Off to The Gin

Editor’s note: With Thursday night’s program about cotton gins at the Fayette Public Library ( Thursday June 26 at 5:30 p.m.), it seemed like a good time to run this remembrance from La Grange’s Norma Bowman.

One of my earliest memories with my Grandaddy was when I sat by him on the front seat of a wagon that was pulled by a horse. The sides of this wagon were high with boards, and it was full to the top with such beautiful cotton since this is where the pickers emptied their sacks. We were taking the harvest to the gin.

I remember seeing a guy working there who looked like a teenager and I’ll never forget the shock I had when I noticed that most of one of his arms was gone. When I asked Granddaddy about it, he told me that he got his arm caught in the equipment. He said the works of the gin. I was old enough to wonder why he still worked there. I was probably about eight. Through the years, this guy visited my grandparents quite often on a Sunday. I think he could smell that delicious fried chicken. Getting a chicken ready to be a meal was quite a long procedure back then. I will tell you about it later. He was also a good friend of my two teenaged uncles. I wish I could remember his name because I had a crush on him.

Since I was about eight at the time of “My Trip to The Gin,” I feel sure that some of that lovely cotton in that wagon was the cotton I had picked. So that is why Granddaddy invited me to join him on this very important trip because I had contributed to the load in that wagon. I know it was only a small fraction of cotton in that huge wagon, but I did contribute. I have the scars on my little fingers to prove it. I know the amount I added barely changed the weight on that big scale at the gin, but Granddaddy knew it did.

There was something special about the first load I helped with. I felt like a genuine picker. So every summer from the age of eight until I was twelve and had my fainting spell in the field, I looked forward to being one of my Granddaddy’s very best pickers.