George Buster Singleton |
(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator
George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere
in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Cotton sacks and aching backs are
part of the past,” was originally published in the Oct. 5, 1995 edition of The
Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
As I have stated many times in these writings, I never get
enough of seeing the countryside and the many scenes that await just around the
bend of the road.
Just a few days ago, my wife and I headed out for another
Saturday afternoon of riding, picnicking and just plain goofing off. As we made
our way through some of the farm country, the opening fields of the snow-white
cotton bolls brought back many memories.
I shudder to think what would happen if our youth of today,
after getting home from school, was given a long cotton sack and told to go out
and pick the fluffy white stuff until early darkness. With our modern farm
machinery, we given no thought of the endless back-breaking hours that were
once involved in gathering a large field of cotton.
Picking looks easy
It looks so easy to see an operator of a large
cotton-picking machine sitting up there in an air-conditioned cab, listening to
relaxing stereo music, and doing nothing but using a finger or two to touch a
lever or perhaps turn the power steering to keep the large machine going in the
right direction.
After the large container is filled with gathered cotton,
another finger is used to touch a lever and dump all this cotton into another
machine that presses it into a large block. This pressed cotton is then picked
up by another machine and the human hand never touches it. But, it hasn’t
always been that way.
Picture yourself at early sunrise with a long cotton sack in
your hands. You are standing at the edge of a large cotton field that looks as
though a heavy, snow-white blanket has been stretched across it. Even though
you haven’t begun to bend down and begin picking the fluffy white stuff your
back has already started to ache.
Rows seem a mile long
The cotton rows seem a mile long; you can hardly see the end
of the long rows in the early morning light. You place the strap of the long
cotton sack over your shoulder. You can tell beyond a shadow of a doubt, it’s
going to be a long hard day. You find yourself wondering if there is any way
you might get sick and have the good luck of being sent home. But, you know,
too, the chances are very slim that this will happen.
The hired help has already started gathering the white stuff
with their fingers. You want to stay near the group as they move along the
cotton rows. Listening to the singing and the story telling and laughter among
the pickers is the only good thing about being out here.
An old black man on the row next to you smiles and signals
that he will pick some of your row as he goes along. You hurry to catch up; the
old man is your best friend, you know that “Uncle Tony” would never let you
down.
Finally, the long sack becomes filled with the white cotton.
You go over to the waiting wagon, where the cotton is weighed and dumped into
the wagon bed. You hear the joking and laughter about old “Aunt Cindy” pulling
off her shoes and putting them in her cotton sack and forgetting about them.
After her cotton is weighed, and it is dumped into the wagon, her shoes are
found.
Deducting shoe weight
You remember your father laughing and joking about having to
subtract 50 pounds off Aunt Cindy’s total day’s picking for the weight of her
shoes. The joking about the shoes goes on all day; Aunt Cindy pretends to be
angry, but one can tell she is enjoying all the attention she is getting.
A blowing fox horn sounds from under the tall oaks down at
the edge of the field. The wagon has returned from carrying the picked cotton
to the cotton house where it will wait until it is carried to the cotton gin.
The returning wagon has brought back the noon meal. Several
large pans of hot food and baskets of bread, along with some cool buttermilk
and fresh water from a nearby spring is ready to be served.
Tin plates and tin cups are passed out to the pickers. A
small boy jockeys for position in the line. Again, that special friend comes to
the rescue; you are allowed to go up and get in front of him in line. The
joking continues about Aunt Cindy’s shoes. A hush falls over the line as the
blessing is said; several “amens” fill the air as serving begins from the
several large pans and baskets. And, as the hungry workers laugh and joke among
themselves while eating, a small boy thinks of a darling mother who saw to it
that this delicious food was prepared as though these people were her own
family.
A call for seconds is sounded. “Don’t want to have to carry
any of this food back,” shouts my father. “My wife will think you don’t like
her cooking; let’s eat it up.” Those who want more file past the large pans and
baskets for a second and third time. If one left the shades of the large oaks
hungry, it was his own fault.
All days end
Regardless how long, all days come to an end sooner or
later. The older members of the group are allowed to ride the loaded wagon
homeward as the others follow behind, singing first one song and then another.
A tired and weary boy is helped aboard the wagon by his friend.
When the storage barn is reached, the wagon is quickly
unloaded and each one receives his or her day’s earning for cotton picked. The
joking about Aunt Cindy’s shoes being weighed in the cotton that she has picked
begins all over again.
As the cool evening air whispers through the cracks in the
walls of the old cotton house, a tired small boys falls into a deep restful
sleep on the large pile of soft cotton stored there. A wonderful and darling
mother will awaken her youngest son just long enough for him to eat the supper
she had prepared and brought out to him. A large hound dog named Jack will end
up eating most of the delicious supper.
This same tired and weary boy is allowed to back to sleep
there on the large pile of soft cotton with Jack. The hound is there for
company and to watch over him. Little does this boy know, until the following
morning, that a tired old man has also returned to spend the remaining hours of
the night on the large pile of cotton to watch over his sleeping young friend.
Memories, memories, wonderful, wonderful memories. May they
dwell within me for always. The poet Longfellow might have said it better:
“This is the place, stand still my steed.
And let me review the scene,
and summoned from the shadowy past
the forms that
once have been.”
(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and
Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime
resident of Monroeville, he was born on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County and
served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from 1964 to
1987. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and
all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the
microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville.
Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship
purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)
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