Mississippi Cotton by Paul H. Yarbrough Page A

didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, boys, was the movie good?” He stood with us at the gazebo where we were watching the ball game.
    “Yes, sir. Did you see it?” Taylor knew he probably hadn’t but asked anyway. Taylor had told me that only once in a while did the Majestic have a picture show that anyone older than us liked. If there was a real special picture show, like the ones I had heard Mother and Daddy talk about, like Gone With the Wind or All the King’s Men, the grownups would go to Clarksdale where they didn’t allow hollering.
    “Naa, I been over at the café, havin’ Friday-night coffee.”
    Once I heard Cousin Carol speak to my mother about the café in what my mother called dark tones. She said on Friday and Saturday night there was a high-stakes domino game going on in the back room. She said she had it on good authority that some of those men played for a penny a point. She couldn’t understand as hard as a dollar was to earn, how some men could gamble it away. Whenever we went to that café, we had instructions from my mother never to go into the famous back room. Mr. Hightower was a nice man, but I’ll bet he’d seen that back room.
    I was sure that the gazebo checker games, played right out in front of everybody, were not played for money—at least not so we knew about it. Dr. Henry and the others played for the pride of being best. I figured that no amount of money in the world could have helped that old dentist from Shelby. His pride had been taken.
    “Y’all waitin’ for your daddy?”
    “Yes, sir,” Taylor said.
    “Maybe he’ll give me a ride home. Had to put my truck in the shop earlier today. Saw y’all, and thought I’d catch a ride back home, maybe.”
    “He’s gonna be here any time Mr. Hightower, I ‘magine,” Taylor said.
    “And who do we have here?” he said, looking at me.
    Oh, this is our cousin Jake. From Jackson—”
    “Earl Hightower, son. Nice meetin’ ya.” He extended his huge hand. It seemed as big as a catcher’s mitt as he shook my hand.
    “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hightower.”
    “What’s your last name, Jake?”
    “Conner.” I didn’t tell him I knew who he was. I had heard Cousin Trek and Cousin Carol talking about him lots of times. And they always seemed to be saying nice things about him. But I didn’t say that. I just pretended not to know him.
    “Jake likes hoeing cotton. Prob’ly likes pickin’ it too,” Taylor said.
    Casey laughed. “He’s kind of stupid,” he said.
    I punched him on the arm. I knew they were just playing with me, but it made me kind of mad—made me feel like a city slicker. “I didn’t say I liked it. I said I like to make the money.”
    I wasn’t about to let it get out that I liked hoeing or picking cotton. Nobody in his right mind liked that, and I could be the laughing stock of the county if such a rumor got out.
    “Well, don’t worry, Jake. I’ll keep your secret.” Mr. Hightower smiled and rubbed the top of my head, while reaching and grabbing Casey by the nose with two fingers, making him squeal like a piglet. “And if there’s any stupid goin’ round, this one’s got his share.” He laughed at Casey, then let go of his nose, giving him a little push backwards.
    Casey faked great pain: “Ouch, ouch, ouch!” then laughed.
    Daddy told me that hoeing cotton meant hoeing out the weeds during the growing season—usually from about April to the end of September. Cotton has a long growing season, which is one reason why it grows mostly in the South; that and the need for plenty of rain, which the Delta gets. Too many late freezes in the spring or early freezes in the fall are bad for cotton farmers. He said that cotton requires a certain amount of heat, and if it gets too cold when it is young in the ground, or when it is coming out almost ready to be picked, it can be damaged. In both cases the farmer’s yield is cut back a whole lot.
    I knew that hoeing cotton wasn’t nearly as awful as