Living and Learning on Varner Road
Until I was seven, my life pretty much mirrored that of other poor children I knew. In 1960, things changed dramatically when I was inducted into the world of Daddy’s cotton field. At seven, I became one more field hand, responsible for helping my father produce his yearly cotton crops. Like my siblings, I entered into an unwritten 10-year service contract that ended when a child graduated from high school and went on to college or started a life independent of the Kearney household.
My seventh summer was the same one in which my mother began patiently teaching me how to care for my baby brother, Jeffrey. Two years later, I learned the rudiments of cooking for my family. Breakfast usually consisted of toast and oatmeal or rice; and for many years dinner was meatloaf, cornbread and macaroni with tomato paste and potatoes—dessert was pineapple upside down cake. My brothers hated the days they came home and found me in the kitchen.
Without ceremony, one morning early in the summer, Mama paused in her sewing, looked over at me and said, “Well, Faye, your daddy thinks it’s time you started going to the fields with the rest of ’em. Tomorrow, you’ll need to get up with your brothers.”
More than anything except dreaming, I liked spending summer days with Mama, watching her go through her unhurried day, feeling warmth and softness emanate from her curving body. But in the Kearney household, enjoyment of one’s days was an extra. Like my brothers and sisters, I had a responsibility to contribute to the household, and the cotton field was how we made our contributions. There was a certain excitement about all of this—an anxiety about joining my older siblings, leaving home early on summer mornings and returning late in the evenings. I anticipated joining them as they sat down together for breakfast in the mornings, and I looked forward to participating in the jokes and laughter that filled the air after their day in the cotton field. I was convinced it was something about their day in the field that produced such joy.
On my first day as a field hand I woke early. Hurrying to the front room, I heard my parents’ voices and found Daddy already dressed, ready for the day’s work. He looked over at me and smiled, continuing to sip his morning coffee.
“You ready to chop some cotton this morning?”
I smiled back and said, “Yeah, do I have my own hoe?”
My father nodded and said I did. Without knowing what the term meant, somewhere in the recesses of my being I understood that I was undertaking a rite of passage.
After anxiously eating breakfast with the rest of the family, I heard Daddy hollering my name from the back yard. Mama smiled at me and nodded for me to go on out back. Smiling, my father held a child’s version of a chopping hoe. “Hold it and see how it fits. I might need to shave off some of the handle to make it fit.”
I shyly took the hoe, holding it the way Daddy showed me. The shortened handle was of light, shaved wood, with a brightly shining blade at the end. “There you go, it’s all yours,” he announced. He looked up at the house and took a last few draws of a Pall Mall cigarette before throwing the butt into the chicken coop. “We’ll be ready to go in a minute,” he told me, “just stand the hoe upside the chicken coop there, ’til we ready to leave.”
As I waited anxiously for the day to start, my siblings walked out to the back yard, claiming their individual chopping hoes. They all gave me either a giggle or a smile. One or two told harmless jokes about this new turn in my life. As they started down the gravel road toward the cotton field, I followed. I walked fast, taking long steps to keep up with them as we trekked the half-mile to the field.
“All right…” Daddy offered. I waited, looking from one brother to the next.
“Do we have to chop all this cotton today, Daddy?” I asked, looking down the long cotton rows that stretched as far as I could see.
“No, Faye. We just chop until it’s time to go home. Wherever we stop is where we start the next day.” I was relieved. Daddy was grinning and shaking his head as he finished the last cigarette of the morning. “Just watch the boys this morning until you feel you know what you doing,” Daddy said, then motioned me to pay attention for a minute.
Daddy crouched down on the ground beside the small plants and pointed out which plants were weeds and which was cotton.
“You want to chop all the weeds down with your hoe. The blade is sharp so you can cut it easily. Be careful not to cut yourself though.”
He pulled up the weeds, leaving one small plant standing alone. As he threw the weeds down, he looked up, pointing to the small plant remaining.
“This here is what the cotton plant looks like.” He held the plant delicately between his fingers. “You don’t ever want to chop down a cotton plant, ’cause that’s what grows and turns into the cotton we take to the gin in the winter.” I nodded. I knew Daddy took wagons loaded with fluffy white cotton to the gin and came back with groceries and money. I followed his directions and watched my older brothers at work for a few minutes, but then decided I could do it by myself. “I think I know how to do it, now.” Daddy nodded but told me to just help Don with his row until noon time.
By quitting time that evening I had earned my stripes, chopping several rows of cotton all by myself. The reality of what my days would be like, though, was fast setting in. The sun’s relentless heat and glare, now directly overhead, burned through my thick plaits and into my scalp. Daddy’s ragged old shirt that hardly warmed in the cool morning, had been drenched with sweat, but now was dried by the hot sun. The air was still, and the coupled heat and sun were unrelenting—the only reprieve being the few clouds that passed under it, offering us moments of shade throughout the day.
To get through the summers I spent in Daddy’s cotton fields, I learned the trick of transposing myself to another place and time as I worked. I traveled countless places during those 8 or 10 hours I spent each day in the cotton field. These moments of dreaming helped me make it through the worst days of summer. In later years when my siblings spoke with a deep hate of those summers, I’d smile and shrug, saying, “I really don’t remember them being that bad.”
Until I was seven, my life pretty much mirrored that of other poor children I knew. In 1960, things changed dramatically when I was inducted into the world of Daddy’s cotton field. At seven, I became one more field hand, responsible for helping my father produce his yearly cotton crops. Like my siblings, I entered into an unwritten 10-year service contract that ended when a child graduated from high school and went on to college or started a life independent of the Kearney household.
My seventh summer was the same one in which my mother began patiently teaching me how to care for my baby brother, Jeffrey. Two years later, I learned the rudiments of cooking for my family. Breakfast usually consisted of toast and oatmeal or rice; and for many years dinner was meatloaf, cornbread and macaroni with tomato paste and potatoes—dessert was pineapple upside down cake. My brothers hated the days they came home and found me in the kitchen.
Without ceremony, one morning early in the summer, Mama paused in her sewing, looked over at me and said, “Well, Faye, your daddy thinks it’s time you started going to the fields with the rest of ’em. Tomorrow, you’ll need to get up with your brothers.”
More than anything except dreaming, I liked spending summer days with Mama, watching her go through her unhurried day, feeling warmth and softness emanate from her curving body. But in the Kearney household, enjoyment of one’s days was an extra. Like my brothers and sisters, I had a responsibility to contribute to the household, and the cotton field was how we made our contributions. There was a certain excitement about all of this—an anxiety about joining my older siblings, leaving home early on summer mornings and returning late in the evenings. I anticipated joining them as they sat down together for breakfast in the mornings, and I looked forward to participating in the jokes and laughter that filled the air after their day in the cotton field. I was convinced it was something about their day in the field that produced such joy.
On my first day as a field hand I woke early. Hurrying to the front room, I heard my parents’ voices and found Daddy already dressed, ready for the day’s work. He looked over at me and smiled, continuing to sip his morning coffee.
“You ready to chop some cotton this morning?”
I smiled back and said, “Yeah, do I have my own hoe?”
My father nodded and said I did. Without knowing what the term meant, somewhere in the recesses of my being I understood that I was undertaking a rite of passage.
After anxiously eating breakfast with the rest of the family, I heard Daddy hollering my name from the back yard. Mama smiled at me and nodded for me to go on out back. Smiling, my father held a child’s version of a chopping hoe. “Hold it and see how it fits. I might need to shave off some of the handle to make it fit.”
I shyly took the hoe, holding it the way Daddy showed me. The shortened handle was of light, shaved wood, with a brightly shining blade at the end. “There you go, it’s all yours,” he announced. He looked up at the house and took a last few draws of a Pall Mall cigarette before throwing the butt into the chicken coop. “We’ll be ready to go in a minute,” he told me, “just stand the hoe upside the chicken coop there, ’til we ready to leave.”
As I waited anxiously for the day to start, my siblings walked out to the back yard, claiming their individual chopping hoes. They all gave me either a giggle or a smile. One or two told harmless jokes about this new turn in my life. As they started down the gravel road toward the cotton field, I followed. I walked fast, taking long steps to keep up with them as we trekked the half-mile to the field.
“All right…” Daddy offered. I waited, looking from one brother to the next.
“Do we have to chop all this cotton today, Daddy?” I asked, looking down the long cotton rows that stretched as far as I could see.
“No, Faye. We just chop until it’s time to go home. Wherever we stop is where we start the next day.” I was relieved. Daddy was grinning and shaking his head as he finished the last cigarette of the morning. “Just watch the boys this morning until you feel you know what you doing,” Daddy said, then motioned me to pay attention for a minute.
Daddy crouched down on the ground beside the small plants and pointed out which plants were weeds and which was cotton.
“You want to chop all the weeds down with your hoe. The blade is sharp so you can cut it easily. Be careful not to cut yourself though.”
He pulled up the weeds, leaving one small plant standing alone. As he threw the weeds down, he looked up, pointing to the small plant remaining.
“This here is what the cotton plant looks like.” He held the plant delicately between his fingers. “You don’t ever want to chop down a cotton plant, ’cause that’s what grows and turns into the cotton we take to the gin in the winter.” I nodded. I knew Daddy took wagons loaded with fluffy white cotton to the gin and came back with groceries and money. I followed his directions and watched my older brothers at work for a few minutes, but then decided I could do it by myself. “I think I know how to do it, now.” Daddy nodded but told me to just help Don with his row until noon time.
By quitting time that evening I had earned my stripes, chopping several rows of cotton all by myself. The reality of what my days would be like, though, was fast setting in. The sun’s relentless heat and glare, now directly overhead, burned through my thick plaits and into my scalp. Daddy’s ragged old shirt that hardly warmed in the cool morning, had been drenched with sweat, but now was dried by the hot sun. The air was still, and the coupled heat and sun were unrelenting—the only reprieve being the few clouds that passed under it, offering us moments of shade throughout the day.
To get through the summers I spent in Daddy’s cotton fields, I learned the trick of transposing myself to another place and time as I worked. I traveled countless places during those 8 or 10 hours I spent each day in the cotton field. These moments of dreaming helped me make it through the worst days of summer. In later years when my siblings spoke with a deep hate of those summers, I’d smile and shrug, saying, “I really don’t remember them being that bad.”
