How My Cotton Picking Days Came to An End

Artist Norma Chestnutt Bowman is an Austin native and a La Grange resident of 21 years and hopes her experiences bring back great memories for everyone.

O ne summer, I decided I wanted to earn some money. I wanted to pick cotton. Well, “ignorance was bliss” as the familiar quote goes ‘cause I didn’t have a clue what I was getting myself into. I think most adults would have immediately said, “Oh, no you don’t. You’ll be sorry. Leave that job to the ones who have to do it.” But, no, my grandmother chose to let me learn all this on my own.

Each year when the fields of lush dark green cotton plants turn into a vast scene of snow white, my granddaddy would hire as many pickers as he could afford to pick the cotton. When I announced that I wanted to ride out to the fields with him and make some money pickin’ cotton, no one discouraged me. My grandmother got out the “unbleached domestic” fabric and sewed me a sack my size. It was, of course, much smaller than the adult size. She may have been influenced by my lack of possibility of filling it with fresh-picked cotton.

I had my own cotton bag and was ready to go. I threw the strap over my shoulder and dragged it behind me and started down the row. He agreed to pay me ten cents a pound just as he paid the other pickers. It was rough. The plants are quite dried out by the time they matured to their fullest. Myself, and most of the others, had fingers that were scratched up, but mine weren’t tough from experience.

Eventually, I learned how to grab hold of just the cotton only, but this technique is not mastered quickly. The incredible backache that goes with it helps distract you from your bleeding fingers. Even though that ache distracts, you know it does not help you feel any better.

Many adults showed up withkneepadsandmovedown the rows on that black dirt on their knees. The sun had baked that dirt into cement. This does save their backs. My granddad picked on his knees, being such a tall person made it necessary. But, for these pickers, this is their living. Also, they were doing this for months, as long as there are any farmers who still have cotton in the fields. The price of knee pads is worth the cost. I wouldn’t be surprised if the merchants didn’t charge a hefty price for knee pads, knowing they were so vital to many of the pickers.

Oh, did I mention the sun? You know, that Texas August sun that makes blisters on your skin? I noticed that it takes a couple of months longer for the fields to whiten for harvest than it does in the central and lower parts of Texas. The area further north near Dallas and Corsicana had not reached the peak picking time as soon as the Central Texas area of Austin. I was surprised how much difference a few hundred miles makes.

Perhaps in central areas, cotton was for some crop reason planted earlier in the summer. Anyway, it was middle August before the cotton harvest time was at its fullest. In fact, one year I had to return home to get back into school before the fields were completely white. As hot as it was in August, I thought my grandmother was nuts when she tried to talk me into wearing one of her longsleeved shirts out there! Naturally, being August, I didn’t bring along anything but cute little sleeveless tops with my shorts. I learn a lot when I go to the Maxwell farm. Grandmother offered me some Band-Aids for my fingers the second day. By the way, cut fingers burn like hell when you’re sweatin’! She knew all along I was going to want those Band-Aids. They actually did help.

I was quickly aware of how to grab the cotton to miss the sharp, dry part of the plant that holds it. It’s all in the position of your fingers. Use your first two fingers and your thumb, separated about an inch apart. I was absolutely amazed at the speed my coworkers could grab that cotton off that boll and drop it into their sack behind them. Some could pick with two hands at the same time. Those adults probably had been pickers ever since they were young, probably even younger than I was at the time I had my first experience. I wondered about the scars on their fingers and hands. I was afraid to get too close to look.

The women and girls wore handmade bonnets; the men had store-bought straw hats. Guess what? My grandmother made me a bonnet from lovely fabric with little blue flowers in it. The fabric was previously a flour sack. For a stiff brim in front, she put cardboard between the two layers of fabric. I felt so special in my own bonnet. Sure wish I had told her how much I loved it. I probably told her “thank you” but I doubt if she really knew how proud I was to have it.

Lunch break was interesting and very welcomed. The pickers brought their own lunch. We didn’t supply that, like in the movie “Places in the Heart.” Most of the time, the pickers and I and my granddad were located in a field that was not very near the house. So, when grandmother had lunch ready, she would stand out in the dirt yard and wave like crazy a white cup towel over her head. Usually, the pickers would notice it before he did and start leaving the cotton rows for the nearest shade trees. He and I would ride in the pick-up to the house and everyone would have some lunch and take a break from that noon-time sun.

As soon as they noticed his pick-up throwing that dusty road into the air, they would return to where they had left off. I picked cotton for several summers. Now that I look back on the experience, I have fond, but painful memories of that era which flashes back into my mind every time I pass a cotton field.

I think what really brought my cotton-pickin’ days to an end was the fact that one year, it seemed even hotter than normal and before I knew what had happened, some pickers were shouting and trying to pick me up off the ground. I had fainted dead away.

I was very scared when I came to, mainly because everyone was screaming and hollering at my granddad and jumping up and down. You’d think I had keeled over dead. Maybe that’s what they were afraid of. Anyway, my grandmother never agreed to my picking anymore, In fact, I probably never even asked to.