It is September of my 5th year. I am called Doll by my Grandparents, but Mary Ellen is my name. My Grandmommy loved to nickname kids. I lived with them most of the first 7 years of my life. Aunt Sugar, Aunt Sweetie, and Uncle Buddy lived here too. My Mother was the oldest, she was called Sweetheart. So many stories of my days with all this family, but we will save that for another time. My Mama & Dad were busy trying to grow up.
We lived in a farming town named after the founder Tipton, in California. The street where we lived was tree lined, no sidewalks, a lot of picket fences and everyone knew each other. It was a friendly town. Hot and dusty in the summer, cold and wet in the winter. Grandmommy would talk to the lady next door over the back fence. They had the same laundry day so they would hang clothes and chat. Ross Graham was the only person we didn't talk to, Grandmommy did not trust him. He walked all over town with his pants half down sometimes and this made her nerves. If you see Ross Graham coming you get into the house.
And so my story begins....
The car is going very slow down a dirt road throwing a cloud of dust behind us. We are heading to the cotton fields in a little town near Bakersfield, California called Pixley. It is still dark except for a golden glow way off in the distance. Soon the sun would be up. Granddaddy had carried me still half asleep to the car wrapped in a quilt Grandmommy had made. Five days a week while the cotton lasted this was our routine. I could see the lights from the other cars as we reached the section that would be picked that day. You cold smell the cotton, a clean woody scent mixed with the morning dew hanging over the field. In the distance the shadows of the Eucalyptus trees seemed to stand like soldiers. I love the smell of Eucalyptus. They were windbreakers to help keep the earth in place during the windy season. As Granddaddy parked the big black car with the red seats, I could hear the sounds coming from the other pickers and their families. I would settle back down on the mohair back seat and complete my morning sleep. Meanwhile my Grandparents would prepare themselves with hats and canning jars filled with water for the morning picking. They would walk all the way to the end of the row, slipping out of my sight and then work all the way back to the car with long cotton sacks made of stiff caves strapped to their shoulder. The cotton wagon with the high wooden sides sat waiting for the long sacks to be hung on a hock that would weigh the cotton. Then Granddaddy would climb into the wagon and throw the sack high into the air to release the cotton from the sack. White fluffy cotton would then fall like snow into the wagon. I loved to chew on cotton seeds. The nutty taste was really sweet and a common treat for us kids.
The red handkerchief was a common sight as the morning turned into noon and the heat burn through their heavy clothes. Even if it was hot, they had to cover their bodies to protect them from the sun and the sharp ball the cotton rested in. Their figures were bloody from the picking out the cotton from their sticky ball. I remember the smell of medicine that they would use to help them heal. But no ones hands healed till the end of the season.
There were rules that had to be followed when you are left at the end of the row. Don't leave the car. You can get out of the car, but stay right by it. Don't talk to strangers, and if anyone bothers you...scream for help. Drink your water from the jar, and use the coffee can to pee in. We will be back at lunch when the sun is straight up in the sky.
Cars were parked in a row and each morning we would swing open our doors and out would come kids. All of us were little, if you were 7 or 8 chances are you were in the field picking cotton. Black and white men and women along with all ages of kids worked side by side in the cotton fields of California. Although I played with most of the kids, my best playmate was Ulan. He was a dark skinned boy about my age. He would say to me, " you is as white as the cotton."
And I would say that he was like looking into a cup of coffee. He called me Doll because that is what he heard me called. When I think of Ulan, I think of the towns we built in the dirt and how he would laugh when everything we had done would fall down. I wonder if he ever thought of that cotton skinned redhead that was so dirty you would not know what her color really was at the end of the day.
Lunch was special. Grandmommy packed enough for an Army, that's what Granddaddy would say most every day. Hard boiled eggs, fruit, cookies and left over chicken, and sometimes a piece of cake. Everyone came out of the field about the same time. You could hear soft talking, laughing and sometimes a spanking was heard. Someone probably didn't follow the rules. Granddaddy would lay back on the blanket and Grandmommy would put everything away. Soon they would head down another row and work their way back. The day was long, so I would crawl back into the car and nap. It made the day shorter, and the sun was so hot.
The pickers sometimes would start singing church songs, or humming. The sun would be going down as we left the field heading home. They must have told funny stories while they worked, because you could hear laughing too.
The old kitchen table was the hub of the house and soon all the wonderful smells of food filled the house. Beans that had cooked all day, fried potatoes, biscuits and corn, lots of butter and milk with ice put in it. Granddaddy always said a prayer for the food, and gave thanks for another good day. I loved it when we were all together at the table. It was where everyone talked about the day, somethings good, and not so good. The front door and back would be open and a soft breeze would come through. It was not always perfect, but it was good. Like any family we had our hurts and misunderstandings, questions and often the answer was we will see.
I missed my Mama.
So at the days end when we were all washed, Grandmommy got out her Bible and began to read.
there was honor in doing a hard days work. Never having a lot, just enough. The day ends and another begins.....To my Grandmommy who was the heart of the family.
We lived in a farming town named after the founder Tipton, in California. The street where we lived was tree lined, no sidewalks, a lot of picket fences and everyone knew each other. It was a friendly town. Hot and dusty in the summer, cold and wet in the winter. Grandmommy would talk to the lady next door over the back fence. They had the same laundry day so they would hang clothes and chat. Ross Graham was the only person we didn't talk to, Grandmommy did not trust him. He walked all over town with his pants half down sometimes and this made her nerves. If you see Ross Graham coming you get into the house.
And so my story begins....
The car is going very slow down a dirt road throwing a cloud of dust behind us. We are heading to the cotton fields in a little town near Bakersfield, California called Pixley. It is still dark except for a golden glow way off in the distance. Soon the sun would be up. Granddaddy had carried me still half asleep to the car wrapped in a quilt Grandmommy had made. Five days a week while the cotton lasted this was our routine. I could see the lights from the other cars as we reached the section that would be picked that day. You cold smell the cotton, a clean woody scent mixed with the morning dew hanging over the field. In the distance the shadows of the Eucalyptus trees seemed to stand like soldiers. I love the smell of Eucalyptus. They were windbreakers to help keep the earth in place during the windy season. As Granddaddy parked the big black car with the red seats, I could hear the sounds coming from the other pickers and their families. I would settle back down on the mohair back seat and complete my morning sleep. Meanwhile my Grandparents would prepare themselves with hats and canning jars filled with water for the morning picking. They would walk all the way to the end of the row, slipping out of my sight and then work all the way back to the car with long cotton sacks made of stiff caves strapped to their shoulder. The cotton wagon with the high wooden sides sat waiting for the long sacks to be hung on a hock that would weigh the cotton. Then Granddaddy would climb into the wagon and throw the sack high into the air to release the cotton from the sack. White fluffy cotton would then fall like snow into the wagon. I loved to chew on cotton seeds. The nutty taste was really sweet and a common treat for us kids.
The red handkerchief was a common sight as the morning turned into noon and the heat burn through their heavy clothes. Even if it was hot, they had to cover their bodies to protect them from the sun and the sharp ball the cotton rested in. Their figures were bloody from the picking out the cotton from their sticky ball. I remember the smell of medicine that they would use to help them heal. But no ones hands healed till the end of the season.
There were rules that had to be followed when you are left at the end of the row. Don't leave the car. You can get out of the car, but stay right by it. Don't talk to strangers, and if anyone bothers you...scream for help. Drink your water from the jar, and use the coffee can to pee in. We will be back at lunch when the sun is straight up in the sky.
Cars were parked in a row and each morning we would swing open our doors and out would come kids. All of us were little, if you were 7 or 8 chances are you were in the field picking cotton. Black and white men and women along with all ages of kids worked side by side in the cotton fields of California. Although I played with most of the kids, my best playmate was Ulan. He was a dark skinned boy about my age. He would say to me, " you is as white as the cotton."
And I would say that he was like looking into a cup of coffee. He called me Doll because that is what he heard me called. When I think of Ulan, I think of the towns we built in the dirt and how he would laugh when everything we had done would fall down. I wonder if he ever thought of that cotton skinned redhead that was so dirty you would not know what her color really was at the end of the day.
Lunch was special. Grandmommy packed enough for an Army, that's what Granddaddy would say most every day. Hard boiled eggs, fruit, cookies and left over chicken, and sometimes a piece of cake. Everyone came out of the field about the same time. You could hear soft talking, laughing and sometimes a spanking was heard. Someone probably didn't follow the rules. Granddaddy would lay back on the blanket and Grandmommy would put everything away. Soon they would head down another row and work their way back. The day was long, so I would crawl back into the car and nap. It made the day shorter, and the sun was so hot.
The pickers sometimes would start singing church songs, or humming. The sun would be going down as we left the field heading home. They must have told funny stories while they worked, because you could hear laughing too.
The old kitchen table was the hub of the house and soon all the wonderful smells of food filled the house. Beans that had cooked all day, fried potatoes, biscuits and corn, lots of butter and milk with ice put in it. Granddaddy always said a prayer for the food, and gave thanks for another good day. I loved it when we were all together at the table. It was where everyone talked about the day, somethings good, and not so good. The front door and back would be open and a soft breeze would come through. It was not always perfect, but it was good. Like any family we had our hurts and misunderstandings, questions and often the answer was we will see.
I missed my Mama.
So at the days end when we were all washed, Grandmommy got out her Bible and began to read.
there was honor in doing a hard days work. Never having a lot, just enough. The day ends and another begins.....To my Grandmommy who was the heart of the family.
