Cotton By The Stalk

I'm Back!!!!
Been a while since my last entry but here I am with another one.
This story is true with some added embelishments. Writers priviledge.......
Hope that you enjoy this entry......

Cotton By The Stalk
During your youth were you in contact with people from other parts of the country?
This may sound like a stupid question but in the late 1950’s growing up in the hills of southern middle Tennessee it was very probable that you would not have a lot of contact with other “cultures.” We had to face it – our area was not a favorite tourist destination.
Even thought I felt that I was well read and fairly knowledgeable of the world around me I now realize that I was probably just slightly more aware of my surroundings than the proverbial guy who “fell off the turnip truck” that was passing through.
One day I was in our cotton patch near the county road that bordered our farm. The cotton was getting white and I was checking to see if most of the bowls were opening which would indicate when we could soon start picking the cotton. The one-acre patch I was standing in was shared property with my older brother. Dad gave us this acre and the profits (or losses) were ours. Capitalism was taught early in the hills of Tennessee.
Anyway, as I was standing near the road in the cotton patch – a shiny new car stopped at the side of the road close to where I was standing. A young couple who were probably on their way to “LA” occupied the car. For outsiders “LA” was the local name for the “Lower Alabama” gulf coast or as others refer to this area as the “Redneck Rivera.”
On getting out of the car they just stood and looked over the cotton patch like they had never in their lives seen anything like it. They finally said that they were amazed at how the cotton just hung out of the bowls ready for picking. I guess that I was amazed by their actions. It was obvious that they were not from “around here” and I moved to where I could get a glimpse of their car plate and I saw that they were from Illinois.
They asked me a lot of questions about cotton - how it grows and how does a bowl become the fluffy cotton that was hanging on the burrs? Questions that no one in their right mind would ever even consider, was my opinion. Sort of like the old “which came first – the chicken or the egg” question.
After asking my permission to enter the patch they eagerly ran around touching the locks of cotton hanging down and were really looking pretty silly frolicking around the cotton patch. Looked a lot like the slow motion runs the lovers always take through the meadow in “B” grade movies. I was beginning to think that maybe they had stopped by the local “drug store” but you could not smell anything on their breath. The “Drug Store” was the name the local bootlegger used for his nearby establishment. I guess the name of the establishment reflected the purely medicinal purposes for the “hair of the beast” here in the Bible belt.
Finally after they had obviously used up all their pent up energy the man ran up to me and breathlessly asked me what I would charge them for some cotton? Another question that normally would never be asked. How could I answer a question like that? Could he not see that this was a cotton patch and not a retail outlet? While I was pondering the answer I would deliver to them – the man suddenly pulled out his wallet and took out a five-dollar bill. He waved the portrait of Abe Lincoln in front of me and asked me if I would sell him a stalk of cotton for five dollars? Since one of my dreams in life was to amass a large collection of “portraits of deceased presidents” – he had my full attention. I had trouble believing what he was saying but I nodded my head in agreement. I guess that I was too shocked to verbally respond. Heck, I did farm work for neighboring farmers for three dollars a day. It was obvious that this guy was not the sharpest knife in the drawer.
Well, I reached down and pulled up a stalk of cotton with about five open bowls plus leaves and a couple of unopened bowls. He gave me the five-dollar bill and happily placed the cotton stalk in the trunk of his shiny new car.
As they drove off I was left with my thoughts of past cultural history. My immigrant family had not yet arrived in this country during the Civil War but I was seriously questioning how in the world the North won that war if these people were a reflection of their population? On the other side, the South must have been in a pretty sad state to loose to people of this obvious mental deficit? I guess these were thoughts for professors who sit around tables smoking pipes and wearing suits?
Then my mind switched gears and I thought about the sale of one stalk of cotton for five dollars. As a young capitalist I began to calculate what our cotton patch was worth at a per stalk price of five dollars. I did not count the stalks but there could easily have been enough to make our little patch worth at least fifty thousand dollars. If we got Dad to put our whole 200-acre farm in cotton – truck the stalks up North - sell the stalks for five dollars each - we would be filthy rich. Wow, then we would be able to get on of those TV sets for our house! What a brilliant idea! If we would have had the Internet back then I would probably have made an infomercial and asked Kevin Trudeau to narrate it. That guy must really be super smart – he seems to be an authority on everything from hitting a golf ball to medical problems?
Sadly my brother cooled down my enthusiasm for the plan by telling me that everyone up North would not pay a price like that for our cotton. Try to convince a very young entrepreneur of that?
After a while I went back to thinking in more conventional terms about our cotton patch again. Like getting the cotton picked before bad weather and finding the time to do it after school.
We eventually made two bales of cotton, which gave us enough money to buy all our school clothes, get a TV set for our family, and have walking around money for the year.
But I never forgot the two folks passing through who made me ponder deeper thoughts regarding our nation’s history and even to think like a millionaire – if only for only a very short time.

Eating Crow?

One mark of being a man in the area of the Tennessee valley where I grew up was being a good woodsman. Reading signs, not getting lost, and living off the land were items for bragging rights. Several of us guys decided to go on an extended trip deep into the nearby mountains and live off the land. We each carried a rifle or shotgun depending on preference. We also each carried a small pack containing roughly a day’s rations and other seasoning and survival items. Since we planned to be gone for several days our abilities to live off the land would be tested. We were definitely Jeremiah Johnson “wannabes.”
The first couple of days were spent hiking deep into the mountains, using our rations, and enjoying roasted rabbit over a campfire. What a life!!!
The next couple of days our luck changed. We did not have any rations left and no small game was to be found. On the fourth day one of the guys “accidentally” shot down a crow in flight. After it was roasted over a campfire and seasoned we each took a piece and proceeded to “eat crow.”
Afterwards, as we hiked out of the mountains with less cockiness about our wilderness abilities we discussed our meal of crow.
The best description of all was from one tired and less confident woodsman who said simply, “Crow tastes like a skunk smells!”

The Funeral

My mother told me this story and was sure that it really happened. I thought it was a touching but also had a light hearted approach to childhood. I hope that you enjoy it.
JoeB
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In the Tennessee hills during World War II military funerals were more than a common event. In this particular service the flag draped casket, the unseen bugler, and the armed color guard were a sadly beautiful sight.
The fallen soldier’s widowed mother was seated facing the flag draped casket. Her emotions were peaked as her daughter and grandson endured the heart wrenching ceremony. Her five-year-old grandson, not really understanding the ceremony, was standing at her side clasping her hand.
As the first volley of the twenty-one gun salute rang out over the countryside the grief stricken mother fainted dead away.
Her shocked young grandson hearing the rifle volley and seeing his Grandma slump into his mom’s arms jumped up and yelled, “My God, They’ve Shot Grandma!”

Field of Dreams?

Have you ever wondered about a person who came into your life, helped you through a difficult situation, and then was never to be seen again?
As a sixteen-year-old high school baseball player I batted for a respectable average and felt that I had better years ahead of me in this great game. I also had enough ego to back up my ability. A certain amount of ego is necessary in athletics, but it should be kept under your cap as much as possible.
I figured when I signed to play independent baseball in the Mountain-Valley League that my success would be even greater than it had previously been in American Legion ball. I was in for a rude awakening.
One of the first games I played was against a team whose starting pitcher was, in my sixteen-year-old eyes, an old man. He had a weather beaten appearance with graying temples. As I watched him “lob” his warm up pitches I figured I should have an enjoyable game on this beautiful Sunday afternoon.
About three hours later I was sitting alone in the dugout with my head and confidence hanging low. I was wondering how I could go 0 for 4 against a 40-year-old pitcher who just threw strikes? All he threw was “junk”.
As I was staring at the dugout floor I heard a pleasant voice ask if he could join me. I looked up to see the pitcher who had humiliated me in my four batting appearances during the game. The field and dugouts were empty except for the two of us. In a voice that showed true interest he inquired to know my age and how much baseball I had played. After detailing my resume I asked about his experience and he modestly told me about his brief Major League career that was cut short by injuries. Evidently he had been a hot prospect when he was younger. Before injuries beset him he had good success in the Major Leagues when he was not much older than my age of sixteen.
At my request he then went into detail as to how he pitched against me. He told me the mistakes that I made that portrayed him to look like a better pitcher than he was. That was an understatement! With four strikeouts and not even a foul tip he had taken me to the cleaners! He also told me in a kind fatherly way that my cocky attitude needed some alteration. He said emotions and feeling should not be allowed to impact one’s play.
For about the next hour or so I was in a sort of Major League mini-camp with considerable emphasis on respecting others and their skills. He gave me tips and suggested changes I could make to greatly improve my game. He also threw full speed batting practice while showing me shortcuts that would make me a better baseball player. He gave me confidence and encouragement to be a much better player than I had ever been before. He also stressed the value of maintaining character to gain respect as a baseball player and more importantly as a human being.
I never saw him again after that day. When we next played his team again he was not there. What was odd was the fact that many of his teammates knew nothing about him. He just came to them and signed to play. None of the players I talked to knew him before he started playing for their team. It seemed that the only game he pitched for them was the shutout against our team. In fact none of his teammates I talked to had seen him since the Sunday they played us. Who was this kind, fatherly and very skilled person? I felt so badly that I never found out his name the day we played them. Regardless of whoever he was I felt that he was my guardian angel. In the many baseball seasons that have passed since that day I have never forgotten that magic afternoon and the life lessons I received.
Now as even more years have passed by and while watching “Field of Dreams” for the umpteenth time I still find myself wondering who, or what might fit better, gave me so many good tips about both baseball and life on that beautiful sunny summer afternoon so many long years ago?
You know what I’m thinking. Is this “Field of Dreams” scenario possible? Who knows? Everyone must pass his own judgment on that idea……

Watermelon Wars

Was I involved in this? I'll never tell!!!

If you grew up in a rural part of the south then you probably knew about – maybe even participated in – a summer night raid on a farmer’s watermelon patch. It was a planned raid that would rival any of Stonewall Jackson’s charges. Distractions, flanking maneuvers, and stealthy attacks were all common. The farmer – on defense – used lights, shotgun blasts, dogs, fences, and just about any other non-lethal means available.
Looking back I really believe that the farmer’s enjoyed the “game” as much as the “raiders” did? One farmer commented years later said that the raiders were not “stealing” his good melons – they were “culling” his bad ones. His theory was that you couldn’t pick good melons in the dark. If he was right then the raiders were doing the farmers a favor. I’m not sure he wasn’t just covering his inability to deter the thievery?
Regardless it was a competition that was normally “friendly.” The “raiders” were careful not to damage the farmer’s livelihood - and the farmers normally were controlled in their defenses.
After saying that – there was one farmer who evidently decided he would up the ante to cease raids on his patch. He decided to change the rules. He knew that after the raid the raiders assembled in a recon area on the riverbank and consumed their spoils in a sort of celebration. Knowing this he decided on a defensive plan that would have been a crime if it had taken place in modern warfare. It was a form of “biological warfare.” During the daylight hours he posted signs all around his patch that said, “WARNING – ONE WATERMELON IN THIS PATCH HAS BEEN INJECTED WITH CATTLE LAXATIVE.” Now, whether or not you understand cattle laxatives - you can imagine if it would “loosen up” a cow it would really loosen up a 160-pound guy! Would it ever!
Now the raiders big question was whether or not the farmer really had injected a melon or was he just bluffing? If the signs were really true then this was a serious escalation that could not be ignored. Who knows, this defense might spread to other farmers and then what recreation would be available for country kids on warm summer nights other than to sit over at the lake with their favorite girl and watch the submarine races.
Since the raiders wanted to err on the side of safety they decided on a maneuver to counteract the farmers escalation. A quick plan was worked out to be implemented that very night.
The raiders did not want to stoop to the farmer’s level and use “biological warfare” so they did the next best thing – they used “psychological warfare.” With a small team and a stealthy approach the plan was carried out over night without ever entering the farmer’s patch.
The next morning the farmer was viewing his field and could tell that no one had entered his melon patch. He was beginning to feel really good about his “biological warfare” method when he glanced at the signs surrounding his patch and noticed that the “one” on each sign had been covered with an “X” and a “2” was written above where the “one” had been x’ed out. His heart sank as he thought about his dilemma. His signs now read :
“TWO MELONS IN THIS PATCH HAVE BEEN INJECTED WITH CATTLE LAXATIVE.”
Without ever entering the melon patch the raiders had won the battle by using “psychological warfare” to overcome “biological warfare.”

Summer's Last Rose

I wrote this poem a couple of years ago as summer came to an end. Even if I did write it, I still like it. I thought during this current June heat wave would be a good place to post it.
Joe


During the cold chill of winter for warm summer days I do pray
Knowing that God will again give us summer and the beauty of its day

I remember summer from the youth of my life
When all days were golden and unknown to strife

The endless summer days with heat to make the earth like toast
When the sun made the old swimming hole - a place desired most

The nights are alive with nature’s symphony sound
While young lovers embrace under the glowing moon - silver and round

From the fluffy white clouds in which we see various forms
To the power of God seen in glorious evening thunderstorms

God gave us seasons so each a favorite could know
I thank Him especially for summer and the beauty it does show

In September the signs of summer’s end come to be shown
And time is short before another summer soon will be gone

A sadness envelops me as summer’s days come to a close
I see my own life slowly passing like the wilting of
Summer’s Last Rose

The Indian

Have you ever decided how you think a person will act because of a stereotype?
I guess you could say that we misjudge people every day because of stereotypes.
As a young child growing up in the Tennessee Valley I remember hearing of an Indian who lived up near the edge of the mountain. I had him pictured as an angry red man with feathers, war paint, and the whole 1950’s Saturday western movie matinee stereotype. As young children we imagined that he was silently stalking us looking for a trophy scalp.
As I “survived” to my early teen years I finally got to know the “terror” of my childhood. He was a tall dark haired man with handsome Cherokee features who dressed in jeans and flannel shirts much like his neighbors wore. His name was “Tom” and I found him to be a friendly, quiet, and very perceptive man who pretty much minded his own business.
We always wondered why his wife walked about five paces in front of him when they came down from their ridge cabin for supplies? My friends and I reasoned that it must be an ancient Indian tradition showing respect for his woman.
One day in a rare time that Tom would talk, one of the guys asked him why his wife always walked in front of him? We were all set for a detailed narrative of native Cherokee lore that would explain this mystery once and for all.
Tom, sensing a chance to have some fun, looked at each of us and with a wry smile and a wink he simply said, “snakes.”