Shortly after we tractor drivers finished cultivating Dad’s cotton fields, which spread across a remote corner of the Mississippi Delta, a long, steady, soaking rain set in — just what the cotton plants needed to finish filling bolls with fiber. As we waited for our paychecks and watched the thirsty earth drink its fill, we knew it wasn’t just a “sharrain” (Dad’s way of saying “shower of rain”) or a mere dust settler, but what he called a “sho-nuff chunk floater.”
