The fields are white, literally white, in North Alabama now. The farmers here plant cotton every year. Some years, they earn enough to make them want to plant more. Other years, they curse the day they put the seed in the ground. My parents raised cotton until I was a teenager. I remember going to the field to help pick cotton, although I'm sure my contribution would not have been missed. I did learn a lot, however, about dirt and desire and delusions and disappointments and dreams. Modern stories tend to romanticize cotton picking. Obviously, the tellers of these stories never knew how one's back would threaten to come apart from the strain of bending over and pulling a heavy pick sack all day long. Or, how the day would start out cool, with dew wet leaves that made the cotton fiber stick to your hands, especially in the raw areas where the sharp cotton boles had taken the skin. Or, how the noo...
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