Mississippi Cotton by Paul H. Yarbrough Page B

picking it. Picking was brutal back-breaking work. But hoeing was slow, boring and hot. Not long after the sun rose, the temperature rose quickly to the mid eighties. By late-morning it could reach one hundred degrees.
    If you had been picking every year since about an hour after you were born, you could get tired of cotton fast. But since I hadn’t I could at least make some money while on vacation.
    “Your daddy says you’re gonna be helpin’ me and BB next week,” Mr. Hightower said.
    “Yes, sir,” Taylor said.
    “Who’s BB?” I asked.
    Mr. Hightower said, “That’s Big Black Julius. We jus’ call him BB. His daddy jus’ calls him Julius. His football coach gave him the nickname Big Black Julius. You don’t know him, Mr. Jake?”
    “No, sir. But Cousin Trek told us we were gonna be helpin’ him on Monday. Said he played football pretty good—”
    “That’s what they say. Supposedly he could have got some kind of scholarship at Florida A&M. Jake Gathier wanted him—pretty good coach. That’s what the colored folks say. But he went in the army right outta high school. Said he didn’t care much ‘bout college right then.”
    “Where’s Florida A&M?” Casey asked no one in particular.
    “In Florida, dopey,” Taylor said.
    I laughed. So did Mr. Hightower, but not as loud. It wasn’t that funny to him, I guess. “Well, I think it’s in Tallahassee. It’s a colored school. Usually have a pretty good football team. I know that.”
    “And y’all know Big Black Julius pretty good?” I asked. I couldn’t remember if I’d ever heard the name when I’d come up here before.
    “He’s a colored friend of ours,” Casey said.
    “Yeah. A big guy, too,” Taylor added.
    “Just got back from Korea,” Mr. Hightower said. “Big, strong boy; a hard worker, too. Julius Samuels is his whole name. His daddy is Ben Samuels. He says he might want to go to that new school for colored students at Itta Bena. Mississippi Valley State or something like that. Probably can’t play ball now though. His wound in Korea might not allow it. Least, that’s what I heard.”
    Mr. Hightower took a toothpick from behind his ear and put it in his mouth. Lots of men did that—put a toothpick in their mouths for no reason. Just something to do, I guess. “Y’all got a big Saturday lined up? Or your daddy got y’all workin’ all day?”
    “We’re goin’ fishin’. We don’t have any work ‘til Monday; at least none in the fields. Momma and Daddy always got summin’ to do around the house,” Taylor said. “We’re goin’ down to the branch at Cottonseed Road. Bet you anything we’ll pull in some big cats.”
    “Y’all oughta get your daddy to take you over to the river, down at the bridge at Greenville. If y’all want big cats.”
    “I don’t think he’s gonna have time while Jake’s here. He’ll be pretty busy gettin’ ready for pickin’.”
    “Well, maybe I can take y’all after church next Sunday. I got a friend or two with boats down there. We could really do some catfishin’. Blues,  channels--they catch some giant spoonbills on trotlines down there, too.”
    Just then Cousin Trek pulled up in the pickup. He stuck his head out of the window and held out his hand to shake Mr. Hightower’s. “Hello, Earl. Whadaya say? Makin’ a night on the town?”
    “Not really. Jus’ havin’ coffee over at the café.”
    Before Mr. Hightower could finish, Taylor piped up. “Can we give Mr. Hightower a ride, Daddy? His truck’s broke down.”
    “Well, sure nuff. Jump up here in the front, Earl. You boys climb in the back.”
     
     
    Viewing the rows of cotton in the daytime, it seemed they stretched for miles, and almost like a long straight highway in the distance, seemed to come to a point on the horizon. At night they disappeared into the darkness only a few yards away. Each row seemed to make me blink in the headlights as we drove by, a reminder that they would be there in the morning.
    At night