Carrie

"Pancho needs your prayers, its true

but save a few for Lefty too

he just did what he had to do,
and now he's growing old."



Towns Van Zant

"Pancho and Lefty"

recorded by Willy Nelson, and others

April 2024, Piggott

West out of Kennett, across the St Francis into Arkansas; Clay County, to be precise.  Flatland, straight roads, all running either North/South or East/West.  Mixed crops, corn, beans, cotton and others, good black land.  Once across the river and its accompanying levee, road turns sharply north for a mile or so then ninety degrees left; pick the first road to the right and stay with it till you hit US 62.  Left for maybe a mile and a half and you are there.
Piggott Arkansas.  Sort of a sleepy county seat still hanging on at the edge of the string of red gravel hills called Crowley 's Ridge. Population around 3500, a growth of maybe 1000 in the seventy years since high school.
"Slow down, Jim, or you might miss it. And watch out for the traffic light."  Steve is cranked again, obviously excited by being here and soaking up the familiar sights. Town hasn't changed much he says..
Jim is recording.
"Nephew lives just over there, only family name still in the county, I think, maybe not, could be a couple that I've lost track of.  High school there on the left, old school that I went to burned years ago. It had been there at least since the 30's.  Had teachers who spent their life there, knew my brother who was there ten years before, always asking, 'you as smart as your brother?'  How do you answer that?  Maybe I was, but probably lazier, always looking for the simplest and easiest way to get anything done."
He was on a roll now.  " See the bank over there? Remember the guy I told you about that bought the Wilson plantation down near Memphis?  He owned the bank here.  It used to be down on the corner across from the Court house. Saw Gaylon at one of the reunions, must've been '01, always had them around the Fourth of July to coincide with the annual picnic, traditionally the time every year when the folks who live elsewhere come back home to visit."
"Didn't get to talk much at the rubber chicken dinner; reunions in a dry county are a bit boring, but he gave me a couple of phone numbers and asked me to call him the next day, July third, I think it was.  I called and we talked for quite a spell; I jokingly asked where one could get a drink around here."
"go to  Missouri'", he says, then "I have to be down there tomorrow, on the 4th, meet me over at the bank.'" "Bank's closed."  says I,  "Tomorrow is the 4th."
"I'll call the manager, have her open it, got a nice conference room."
 "See you tomorrow 'bout one."  He hung up.
"He showed up, as promised, with a fifth of Jack Daniels, and the doors were open, as promised.  It was a wonderful afternoon."
"Lot of stories here; I only know a bit about just a few.  For example, that's a relatively new court house there on the square; old one burned down, years back, accidentally, I suppose.  Lot of local politics practiced here, some of it not too pretty. Pretty basic stuff, as were the private lives, but a bit raw on occasion."

-------------------------------------









Spring, 1939, West of Pollard

She knew they were coming today, the Judge had told her that at the hearing and the Sheriff's letter last week had told the date.

Rising early, dressed in her best Sunday dress and walking shoes complete with silk stockings and a wrap for her shoulders against the spring chill.  A cup of black coffee and a warmed over biscuit with jam was all there was for breakfast; she fixed the same for Walter.  Neither was hungry, for some reason.
Walter busied himself with the morning chores; she sat at what she called her library table in the living room, watched the road and remembered.

Remembered how fate had brought her here and twisted her world.

............

Oldest child of an immigrant German grocer who left the old country with his wife and baby girl in search of a better life in America.  Heinrich Grossmann had served in the Kaiser's navy, learned a trade and lived in constant fear of a recall to service.  He had no desire to fight and believed a better life was to be had in the new land.  Shortening the name, he became Harry Gross and established a thriving grocery in the small town of Dexter Missouri.  His accent earned him the nickname "Dutch".  The Gross household soon had three other children, all boys; they occupied a fashionable home in the better section.  They maintained their faith through the small but strong Catholic congregation.  Carrie helped  her mother in the management of the home, and, as the boys grew older, became the primary manager.  A live-in domestic helper, a teenage young girl from one of the farm communities came to live with them and became not only a helper, but a friend to Carrie. Lela worked in this role until she was almost twenty, married and moved away.  She and Carrie became a part of a group of young people that included, among others, Lela's future husband, Henry and her older brother, Walter.

As others married or moved away, the group gradually broke up.  Her brothers grew up and dispersed; she found herself without friends, lonely and little purpose in life.  She found in Walter the perfect complement to her forceful, "take charge" personality.  Walter was a dreamer, younger than Carrie, bright, capable and well-read, but without any particular goals or ambitions.  They were married in fine fashion and in the tradition of her church.

Through her correspondence she had learned that her friend, Lela and her husband had purchased their own farm in Arkansas, and, there was an adjoining farm just to the west that was now for sale.  On a hunch, Carrie and Walter travelled to Arkansas.  It was fifty acres of bottom land and had small three room house and a barn for animals.  Using the majority of her dowry, they made a substantial down payment and signed a note for the remainder.  They had their own home and were able to furnish it with furniture contributed by her family.  Life was good.

But Carrie didn't fit in.  She was a stranger, a city girl who knew nothing of the farm life and consequently was not able to provide much help in the crops.  She was Catholic, now living in a strong, vocal, fundamentalist protestant community; the nearest Catholic congregation thirty miles away.  Although she had no accent as such, her German background sometimes showed up in her grammar.  For example, she had the German language trait of assignment of a male or female gender to almost everything; a snake was "she" and her syntax sometimes reversed the subject and predicate of the sentence.  Her life had always been one of daily contact with people; here the nearest neighbor was at least a quarter mile away; no other homes were visible from her window.  Her friend Lela lived on the adjoining farm, but her growing family and helping with the farm took almost all her time. 

The extroverted, gregarious Carrie was lonely.  She remembered the good times, rare but poignant, like when Lela's oldest, a daughter, was married.  A simple ceremony, conducted in the parent's home, with the youngest, Steven aged five, screaming at the top of his lungs because his sister was leaving.  She was able to quiet the child and allow the marriage to proceed.  She liked Stevie, and he took to her attentions. She had no children of her own, so they became close. He liked Aunt Carrie's  playing with him and Uncle Walter told him stories.  He was happy.

When an enterprising owner of an aging school bus began a two trip per day bus service between the county's twin county seats, Carrie found that, by walking the half mile to the highway, she could take the morning bus to town, spend a few hours in the library, and return in time to prepare the evening meal.  She became friends with the librarian and, on a slow weekday, could spend the day in conversation and learn all the current gossip..  This included the real and imagined political exploits and schemes of local government.

At last, something she understood and was interested in.  She saw wrongdoing, knew it was wrong and set about correcting it.

She wrote letters to local officials, went to meetings, met with officials.
She was advised to desist; she ignored them and wrote more letters to higher officials. 
She was ignored.
She was investigated.  Who was this person?  New to the county, female, Catholic, German background, meddlesome, persistent. Was she a spy for the NAZI's? Was she unbalanced?
They fought back; filed a request that the court seek medical opinion of her stability and if warranted, declare her legally incompetent and order appropriate treatment. 
There was a hearing, testimony by county officials, opinions of doctors.
The County Judge was an elected official.  All the doctors worked and lived in town.
She refused to speak.

The Court found her to be legally incompetent, and of questionable mental stability.  She was remanded to the State Mental Hospital in Little Rock for examination and treatment as needed.
Sheriff was ordered to make the necessary arrangements and deliver the patient to Little Rock as quickly as possible.  It was common knowledge that the "treatments" carried out at the State Mental Hospital were crude, bordering on barbaric and sadism. Everyone knew of someone who had been sent there; hardly anyone knew of anyone who had returned, improved or not.  Carrie was released on her own recognizance and ordered to not leave the county.  She would be notified when the arrangement were complete.  The letter had come last week from the sheriff saying he would come today.

...........

She watched the two figures approach, walking gingerly and sidestepping the muddier portions and puddles from last night's rain.  Vehicle access to the property was by way of a dirt and gravel road from the highway downhill to the farmhouse on the property just east.  From there, through the barn lot and downhill to the property line, then a stretch of flat to the little three room house that she called home.  This access allowed automobiles as far as the neighboring farmhouse, and maybe on a dry day, on down to the next farm.  The sheriff had wisely chosen to leave his car at the gate to the barnyard and walk the quarter mile Walter and Carrie's home. 
She recognized the County Sheriff, a middle aged man, easily six feet, heavy but not fat, fresh khakis, short jacket, semi-cowboy hat and his badge pinned loosely on the left front shirt pocket.  He carried no weapons.  His companion was a young deputy, maybe twenty or so, similarly dressed, except for the hat for which he substituted a short billed driving cap, favored by policemen and cab drivers everywhere; he, too, was tall, but thin.  His wide belt held a holster on the left side, flap buttoned down and mostly covered by his open short jacket.

Walter opened the door.  Sheriff glanced into the living room,
"Morning, Walter, may we come in?"
Walter nodded, pushed back the door and stepped aside.

"Miz. Carrie", touching the brim of his hat. "This is Deputy Johnson, I suppose you know why we're here?"
She nodded acknowledgement. "I'll get my things." Placing the wrap across her shoulders, she picked up a small carpetbag and her purse. "I'm ready."
To Walter, Sheriff says, "You can come with us as far as town, I'll have one of the boys bring you home."
With Walter carrying her purse the little group walked slowly up the hill to Sheriff's car, deputy carrying the carpetbag.  Sheriff sat up front, Walter and Carrie in the backseat, Johnson drove.
There was no conversation.

Seated in the sheriff's office in the courthouse, they waited while Sheriff collected his paperwork and made a few calls.  Deputy Johnson chatted quietly with the on-duty deputy/clerk/dispatcher.

Carrie cleared her throat, "Excuse me, Deputy, will he be long?"
"No ma'am, I don't think so."
"Will this be a long drive?"
"Three hours, four at most."
"Would it be OK if I went to the bathroom?"
Johnson looked at the dispatcher, who shrugged.
"Sure, I'll just go along, mind the door for you,"

The ladies bathroom was across the hall and three doors down, near the east entrance.  She went inside; Johnson stood across the hall from the bathroom door and nearer the entrance.  The door to Sheriff's office opened, dispatcher's head popped out, looked up and down the hall, "Johnson?"
"Yeah?, what is it?"
"Sheriff wants to know where you might have put the lady's file."
"It's in the file cabinet."
"Well, he can't find it. Can you come get it for him?"

Johnson glanced at the bathroom door, then back at the dispatcher, hesitated a moment, then walked back to  the office.  Passing the dispatcher at the door, he said, "Keep an eye on the bathroom door for me, will you?  She's still inside"., and walked through to the back office.  Sounds of file drawers opening and closing came from the other room, finally he emerged with a thick folder, placed it on the dispatcher's desk.  "Somebody moved it.  She still in there?"
"Nothing's changed".
" been a while, suppose she's OK?  Should I check?"
"I would."
He knocked.  No answer. Knocked louder, called her name. Still no answer.
He tried the door.  Locked!  He called again, knocking even louder.
Looking at the dispatcher, almost in panic says, " Get the Sheriff, and see if you can find the key to this place."
Sheriff appeared, Johnson says, "Did he find the key?"
"He's looking. What the Hell happened?"
"Nothing, I hope."

.............



After the OK, Carrie had picked up her purse and walked down the hall to the ladies room, Johnson following.  She closed the door; the deputy took up his post across the hall and near the East door.  She took off her right shoe and removed her silk stocking, then stepped to the mirror and straightened her hair. 
As a child, her father had shown her knots he had learned in the navy; one was a slip knot, which, if tied properly, was almost impossible to untie, short of cutting the rope.  He had tied the knot around her wrist and challenged her to untie it.  After failing the challenge, she had insisted that she be shown how it was tied, and why it was impossible to loosen.  She never forgot. 

She knew that what she was about to do was a terrible sin in the eyes of her church, but she also knew what lay in store for her at the hospital.  She prayed for forgiveness, then, watching the mirror to be sure it was done correctly, she pulled the stocking into a rope and tied it around her neck with the slipknot, then, using her purse for a pillow, lay down on the tile floor, straightened her clothing, and pulled with all her strength to tighten the rope.  She folded her hands across her chest, closed her eyes and waited.  It did not take long.

.............



The key eventually arrived, Sheriff unlocked the door, calling her name.  He stepped inside and discovered Carrie on the floor, clothing and hair unruffled, right shoe and stocking removed, stocking knotted about her neck, face discolored but with a strangely calm expression.  He stared in disbelief, glared at Johnson, and, muttering an obscenity, knelt beside the body. A quick check revealed no pulse, no breathing. 

He tried the knot, failed. "Johnson, gimme your knife!.  And get Doc Barnes, and the Coroner. and don't talk to nobody 'till I get the whole story.  Move!"

Artificial respiration was unknown in 1939; she was beyond help.  Walter had watched the entire scene in stunned silence.  Sheriff  discovered him; turned to the dispatcher, "Take Walter back to the office, get him some coffee; stay with him."

Coroner's Jury said it was suicide.  Some wondered.

She returned to her home town for her funeral and burial.

Walter sold the farm; moved back to Dexter.

There were many questions; precious few answers.
 

"She only did what she had to do.  

(instead of growing old.)"

----------------------------------------

Steve was quiet now.  "I'm tired; don't want to spend the night here, lets go back to Kennett."
Jim switched off the recorder, drove in silence around the square once more, then headed East on 62.



Lela

Lela

When I was a little bitty baby,

my mama done rock me in the cradle,

in them old cotton fields back home.

"Cotton Fields",  Leadbelly, 1940

April, 2024

The "Bootheel" of Missouri is part of the floodplain of the Mississippi River.  It is flat. Its Eastern limit is in Tennessee; the Western border is in Arkansas.

At this point in the history of the continent, the river flows peacefully about five or so miles from the eastern boundary of the floodplain marked by the hills that run from Dyersburg northward.  The western boundary is a string of hills running southwest to northeast, about 40 to 50 miles west of the eastern boundary which is known as Crowleys Ridge. This area is flat and includes the St. Francis river, a "yazoo" stream, running almost parallel to the Mississippi and joining it farther downstream.  Levees, set at varying distances from the stream itself, limit flooding to a much narrower plain in all but the most extreme "storm of the century" cases.  Several Southwest/Northeast man-made ditches, running in a straight line, take care of the excess runoff and keep these flatlands farmable.  The land is fertile sandy loam, built up and nourished by the river for hundreds of years.  This was (and is) cotton country.  Other cash crops are grown now, but in the "good times" after WWI and before the great depression, Cotton was King and the crops were largely labor intensive.

------------------------------

Breakfast was good.  They had decided to forego the "continental" breakfast that Motel 8, (or was it 6) had so graciously provided and chose instead to dine at a local diner on State Highway 84 at I-55.

Steve pushed back his chair, took another sip of coffee, "Sorry about the mixup about the exits yesterday, I had forgotten that 412 bypasses Hayti and links up with the I-155 spur going across the bridge to Dyersburg.  State 84 used to be the only one."

"No problem.  Where to today?"

"West on US 412 (Mo 84) to Kennett, then maybe southwest down toward Senath.  This is where family as I know it starts.  Ready?"

Back in the truck.  Steve is pumped; recorder is running. The road is straight as an arrow and points due East and West.  It is still the cool of the day; temperature still in the 60's, sun's behind them and the windows are down.  The land is flat, punctuated by fencerows, drainage ditches and the occasional farmhouse. As they cross the double tracks of the Cotton Belt line and head west, he begins: 

"Actually there are two towns here, Hayti and the optimistically named 'Hayti Heights'.  There's not hill in twenty miles.  Don't know the details, but Hayti Heights appears to be quite a story of neighborhood development.  Originally a low income part of town that was not allowed to be a part of town, 'The Heights' was a classic example of 'the other side of the tracks', peopled by the remnants of the farm labor force and with no discernible infrastructure, that rose up and did something about it.  They incorporated the area into a separate town, which made them eligible for state and federal grants, then proceeded to develop the much needed water and sewer systems, pave the streets and provide the services and governance of a legitimate town.  The streets have names like Lincoln, Kennedy, King, etc.  I suspect there are some interesting stories here about some of the 'farm' residents who woke up one morning and found themselves a resident of the new town and subject to the ordinances and taxes of the new city, whose officials were not exactly what they were used to.  I may have my facts screwed up;  look them up sometime, there may be some good material here for your thesis.  There seems to be a large and thriving church influence here; it may have been the prime motivator."

"See those fencerows?  They're important.  Maybe 'hedgerows' is a better term.  Didn't used to be that way, farmers kept them cleaned of weeds and trees to give more growing room for the cotton.  Cotton had to be kept clean of grass.  Some even used geese in the cotton fields, geese eat grass, won't touch a weed.  To a goose, a cotton plant is a weed, so if you clip the primary wing feathers and install some type of fence around the field, even as simple as a tight line of sunflowers, you have yourself a genuine, first class field hand that will  keep the grass out of the cotton.  Half a dozen geese could take care of quite a large field.  Work cheap too."

"Trouble with flat land and no hedgerows is sandstorms.  Used to have them here all the time, mostly in the spring before the crops were big enough to provide ground cover.  Given a steady west wind, sand dries out and begins to move, creating a fast moving flow of surface sand which can quickly saw off the young tender plants just as slick as you please, leaving you a bare field sand flat in a matter of hours.  Cotton had to be planted as early as possible to take advantage of the longest possible growing season and the higher prices of the early market.  Replanting may not have been an option."

 

"Sand could and did infiltrate everything, the house, the food, their clothing, when the wind blew. There primarily two ways to combat it.  In the short term the farmer could mask himself and his team of mules in an effort to keep the sand out of the nose and mouth, then plow continuously, creating furrows which in turn would stop the sand flow and keep the plants from being destroyed.  The furrows would soon fill and the flow would return; one had to keep plowing so long as the wind blew.  For the long haul, the hedgerows did the trick.  They were let grow, and sandstorms are now just a memory for the older folk.  They just don't happen anymore." 

 

----------------------------------

 

Stopped at a traffic light at city limits of Kennett, Jim notes that the signs indicate a split in the two routes they're on.  US  412 veers left; State 84 continues West.  He looks at Steve, questioning.  "Stay with 412, couple of miles, look for Local road "Y", and turn left again.  Want to show you something.  'Maybe two more miles, you'll see county road 549C, small sign.  Go right; probably still a dirt road." 

They missed 549 on the first try, backtracked and turned west on the hard packed sand and dirt.  After about a quarter mile, and after passing a small, well kept cemetery on the left, the road turned left along the western edge of the cemetery.  Near the cemetery's southern border, an ageing gateway with a rusted proclaimed this to be Friendship Cemetery.  "Pull in the gate and drive all the way back."
 

Steve was out of the truck, almost before it stopped rolling, circling the tailgate and walking briskly toward the center, obviously searching for something.  Jim followed, a few steps behind.

Steve stopped, surveyed the area, then looked down at a small stone.  Most of the headstones were quite old, dating back to the early 1900's.  This one, however was of newer vintage and of a modern style.  It read simply, " Margie Lea, infant dau. of H.I and L.M., Oct 26, 1920 - Oct 10, 1921".
"My older sister", Steve says, without looking up, "First child",
"Stone doesn't look like 1921."
" 't isn't. More like 1940's. My uncle Bud and his wife also lived over here in the early 20's; had two children, boys I think; lost both of them at around the same time; never had any more.  They were buried here too until sometime in the 1940's when they moved them to Piggott.  My dad came with the workmen who moved them, mostly to see just what remained.  Maybe Margie could also be moved.  He said there was only a shovelful of darkened earth and a couple of buckles from the casket; nothing more; nothing to move, She was gone, so they had the stone placed there and left her in peace.  I think he did right."

----------------------------------------

 

November, 1921 

 



The sun had gone down half an hour ago.

She was alone; everyone else had gone to supper.
. 
There was no hurry; no one waited for her at the house.  He wasn't back yet; maybe there was a long line at the gin.

She had just finished her last two rows of cotton and struggled to add the stuffed sack to the pile of those left by the neighbors with whom they traded work and the few field hands they had been able to get from the "colored" section of town.  He had taken the latest wagon load to the gin; near fifteen hundred pounds, the amount required to produce a five hundred pound bale, the understood "standard".  The sacks, each marked with its owner's name or initials, would be weighed in the morning and the pounds gathered (picked) by each person duly recorded.  There would be cash from selling the cotton; he would pay the pickers tomorrow.  This would be the last picking of the year; maybe one more bale in the field.  With a little luck it would all be out by Thanksgiving.

Maybe he had been robbed.  Or hurt.  Maybe -----.

She covered the pile of sacks with a tarp to keep off the morning dew, took off the bonnet, loosed the tight bun of waist length hair, wiped her face and neck with the apron and began a slow walk to the house.  She liked the quiet time, but the encroaching darkness made it sad as well.

She missed her baby.

Not quite a year old, and now she was gone.  Margie had been a happy and healthy baby.  Coal black hair like her parents, nice smile, and growing fast. Thirteen pounds at three weeks of age, measured by the cotton scales.  Born at picking time last year.  (That had been their first crop as tenant farmers on a farm of several hundred acres, parceled out to the sharecroppers, usually forty acres to a family, more if the family was large.  Landowner would furnish housing, finance the seed, fertilizer groceries other necessities then collect at harvest time along with his share of the sales.)

The house was dark, unlocked.  Still enough light to find the coal oil lamp and the matches.  She lit the wick, adjusted its height for maximum light, returned the globe and set it in the center of their small table, pulled one of the cane seat ladder back chairs and sat down for a rare moment of quiet.  Staring at the flickering flame of the lamp, she replayed the recent past.

"Where is that man?  I should be doing the evening chores.  Guess it can wait a few minutes, I'll help when he gets home."

Life had been a whirlwind the last two years.  Married around Christmas, year before last, with no honeymoon to speak of, gathering some basic farming equipment and meager furniture, bedding and supplies, packing and shipping everything including the mules (by rail, no less) from Dexter down to Senath, then cleaning and moving into the small three room "shotgun" tenant house.  Before the spring planting they had discovered her pregnancy, so by harvest time she was no longer able to help in the fields.  Normally he would be in the field at sunup and she would have spent the morning preparing and serving a hearty breakfast. After clearing and cleaning up, she would straighten
up the house and prepare dinner, the mid-day meal.  After clearing the dinner and washing dishes she would join her husband in the field, "chopping" cotton and hoeing corn or other crops along with the field hands or neighbors.  Supper, the evening meal, usually after dark, would often be cold leftovers.

Carrying the added cumbersome weight of pregnancy, her participation in the field work was limited as the year wore on.  Was able to work some in the first picking, but the stooping required was difficult and by early October her field work ended. 

Margie was born near the end of the month with an older neighbor lady serving as midwife.  She ate well and grew rapidly: by Spring she could accompany her mother to the fields, taking her afternoon nap in the shade while her mother worked nearby. This Spring had been rough; late frost, help was hard to find, too much rain, and then the sandstorm.  Sand in everything, food, drinks, clothes, everything.  Crops were "laid by" by the end of June and there was time to regroup, relax and repair, getting ready for the Fall and harvest.  July saw the first blooms on the cotton plants and by September the bolls were matured and beginning to crack open. Picking would probably start before the end of the month.
 
Margie became ill.  High fever, vomiting, unchecked diarrhea.  Nothing seemed to help.  An infant's tolerance for dehydration is limited; there is no reserve of liquids.  Advice of neighbors, lady at the store in Caruth, and finally the doctor in Senath, all to no avail.  She died in early October, just after the first picking.

The tenant's share for the first bale of cotton went to the funeral director.  Cheap wood casket, one day visitation, short service by a local minister at the funeral home.  Henry, with the help of neighbors, had dug her grave in the soft, sandy soil of Friendship Cemetery, and there, on a hot, Sunday afternoon in October, surrounded by cotton fields and just short of her first birthday, Margie Lea was laid to rest. 

Dear God, she thought, that was hardly a month ago.

The sound of the team and wagon on the road broke into her thoughts.  Due to the late hour, he had come straight home instead of parking the wagon in the field and bringing the team to the barn.  Do that in the morning.  With the milk pail in one hand and the "slop" bucket in the other, she went to help with the chores.  Team to be unhitched, unharnessed and fed, pigs to be fed, cow to be fed and milked; it was done in less than half an hour and they retired to the still quiet house.  She examined the cupboard and produced the available food.  "Got some cornbread left from dinner, half an apple pie from Sunday, plenty of milk, will that do?
"Sure, that's fine".  He had seated himself at the table and was nervously emptying his pockets.  In the manner of most farmers, he wore a long sleeved denim shirt and overalls. The lower pockets of the loose fitting overalls might hold a pocket knife, a bandana handkerchief and some often needed tools, pliers, small adjustable wrench, or maybe just a 7/16"-1/2" open end.  Things of value, such as a snap open pocketbook or wallet, record book, pencil, tickets, receipts and other paper would be in the bib pocket, where they were somewhat protected from sweat and did not encumber or interfere with movement.

He spread the papers on the table.  "Got a good price for the cotton."
"Took long enough, I was beginning to worry."
"Went on in to the Senath gin; they're payin' 2 or 3 cents more on the pound."
"Gin at Caruth is the landlord's; he ain't gonna like your goin' to Senath."
"Only if he finds out."
"He'll find out, not to worry!  What took so long?  Did you get the money for the pickers?"
He ignored the first question.  "Took it all in cash."
She placed the food on the table, poured a glass of milk for each of them.
"And?" She examined the papers from the gin. "What did you do with the rest of the money?  I maybe didn't get that far in school, but I can add and subtract."
"Got you that icebox you been wantin'; Iceman can drop off the ice and it'll keep things cool for days.  I found a good used one, at a good price; it's in the wagon."
"Good price for the seller, maybe; You must have spent twenty or twenty five dollars of the cotton money; icebox, new wouldn't have been more than ten."
She came closer. "Let me smell your breath."
"'thought so, you been drinkin' haven't you?  And what's this bruise on your face?  You been in a fight?"
"I - I don't remember."
"You don't remember?  How can you not remember?.
"I don't, honest.  I'm sorry.  I took out twenty dollars, bought the icebox from a guy at the gin, bought a pint of Jack Daniels and stopped to talk with a bunch from south of town who were waiting to unload.  I woke up beside my wagon with a sore jaw and the rest of the twenty gone.  So I came home.  That's all I know."
"I don't believe you.  I'm going to bed."


He could hear her quiet sobbing as he put the things away.

Things were cooler at breakfast time.  She spoke calmly and quietly.  "You can't do this.  First the bad Spring, then the sand, then Margie, now this;  I've had about all I can stand."
"I said I don't remember;"
"I know, and maybe you can't, but if you can't then you've got no business drinkin'.  Promise me you will leave it alone.  We are not going to spend our whole life as sharecroppers and drunks."
"OK, OK, I understand, I will do my best."

And he did, for the most part.  And the wounds healed, for the most part.  But on the rare occasion when she spoke of Margie, you could see a certain sadness in her eyes.

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Steve turned from the headstone, stared at the horizon for a moment, cleared his throat.
"Ready?"
"Where to?"
"Back to the road; go on south, should be able to get through to the east-west road in about a quarter of a mile, State road Y for a ways then it becomes P.  Go west. Used to be a little community called Caruth at the crossroads;  general store and maybe a cotton gin, mostly gone now, but once a center of activity.  Couple of miles further we should hit 412; go right; avoid Senath and head for Kennett, we'll pickup state Y, go left up to 84, missing all the traffic of downtown Kennett.  West on 84 will take us to Arkansas."
"You've been here before, haven't you?"
"Couple of times, but I cheated; ran the Google maps before I left home.

Jim switched on the recorder.  "So this is where your parents started out?"
"Yep, Interesting couple, they were, both from "broken" families, their respective mothers having died when they were very young.  Lela was born in Oklahoma, last of a family of nine kids born to the Texas girl her father had married when he went west to make his fortune.  Her mother died with her youngest still an infant; Lela came back to Missouri with her father, and, as a teenager, worked as a live-in domestic. Henry, also from a large family that lost the mother early, was just back from the war and probably working as an extra "hand" on some farm.  I'm guessing he may have been sort of an apprentice, he always seemed to know how to deal with most any farm situation."

They farmed here, mostly cotton.  Two more children followed in the next two years.  Must have done quite well, 'cause when the moved to their own farm in Arkansas, sometime in the late 20's, they traded a new automobile as part of the purchase price.  Dad sometimes spoke of excessive drinking, even to the point of not remembering some of his actions.  Times were good, they fought the sandstorms and the hot steamy summers, but crops were good, cotton was high; they saved and bought a place in Clay County and moved there.*  Eighty acres, half hills, half flat.  Not the rich sandy loam of the Mississippi floodplain, but the red clay and gumbo of hill country gravel and 'edge of the swamp' flatlands.  Then came the Great Depression, but that's another story; several stories, actually."

"Why don't we layover in Kennett tonight and get an early start in the morning?  There is no Hilton in Piggott.  Dry county.  I could use some lunch."

* See "Runaway".