King Cotton The perfect year starts out with shredding stalks of last year’s crop and patching terrace washes from a rain that wouldn’t stop. In March we put down Treflan when the wind is not too high, then throw up lister ridges for planting by and by. The planters space the seeds just right for a perfect growing stand if the slow spring rains come just in time to irrigate the land. In about a week the sprouts are peeking up, a wondrous sight, green shoots like rows of emeralds in the early morning light. Each rain brings crops of weeds to plow, with some still left to hoe, as stamina and patient toil clean each and every row. Soon tiny squares begin to form, and blooms of white and pink, God’s yearly show of nature’s laws to make a farmer think. Mature bolls dry and start to crack in summer’s arid heat. Late fall, a killing freeze, the growing season is complete. Without their leaves, the stalks look laden with a crop of snow, and strippers reap the bounty; off to the gin we go. Each year the process varies, dictated by the weather. Each year another challenge as a family pulls together. Cora Gail Johnson cgtrent
Posted on: Sat, 13 Sep 2014 12:48:47 +0000
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