Chapter 14 Boll-Weevil

A year passed quickly. It was spring, Father and I continued to met on the porch for our early morning stroll through the garden and into the field where we could see the first green buds coming up through the rich brown earth.

“Now that we have last year’s harvest under our belt, we’ve used this land as the Lord intended. We made a nice little profit last year. This year ought to be even better.”

Maybe he would buy me a new book for my birthday.

“Our vegetables did real well. The pantry is right to overflowing with canning jars. Mother plans to sell the extra at the city market. You know, fewer and fewer of those city folk plant themselves good gardens these days.” Father took my hand and swung it high in the air. “People want Mother’s recipes, so she figured she might as well sell them jars of her goods, instead of handing over the family gold for free. Now that we’re settled out here on the farm, we feel you girls can help by canning the vegetables and such. You’re old enough now and can lend me a hand with the planting and outside chores too. With Suzanna’s limp, she’ll stay indoors, for the most part.”

I hoped it would be easier out here on the farm, but I was already finding it hard to keep up. Besides washing Father’s bandanas, I sloped the pigs, fed the chickens twice daily, brought in the eggs, and did my schoolwork. I wondered when I’d have time to read, and now it looked like there would be more work than a mule could haul in a week. I let out a long sigh.

Father picked up the cat that had strayed from the barn. It rubbed up against his legs. He petted it with his large hands, browned by the sun and it began to purr.

“I know. Sprout, we’re all working hard, but we’ll figure this out, soon there will be more time for you girls.

➰

Frank and Jimmy came round to see us on the second Sunday of every month. On this day, they carried a parcel of flowers they called Indian blankets from the surrounding fields that colored the hillsides. Frank held the flowers out to Suzanna. They were orange and looked as if they had been freshly dipped in yellow paint. 

“Aren’t they purty,” I mocked.

“Ruth, mind your manners,” Suzanna said, anger replacing embarrassment. She turned to Frank. “Thank you very much. They’re lovely. Let me go into the house and put them in water. Come on, Ruth. I’ll need help pulling out the jar from below the sink.”

Mother looked up, when we came in through the porch door. She was plucking a scalded chicken.

“Mother, the boys have come to call, they brought some flowers,” Suzanna said.

I pulled it out a Kerr canning jar and she filled it with water. “I’ll put them on the table.”

“They’re very pretty. Thank the boys for me please.”

“Would it be alright if we sat with them under the tree until dinner?” I asked.

She stopped cleaning the bird. “I’m almost done, I suppose it would be alright.”

I gave her cheek a kiss and picked up the red and green plaid blanket off the settee to spread on the ground.

We talked a while, about our friends at school when Jimmy asked if we had seen any evidence of the boll-weevil. We didn’t even know what that was. He’d heard about the nasty bug invading the cotton fields south of here.

“Father hasn’t mentioned it.” That’s odd, you would of thought, he would have mentioned it on our walks.

➰

Within days, the boll-weevil became the focus of our attention. Hoping we could steer clear of the nasty thing, we took lanterns into the night and helped Father pick the insects, larvae, and eggs off the plants and drowned them in a bucket of soapy water.

Not long after, Father came in from the fields late one day, sweat running down his back. He wiped his face with his red bandana, now yellowed with dirt and dust. The shadow of his hat obscured his face, and his gaunt shoulders drooped. “There’s disaster afoot,” he said, “That wicked little boll-wee-vil has taken over the fields. I swear it will cause our ruination. All our work has been for nothin’.” He slammed his fist on the counter and dropped his head.

“The damn thing even has evil in its name.”

A Thursday afternoon in mid-June, Father came in from the fields for dinner. “Those piggish bugs have eaten away the cotton’s innards,” he said. He held up a cotton pod. Inside was the color of a rusty nail where there should have been the inkling of a white fluff ball.

“It’s not as if we weren’t expecting it,” Mother said. “Been coming just a few miles down the road for a while now.”

Father admitted to us that folks had warned him about the nasty bug before he bought the farm.

“We risked it, and now we need to find some way to repair the damage.” Mother said. “We’re used to hard times, and we’ll just have to buckle down.”

“You know, all of us farmers have been discussing the boll weevil down at the feed store, and they assured me it was just a passing infestation, like the seventeen-year cicadas.”

“All of us farmers? Joe, you including yourself in that mix?”

He shrugged. “I may not be seasoned, but they are.”

“I’ve heard say that pigs take on a deadly fever when being led to the slaughterhouse,” Mother said. “They are smart enough to understand what’s comin’, so why didn’t these seasoned farmers know how bad it could get? They’ve been farmin’ for years. Couldn’t they have stopped us before we bought the gall-danged cotton-seed?”

“We’re all in the same kettle with the fire at our feet,” Father said. “No one is getting outa’ this in one piece. It was foolish to think we’d avoid that little bug, since it’s been seen all over these parts.”

He touched Mother’s shoulder. “No way to fix it, Bess.” Nobody’s been able to control the damnable worms, not the Mexicans nor the Texans. The men and I decided if it came to our farms, we would burn the fields to keep it from spreadin’.”

“What?” Mother’s eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “That cotton is our livelihood. How will we pay off our debts? Why didn’t you tell me about that decision, Joseph Parker Hale?” Mother’s voice got real loud.

“The cotton’s lost anyhow, and I hadn’t told you because I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that,” Father bellowed. “The damn bollworms are in the fields and I need to get rid of them so they won’t spread to our neighbors.”

“Oh, Joe.” Mother said. “Is that the only way?”

“Afraid so,” Father’s words coldly clipped.

“And you think our neighbors will burn their fields, too?” she asked. “Not likely.”

“Bess, it’s the only way,” he said. “I gotta go, best time to do something hateful is to get right to it.”

The air in the room got palpable. Mother stopped him from leaving by putting her hands on his chest.

Suzanna and I backed up. I’d never seen my mother so angry or my father so unstirred by her spirit.

“Don’t do it, Joe! Maybe there’s a way out,” Mother said. “Now sit down and let’s talk this out. Those folks at the feed store don’t know their mules from their jackasses!”

“You know I studied on planting and infestations before we came out here,” Father said. “But I read nothin’ about the boll weevil.”

Mother crossed her arms over her chest. “So?”

“So, it was my decision to plant, and now it is my decision to burn the crop. I’m sorry, Bess.” He pushed past her. “Don’t wait up for me.” The screen door slammed behind him.

Mother followed him, placing her hand and her forehead on the screen. Eventually, she moved away from the door, sank onto a chair, rested her elbows on the table, and held her head.

We were afraid to move.

“Mother, dinner’s burning.” I dared to say.

“You girls eat. I’m not hungry.”

Suzanna put her hand on my arm as I moved to touch Mother. She shook her head, mouthing the word, “no.”

“Ruth, why don’t you stir the succotash? Suzanna said.

I ignored her, touching Mother’s shoulder.“What’s happening, Mother?”

Suzanna moved to the stove, looking at me, shaking her head.

Mother's hands clenched on the red and white checkered tablecloth. “What don’t you understand, Ruth?” She said.

I stammered. “I don’t…”

I didn’t even recognize my mother’s gravelly voice when she eventually spoke.

“No point in saving the crop this year. Your father is going to burn the cotton to save next year’s crop. There ain’t nothin’ to do about it.” Mother’s ears burned red. Suddenly, she stood up and marched out. Through the screen door, we saw her leaning on the rail, her back straight as a fence post. I wanted to touch her, comfort her, when we saw a trail of smoke rise from the holler into the air, mixing with the bruised sunset.

Mother turned to look at us. “Come here, girls, you need to see this and not forget it. We all make mistakes; some have grave consequences, and this is one of them. This day will mark a change and not for the better.” She took a deep breath. “Sometimes things just don’t work out how we want them to, and we trust that the Good Lord will lead us out of our trouble.”

We stood arms around each other’s waists and looked out at the field, as it filled with smoke.

Mother sighed, “Ruth, I’m sorry I spat at you. Eat, then finish up your chores. It’ll be dark soon. Put yourselves to bed. I’m going to go help your father.” With that, she walked down the steps.