappy or my father； when we chugged through the fields plowing or planting or spreading fertilizer。 I took my place and looked down at the crowded trailer； Mexicans on one side； Spruills on the other。 At that moment I felt very privileged because I got to ride on the tractor； and the tractor belonged to us。 My haughtiness； however； would vanish shortly； because all things were level among the cotton stalks。
I'd been curious as to whether poor Trot would go to the fields。 Picking required two good arms。 Trot had only one； as far as I'd been able to determine。 But there he was； sitting at the edge of the trailer； his back to everyone else； feet hanging over the side； alone in his own world。 And there was Tally； who didn't acknowledge me； but just looked into the distance。
Without a word； Pappy popped the clutch； and the tractor and trailer lurched forward。 I checked to make sure no one fell off。 Through the kitchen window I could see my mother's face； watching us as she cleaned the dishes。 She would finish her chores； spend an hour in her garden； then join us for a hard day in the fields。 Same for Gran。 No one rested when the cotton was ready。
We puttered past the barn； the diesel thumping； the trailer creaking； and turned south toward the lower forty； a tract next to Siler's Creek。 We always picked the lower forty first because the floods would start there。
We had the lower forty and the back forty。 Eighty acres was no small farming operation。
In a few minutes we arrived at the cotton trailer； and Pappy stopped the tractor。 Before I jumped down； I looked to the east and saw the lights of our house； less than a mile away。 Behind it； the sky was ing to life with streaks of orange and yellow。 There wasn't a cloud to be seen； and this meant no floods in the near future。 It also meant no shelter from the scorching sun。
Tally said； 〃Good morning； Luke；〃 as she walked by。
I managed to return her greeting。 She smiled at me as if she knew some secret that she would never tell。
Pappy didn't give an orientation； and none was needed。 Choose a row in either direction； and start picking。 No chitchat； no stretching of the muscles； no predictions about the weather。 Without a word the Mexicans draped their long cotton sacks over their shoulders； lined up； and went south。 The Arkansans went north。
For a second； I stood there in the semidarkness of an already hot September morning； staring down a very long； straight row of cotton； a row that had somehow been assigned to me。 I thought； I'll never get to the end of it； and I was suddenly tired。
I had cousins in Memphis； sons and daughters of my father's two sisters； and they had never picked cotton。 City kids； in the suburbs； in nice little homes with indoor plumbing。 They returned to Arkansas for funerals…sometimes for Thanksgiving。 As I stared at my endless row of cotton； I thought of those cousins。
Two things motivated me to work。 First； and most important； I had my father on one side and my grandfather on the other。 Neither tolerated laziness。 They had worked the fields when they were children； and I would certainly do the same。 Second； I got paid for picking； same as the other field hands。 A dollar sixty for a hundred pounds。 And I had big plans for the money。
〃Let's go；〃 my father said firmly in my direction。 Pappy was already settled among the stalks； ten feet into his row。 I could see his outline and his straw hat。 I could hear the Spruills a few rows over chatting among themselves。 Hill people sang a lot； and it was not unmon to hear them crooning some low； mournful tune as they picked。 Tally laughed about something； her luxurious voice echoing across the fields。
She was only ten years older than I was。
Pappy's father had fought in the Civil War。 His name was Jeremiah Chandler； and according to family lore； he'd almost single…handedly won the Battle of Shiloh。 When Jeremiah's second wife died； he took a third； a local maiden thirty years his junior。 A few years later she gave birth to Pappy。
A thirty…year gap for Jeremiah and his bride。 Ten for Tally and me。 It could work。
With solemn resolve； I flung my nine…foot cotton sack across my back； the strap over my right shoulder； and attacked the first boll of cotton。 It was damp from the dew； and that was one reason we started so
