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