Picking Cotton

My first “real” job was picking cotton in southern Arkansas.? Frankly, I was not cut out to be a cotton picker.? I was ten in 1962 when I picked cotton for the first time.

A real job meant you worked for someone else and were paid for the actual work you produced.? Picking cotton meant no minimum wage, no health benefits, no free meals, and no union, and if you were hurt and couldn’t work, you got no pay.? At ten years of age in my family meant you worked and contributed to the family.? Period.? My Grandpappy’s cotton fields needed picking, and that was that.?

Harvesters got most of the cotton, but in those days, they were less efficient and left too much cotton in the boll.? The solution??Send pickers in behind the machines.? Late that summer, I joined a team of about a dozen pickers.? All were adults except me.? The leader was Mama Ida.? She was a large black woman with little formal education but was the most wonderful person.

“Douglas, you just follow me.”? And I did what she said.?I was a “city boy,” and because I wore shoes and had soft hands, I was weak and needed “tending to.” ?I learned to pay attention and do what she said. ?Mama Ida and her team were first-class pickers. ?I was embarrassingly slow.? If you don’t pay close attention to picking cotton, you could get your hand infected from cuts and be out of work.? No work, no pay.? She showed me what to do.

Arkansas is hot, humid, dusty, windy, and buggy in summer and the cotton fields expose you to the sun. ?I suffered, and sometimes I cried.? And my feet hurt.? But I would not quit, no matter what.? I wore a baseball hat and got sunburned on my ears and cheeks.? The other pickers wore brimmed hats and white shirts or dresses to keep the sun at bay.?

Mama Ida would say, “You be careful, Douglas.”? She was telling me to pay close attention to the harvesters.? They would run you over, and you were dead.

People had different jobs in the cotton fields, and none were unimportant. ?I was often the “water boy,” carrying water in two large tin buckets that were crucial to our well-being.? Mama Ida gave me that task.? And she was honest.? She never allowed rocks or dirt in our 10-foot cotton sacks.? Our pay was based on the weight of the cotton you picked.? No cheating.

At the end of each day, I was exhausted and fell asleep after the dinner my Grandmama had made.? The usual evening meal was fried chicken, black-eyed peas or butter beans, spinach or corn, and watermelon for dessert.? Almost everything was raised in her garden, and it was good eating.? Breakfast was eggs (from the chickens she tended) and toast with homemade jam. ?Lunch was hardboiled eggs I carried with me into the fields.?

My Grandpappy paid me that first day: 10￠, based on the weight of my cotton picking.? That’s it. ?I fondly remember Mama Ida, she helped make me a better person, and there is nothing better than finding someone like her in your life.? And picking cotton helped me appreciate the value of those who do the grudging, hard, often ignored work that makes America great.?

I did learn one big lesson. ?I didn’t particularly like picking cotton. ?I joined the Army.

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Please read Brig. Gen. Satterfield’s newest book, “55 Rules for a Good Life” (2022), on Amazon.