The hardest job I ever had was managing my father’s cotton gin. When I returned from overseas military service, he said, “Son, we’ve got a mighty fine crop to gather, so I’ll be spending all my time in the fields during harvest. You’ll have to run the gin.”
I was petrified. Growing up, my responsibilities at the gin had never amounted to anything more than menial odd jobs.
There were seven of us in the crew: three Blacks, three Hispanics, and me. Somehow we managed to avoid any major disasters, and as the eighteen-hour workdays went by we became more and more proficient at our tasks.
Modern methods of storing the harvest in modules were unheard of back then, and every time I looked up, another loaded cotton trailer was being dropped off in the gin yard. Day after day, we toiled “can to can’t,” closed the gin, slept a few hours, and returned for another stretch of hard work. The month of November hastened toward its end.
The gin was humming nicely that bright and brisk Thanksgiving Day. I was doing paperwork, when the office door opened and there stood Juanita, the pressman’s wife.
“Señor, I have come to ask that you shut the gin down long enough for the men to enjoy a Thanksgiving meal with their families,” she said.
“Absolutely not!” I retorted. “Look at the gin yard — we’re covered up with trailers!” She stood her ground.
Then I realized why this day was so special to Juanita. In her native country, she had lived in abject poverty. Here, her husband could earn more in an hour than he earned in a week back home.
“Juanita, gather up the food you’ve prepared,” I said. “Tell the other wives to do the same. We’re going to celebrate Thanksgiving right here at the gin!”
As the gin’s many engines whined down to silence, the crewmembers were smiling. Juanita had told them about the feast. We gathered on the platform, out in the glorious sunshine, and laid two cotton bales end to end for a makeshift table. The women and children came, and soon cuisine from three different cultures covered the bales. We gave thanks for our many blessings that year … especially the bountiful crop, and then heaped our plates with delicious food.
When everyone had finished eating, I asked Umberto, the pressman, what this day meant to him. He pulled out a small Bible, carefully turned its tattered pages to Deuteronomy, Chapter eight, verse 10, and read,
“When thou hast eaten and art full ... bless the Lord thy God for the good land which He hath given thee.”
In an unforgettable way, this poor foreigner reminded me how blessed we Americans are. Indeed, our God has given us a land
“... Beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain, for purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plain.”
For all these bountiful blessings, I thank Him every day, as we did … that Thanksgiving at the gin.
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)).
