If I decide to become some kind of artist, I’ll sculpt, or dance, or make music. I might even become an author and write funny little stories. But one thing is for sure: I won’t paint
Just the thought of Mama’s willow switch was usually a sufficient deterrent to my iniquitous nature. But not the time I painted my brother.
It was layby … a time when cotton farmers know they’ve done all they can to make their crops … a time to turn off the irrigation, disk around fields, run water furrows one last time, and park the tractors. They fought the good fight. The rest was up to the weather, the crop, and the good Lord.