“Well, son, we have no choice but to accept what the Lord gives,” my mentor and lifelong best friend said, as we sat on his front porch that late fall day, staring forlornly at un-harvested, rain-soaked cotton fields. Mississippi Delta folks could not recall such heavy rainfall when it was more devastating. The old black man and I nurtured that crop from spring planting throughout the growing season, but now those long sunup-to-sundown days of toil seemed all for naught.
When harvest began in September, the yield averaged three bales of lint per acre. My brother managed harvesting, Jaybird and I ginned it, and Dad oversaw the whole operation. With fifty crops behind him, he knew this was destined to be an outstanding year. Then in early October, heavy rain set in and never stopped. Well we knew that if Mother Nature provided a chance to finish gathering, the yield would drop to less than half its original potential, and fiber quality would be so low that just breaking even would be a miracle.The Comment section of online publications is the new front in the ongoing Cancel Culture Battle.
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