Cotton Harvests speak to me.  It's about life.  It's about sacrifice.  It's about faith.  It's about hope.  The crops near Lubbock, Texas look promising this year.  The fields are white and ripe for harvest.  The air around the cotton gins is literally palpable.  You can see it.  You can smell it.  You can taste it. 

My memories of my Uncle Pace's cotton farm and the flurry of urgent activity at harvest time will never fade.  My aunt made my cousin, Yolanda, and I little bags to sling over our shoulders from flour sacks.  The final picking was done by hand to get every last bit possible.  We city girls tried.  We had great expectations of how we'd fill those sacks.  We joined everyone and made our way down the rows.  The almost empty bolls hung onto the most uncooperative wads of cotton.  We learned quickly how hard those husks were and how quickly your cuticles bled when you didn't use the proper care.  The other workers filled huge sacks that drug the ground and were so heavy that men strained to lift them to the scales.  At the end, we were sweating, bleeding, and had lost our previous determination and our pride.  We handed up our sacks.  We'd each picked a basketball size wad of cotton.  We stood in the line and received our "pity pay" and struck out for Aunt Mae's kitchen.

Payment for picking cotton - 25 cents...Lessons learned - Priceless

Available :  cynarashelton.com  Cynara Shelton - Work Zoom: The Harvest

For today's entry, He chose a soft pastel background then picked up his palette knife and made one confident stroke across the canvas.  He stepped back to assess his work.  The world watched and waited as he flooded it with light.  Ever wonder what an artist sees...well, thats what I saw.

I don’t often paint at noon on the beach, but in Texas, you can drive your car/truck/JEEP right smack dab down to the waterline.  I was able to paint right out of the back of my Jeep, so I decided to pack a sandwich and head out around 10a.m.  I was still thinking how good that sandwich tasted and debating whether I was finished with my painting or did it still need a little something more when a plane buzzed the beach.   Like in a dream, I reached out and with a stroke…painted those wings just exactly like I saw them.    I smiled.  Sometimes, it just happens like that.  A good day.  A really good day.

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