Mississippi Cotton by Paul H. Yarbrough Read Free Book Online Page A

fans that swung back and forth and hummed like my mother’s sewing machine.
    Cousin Carol was a good cook, just like my mother. She always had something you liked, and she didn’t overkill with stuff like squash and beets. At least she didn’t have them at the same time. That was thoughtful. That night we had fried chicken, mashed potatoes, crowder peas, turnip greens, a giant fruit salad and dessert.
    Cousin Carol also made terrific pies. She had even won prizes at the fair. She and my mother often traded recipes and the two of them were co-champions of the world when it came to making pies, as far as I was concerned.
    Cousin Carol’s best, no doubt, was her cherry pie while my mother’s was apple. Their only point of disagreement was coconut. My mother made them and loved them. Cousin Carol hated them. She called them hair pies. They were okay as far as I cared. I would eat any pie, any time. That night, we had cherry.
    “Now I’ll pick you boys up in front of the picture show,” Cousin Trek said. “Y’all oughta be out by nine-thirty. The movie, news, cartoon and serial all last about two hours—maybe a little more—right?”
    “Yes, sir,” Taylor said. “But can’t we go o’er to the square ‘til you get here?”
    “Well, I don’t see why not, but be on the lookout for me.”
    “Now, Trek, you tell them I don’t want them playing around in their good clothes,” Cousin Carol said.
    No playing in our good clothes. I think she and my mother had some long distant mental communication or something, the way they always had the same things to say.
    “Okay, I’ll pick you up, and you can go to the park. But you heard your mother. No rasslin’ or rollin’ around in your good clothes.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Casey, did you hear me?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Now who wants cherry pie?” Cousin Carol asked.
    After dessert we helped clear the table. On my first night, Cousin Carol didn’t make us wash and dry the dishes. We also could have gone to town on our bikes since it wasn’t too far. Although I didn’t have my own, there were at least six bikes around the farm—old ones, new ones and Sally’s girl bike. But Cousin Trek was going to take us that night because I had just gotten there in the afternoon. Cousin Carol said she wanted us home as soon as possible since it was my first night, but Taylor and Casey had told me once that, really, she was a little nervous about crossing Highway 49 after dark.
    Like most places in the South, summer time in Mississippi meant two things—baseball and swimming. If you lived in the country there was a third, fishing. City boys fished, too, but it took more planning, since you had to get past the city limits to find a creek or pond. In the country you could usually just walk out the back door.
    “You wanna go fishin’ tomorrow?” Taylor asked. We were waiting on the bunk bed while Casey finished brushing his teeth following supper.
    “Where to? The branch along ol’ Cottonseed Road?” I asked.
    We had been there before. It was only about forty feet wide at the widest point but deep enough and had some pretty big catfish and some bream. There was a bridge over it that was a pretty good place to get underneath and fish. We sometimes walked up or down stream if they weren’t biting under the bridge.
    “Yeah, might as well. Say, what’s Farley doin’ now that he’s got his driver’s license?”
    “Aw, he’s always talking about driving all over the country. But he doesn’t even have his own car. Even if he did I don’t think Daddy would let him jus’ drive anywhere he wants to. But he talks about it all the time. You know, he’s got that teenager big-shot status.”
    “Is he playin’ football still?”
    “Yeah. That’s one reason he didn’t come. They have summer practice. But I think Daddy’ll make him come the weekend they pick me up. I think their first game is about the middle of September.”
    “Is he gonna play in