Excerpt

Earning Spending Money

I would often do odd jobs around the neighborhood to make a dollar or two so I could have a little walking-around-money.

Well, Mr. Lon and Mrs. Peggy Malcolm had lived next door to us for years, but around the summer of 1958, decided to move up the road across from Carl Harkey store. Their new digs had an old rusty, tin roof that looked really bad.

One hot July day, I was in an entrepreneurial mood, and asked Mr. Malcolm if he would like to have his rusty roof painted with aluminum paint so it would reflect the scorching, summer sun. He thought it might be a good idea and bought the paint so I could begin the arduous task.

Folks, a tin roof in the month of July is hot, and dont let anyone try to tell you anything differently. It is also difficult to find a really comfortable position in which to paint a roof that slants very much. I finally decided to make an executive decision, since I was the only one there, and just slid along on my skinny little butt while I slapped that aluminum paint across the rows and rows of hot tin. Well, sliding along on my skinny little butt worked fairly well for the first few hours, but the last few hours wore some really nasty blisters in places that normally wouldnt have any.

By the way, aluminum paint really does reflect the scorching, summer sun. I didnt know too much about science, so I thought it would be cooler if I only wore a pair of shorts and no shirt. Well, when I finished the job, I was about as red as a beet and hurt all over my body. My exposed skin was blistered so badly that it peeled off in huge layers.

To make matters worse, I dont think I thought the painting project through like I should have. My biggest mistake was not agreeing with Mr. Malcolm on a price for this onerous undertaking. I just asked him to pay me what he thought the job was worth.

Mr. Malcolm was really pleased with the way his shiny roof now looked and he thought the job was worth about fifteen dollars. I thought that my blisters alone were worth more in the neighborhood of fifty dollars. I guess it must have been the generation gap or something, because he thought he was being generous.

Mr. Malcolm said that he would recommend me for roof-painting to anyone who was interested in having theirs done. I informed him that I was retiring from the roof painting business and was going to concentrate all my energies toward cotton picking. (I hated cotton picking worse than anything, but I didnt tell him that little fact.)



I had always helped on the farm during harvest time and Uncle Gordon would sometimes pay me. Well let me tell you right now, payment was definitely required if this little, white-headed boy picked any cotton. That was one job that I did not like at all and I was not about to pick cotton for free. If I had known the word, loathe, when I was young, I would have used it then, to describe my feelings pertaining to cotton picking. My back still hurts from bending over all day in the cotton patch, fifty years ago. If someone even mentions cotton picking, I get a twinge of pain in my lower back.

I never understood how in the world Aunt Lib, Aunt Ruth, and Aunt Catherine could pick four-hundred pounds of cotton a day. I dont mean collectively, I mean, EACH! It was all I could do to pick a hundred pounds. One time, I picked a little over a hundred and fifty pounds and got one-and-a-half cents a pound for my labor. Aunt Libs brother, Neel Morrow, offered me two cents a pound to pick for him at his patch in Amity Hill. If I picked really hard I could make close to three dollars a day working for Neel. It was kind of like a raise, I guess you could say.

I picked cotton for Grandma Ketchie, Uncle Gene Rogers, and Neel Morrow. I didnt want to spread my cotton picking prowess around too much and have every farmer in the neighborhood wanting me to come to their aid.

I thought that the entire world was out to get me when I was young. They even let us out of school early during cotton picking season so we could have more daylight to work longer. I dont know who came up with that idea, but it was not very popular among us cotton picking students. For those who didnt have to pick, it was a real treat.

I always stopped by Grandmas big, pear tree on the way to the patch and picked a pear or two just so I would have a little something to tide me over until supper. I remember the only thing that helped me to get from one end of a row to the other was the jar of water waiting at the other end. Sometimes, Aunt Lib would make some homemade lemonade and bring it to the patch in a gallon jar. We would cover the jar with a sack to keep the relentless sun from getting it too hot. Aunt Libs cool lemonade probably saved my life more than once.

The dad-blamed cotton bolls had sharp burrs that projected past the soft cotton; and when you reached to get the cotton, the blasted things would tear into your fingers and would have them bleeding after only a couple of rows. I was just too tender, I guess. Daddy always said that I was a lot like my mama. Come to think of it, I never saw my mama pick any cotton.