Author: Sheri

Growing up in a pastor’s family, we moved every few years and lived in church parsonages. The homes often contained discarded furniture and accessories no longer needed or wanted by some of the parishioners. It seems that in most congregations there was at least one person who claimed the right of ownership of the parsonage and its inhabitants.

One of the parsonages was next door to such a woman. She came in the back door unannounced and made herself at home. We never had to wonder what the woman thought because she freely offered her opinion and advice which included what was wrong and what we needed to do.

She quickly overstepped her bounds. It was obvious she didn’t approve of me. She thought girls were supposed to be girlish, which I wasn’t. I preferred being outdoors hiking, climbing, camping or rappelling. My attire included hiking boots, jeans and flannel shirts, and I climbed trees. 

One day she barged through the door and shoved a bag at my mother. In it was something for my room – ruffled white lace curtains. When I saw those curtains of lace, I was mad – more like livid. What right did she have to tell me how to decorate my room? My parents gave me no choice but to hang the curtains. Fine, I’d hang the curtains!

It was just a few days before she made another unannounced visit. You can guess why she came – to see those ruffled lace curtains in my room. I led her down the hall with a factitious sneer on my face. She walked into the room and saw the nice white lacy curtains waving gently in the breeze from the opened window. Then she saw the rest of the room. A small gasp escaped her lips. Hanging from the light in the middle of the room was “thing.” “Thing” was a contorted twisted clothes hanger dripped with multi-colored wax stalactites draped with various colors of string confetti. Big colorful posters and slogans hung on the walls. Rappelling off the green trunk was the big doll I got as a little girl. She was rigged up and partially suspended wearing a rappelling seat complete with carabiners. The bed was frameless, the mattresses on the floor, and covered with a purple and green tie-dyed bedspread. Other non-lady-like trinkets were scattered throughout the room. There was even a black light. Gasp! 

That’s the only time I saw that woman speechless. She huffed, turned on her heels and was gone. She never asked to see my room again. Since my bedroom window faced her house, somehow, I think seeing those curtains of lace blowing in the breeze brought her no satisfaction. 

Jump down turn around pick a bale of cotton
Gonna jump down turn around pick a bale a day

Reluctantly, I tied my sunbonnet securely under my chin. It promised to be another hot humid day. I wore loose fitting clothes and long sleeves to help protect me from the sun and to keep me from getting scratched. A big burlap bag hung under one armpit with the strap over my opposite shoulder. Mama tied a knot in the strap to lift the bag higher, but it still dragged the ground.

Cotton fields ready for picking were a familiar scene along those back country Southern roads. From the car windows we saw snowy fields ready for harvest. Rows and rows of stalks with fluffy balls of white seemed to go on forever. People of all ages were in the fields filling their bags. For a little kid standing in between those rows, it took on a different perspective. It all looked rather ominous when seeing the task that lay ahead. 

I was seven or eight years old. Daddy knew some of the country farmers. I don’t know how it all came about that we were taken to pick cotton. Beads of sweat were already forming even before I picked the first boll. The cotton was certainly soft and fluffy, but the husks that held the cotton weren’t. The sharp hard corners of the calyx jabbed into my fingers as I pulled and twisted off a ball of cotton and stuffed it in my bag. Down the row I went, grabbing and stuffing my bag. It left a trail in the red dirt as it followed me down the row. The sun and heat were relentless. I no longer objected to wearing the big rimmed sunbonnet that protected me from the fiery rays of the sun.

I don’t remember how long it took to fill my bag. Well, my “full” bag wasn’t as full as others. A real cotton picker can be in the field for twelve hours a day or more. Their bags weigh about sixty to seventy pounds when filled. My bag wasn’t stuffed that much, but it did get heavy for me to drag down the row. When we were done for the day, I peeked in the bag filled with fluffy white cotton with little brown specks from the husks. We deposited our bags of cotton and held out our hands for the few coins we earned for our labors. I can assure you it wasn’t enough. 

Our day was done. When we passed the fields going back home, I had a greater appreciation for the people who worked the fields. I looked at the cotton boll I had in my hand and put it in my bonnet on my lap. I would sleep good that night!

When I was four years old my brothers and sisters attended school. I was kind of lonely, but now I look back and think I should have been thankful for the reprieve from being aggravated by my brothers. Some days Mama would let me walk to the Wheeler’s house. She would watch me walk to the corner and turn down the street. I’m sure she placed a call to Mrs. Wheeler to make sure I got there okay. Cookies and milk would be waiting for me when I went inside the house. Mr. Wheeler would take me outside and let me play on the tractor. I would pretend I was on all kinds of adventures. After visiting for a while, I would walk back home.

Mama was always busy. She made the best bread in the world, and she made a lot of it, six loaves at a time. I guess she made a batch at least once a week, sometimes more. Bread baking day was one of my favorites because sometimes Mama would make us fried bread before shaping her loaves. Mama kept the flour in an aluminum flour can. Whenever the lid was off, I would lick my finger, stick it in the flour and then lick it off. The can was just the right height for me to sit on or to use as a stool. One day Mama was making bread. She had mixed it up, beating the mixture with a slotted spoon that whipped air into the dough, scraped the dough onto the floured countertop and kneaded the dough for twelve minutes. After covering it with a towel to rise, she gathered up the freshly washed laundry and headed to the clothesline. 

I peeked out the window and then looked at the flour can. The peanut butter was stored in the cabinet above the counter. I slid the flour can up against the cabinet and climbed aboard. I jumped up on the counter, opened the cabinet, retrieved the peanut butter and started my descent. Stretching out my toes, my foot found the top of the flour can, then the second foot. About that time the lid flipped. Swoosh! I landed IN the flour can. Flour shot out everywhere. I was covered from head to toe, and flour was scattered all over the floor. Boy, was Mama surprised to see a little spook when she walked through the door. Boy, was I in trouble! 

I wonder if I got a piece of fried bread that day. Hmmm…maybe not.

My mother’s favorite national treasure to visit was Badlands National Park. Every time we went west, we had to go through the Badlands. That was the least we could do for her. She’s the one who had to get everything ready and packed for the trip. She was the one who got stuck keeping kids or grandkids that weren’t big enough to go camping or backpacking in the mountains. She was even compliant with camping along the way from time to time. It may have saved them a few dollars, but it was a lot of extra work for her. So when we neared the Badlands, it was a given that we would go through.

The Badlands National Park consists of 244,000 acres. Formations of various sizes and shapes emerge from the eroded hills. The roads lead through grassy plains and then the earth opens up as canyons begin to take shape. Pinnacles and buttes rise from the earth that seem to have been swallowed by time, water and wind. Nothing can be seen for miles except flat land and ridges of layers of various colors of the strata of rough barren hills. The Lakota Indians called this place “Mako Sica,” which means “land bad.” Bison, big horn sheep, prairie dogs, deer, antelope and coyotes roam the land. 

Mama always marveled verbally about the colors of the hills. She would explain that the hills change intensity of colors from one year to the next. Some years, the colors were muted. Other years, the colors were bright and intense. Looking across the quiet sacred hills, Mama would say, “This has to be God’s Cathedral.”