I drove up to Tennessee this week. Part of the trip is made on the highway, the last half I end up on these small so called highways that go through all the small towns and speed traps.
Once I got off the main highway I was driving I noticed a lot of white blooming bulbs off to the side of the road. This was cotton. Nowdays they use machines to do most of the picking. But back in the day it was picked by hand. And from what I gathered it was not the most fun thing to do. My Mother when she was growing up used to pick it. After school and on weekends she went to pick cotton. She would spend all day out in the fields, getting her hands bloody picking the cotton.
My Father lived in a home filled with violence. His Father was one of those old Irish men you see in movies. You know the type, filled with booze and violence. My Father left home and joined the Navy when he was 17 after having his ribs broken by his Father.
And as I drove along that highway I thought about my childhood and how sometimes I would complain about something. How sometimes I thought life was so unfair. My parents were not perfect, no where close to it. They had their own demons to battle as a married couple and as parents. I could probably make a list a mile long of things I think they did to me or didn't do for me.
But I know I never had to pick cotton till my fingers bled or run away from home cause my ribs were broken.
1 comment:
Makes me think of that Sally Fields movie, what the hell was that again... was it terms of endearment or something ? Where she picked cotton and her husband died, and her hands bled, and they were dirt poor...
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