“But, Dad, we ginned cotton straight through Thanksgiving,” I moaned. “Can’t we at least get off a few days for Christmas?”
“Son, we finished picking and ginning the crop early last year, and you hunted all winter,” he answered. “Be thankful for that. Fall weather hasn’t cooperated this season. The gin has got to run — can to can’t. This dry spell won’t last, and we simply cannot afford to have cotton pickers stopped, waiting for empty trailers, when the ground is dry and the sun is shining.”
It was a time when picking two rows of cotton at once was harvesting’s latest technology. It was a time when old-fashioned flat belts and line shafts powered gin machinery. It was a time when dumping enough seed cotton to make fifteen or more 500-pound bales in modern, hydraulically-powered boxes known as module builders was unheard of. Downtime for repairs or the threat of bad weather put unrelenting pressure on gin crews. Trailers had to be available, meaning my crew and I had to roll night and day, sleeping in snatches.
When I returned from overseas military duty, Dad hired me as his farm and gin manager, and because he had run the gin for twenty years, he knew full well what we faced.
As we huddled around the gin office heater early that morning, I said to the crew, “Well, guys, it’s Christmas Eve … the weather forecast is good, the yard is covered with full trailers, and dew is the only thing holding up the pickers. We’ve got no choice but to run around the clock.” That was the last thing those exhausted men wanted to hear.
The door creaked open and a tiny, white-haired lady carrying a large covered tray made her way through the group. It was my grandmother. In her eighties, she steadfastly refused to retire, insisting she do her part for the family farm by running the country store, across the road from the gin.
Grandmother was renowned for her strong work ethic and outright famous for he “cathead” biscuits. Well before dawn, she had cooked a batch for us. “Eat,” she ordered.
Inspiration is a beautiful thing, especially when it comes at precisely the right moment. Here we were … strong, able-bodied young men, bemoaning the fact that we had to work during the holidays. And here was a frail old woman, stooped by years of toil, who had risen hours before we had to stand before her stove and prepare this Southern delicacy just for us. Sheepishly, we ate and fell to our tasks.
In the wee hours of Christmas morning, as I brewed a pot of coffee, I saw lights flicker on in Grandmother’s apartment behind the store. Later, as frost glittered in dawn’s first light, I watched as she slowly plodded toward the gin, carrying a large tray of catheads, piping hot.
What I witnessed that cold December morning so many years ago was the true spirit of Christmas: In giving, we receive.
Jimmy Reed——
Bio and Archives
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
