Lesson 23:No More Cotton Blues

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN

y George Capaccio
Illustrated by Joanne Renaud
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Looking Back
I remember the day the war ended. My platoon had set
up camp outside a small French village. We’d been hitting the
Germans with everything we had. Then like that it was over.
The German High Command had surrendered to the Allies.
I knew I’d be going home with just a piece of shrapnel in
my hand instead of all shot up like a lot of guys in my outfit.
Now that’s a day I won’t ever forget — May 7, 1945.
I’ve lived long enough to have plenty of memorable experiences.
Some I’d just as soon forget — like back in the days
of the panic crash. That’s what black folks called the Great
Depression. Times were hard for everybody, but especially
for blacks. In 1935, when I was only twelve, my family was
sharecropping on a big cotton plantation right here in Georgia.
Our farm was miles away from Atlanta, and my horizons were
limited to how much cotton I could pick in the course of a day.
I never dreamed my life would turn out the way it has.
We lived in a run-down, two-room shack sitting on open
farmland. The only plumbing we had was an outhouse and a
wash basin. There was no electricity and no heating except for a
wood-burning stove.
My sister Ardell and I were in the fields from sunup to
sundown every day of the harvest. My father had about twenty
acres of good farmland. Of course, none of the land was his. It all
belonged to Oliver Hopkins and his wife Charlene. They owned
one of the biggest plantations in all of Jefferson County.
2

There were twenty families sharecropping on the Hopkins’
plantation, and all of them were black. In return for working the
land, each family got a share of the money earned from selling
the cotton crop minus their debt to the owner.
In early spring, the plantation manager would start giving
each family a monthly furnish of about fifteen dollars to cover
expenses until the crop was in. About all it paid for was beans,
bread, and some fatty cuts of meat. The furnish usually ran out
before the end of the month. Then we’d have to shop on credit
at the plantation store. One year we were so poor my mother
had to make all our clothes out of old cotton sacks that she dyed
with hickory bark.
The cotton came up in October or November, depending
on the weather. Once those white bolls started popping, our
schooling was over until the last boll was picked and the whole
crop was in. Whenever there was work to be done in the fields,
the school would be closed.
Standing My Ground
I remember one day in the autumn of 1935. My mother
and father were picking in the next field over. Ardell and I had
already filled a couple of sacks apiece with cotton. Ardell’s
back was hurting from dragging around a seventy-five-pound
bag of cotton. She was strong, but the sun was fiercely hot.
Right after Ardell stopped to rest, the plantation manager
showed up. Boone was what all the croppers called him. We
never did know his last name.
4

I can still see him riding toward us on his horse. With
black folks, Boone had a way of twisting himself into something
mean and venomous like a viper that’s been stepped on.
“Ardell!” he shouted scornfully. “Get back to work!” My sister
just looked at him as she wiped the sweat from her forehead.
“I’ve got to rest for a moment,” she said.
Boone got off his horse and walked toward her with an
angry look on his face. I could see my sister was about to faint
from the heat and the hard work, and I knew Boone wouldn’t
think twice about calling her a lazy good-for-nothing. So I
threw off the sack of cotton I had slung over my shoulder and
got between Boone and Ardell. “Leave her alone,” I implored.
But Boone wouldn’t back down. He just went on berating her.
He even threatened to punch me if I didn’t shut up.
My father must have heard us because he came running
through the rows of cotton bushes. “Hold on, Boone!”
he yelled. “There’s no need to lose your temper.” Boone shot
him a look dripping with contempt. I held my ground while
Ardell pleaded with me to pick up my sack and go back to
work. I could tell from the gleam in his eyes that Boone hoped
I would give him a reason to strike. But I just stood my ground.
Suddenly, my father was by my side. He grabbed Boone’s
arm. The two men glared intently at each other. Not a word
passed between them as they struggled to see which one would
be the first to break. My father’s grip, tight as the clamp of a
snapping turtle, stopped the circulation in Boone’s arm.
5

When he couldn’t stand the pain any longer, Boone relented.
The awful tension between them subsided.
“Turner,” he said to my father as he got back on his horse,
“you just bought a one-way ticket to ruin for your whole goodfor-nothing
family. Mark my words.” Then Boone rode off.
My father didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. I knew
when he got silent like that a storm was brewing up inside
him. My sister and I tried to stay out of his way. But that night
during supper, the rains came down heavy, and the lightning
struck. “How many times have I warned you against confronting
the manager,” he shouted. “Now you’ve started something
that is sure to end badly. Boone won’t forget that a black boy
stood up to him.”
My mother served up the rest of the sweet potatoes and
boiled greens. “Leave the boy alone,” she said. “He did what any
decent person would do seeing his sister in trouble. Besides, you
didn’t have to grab Boone’s arm. You only made matters worse.”
“Aaron better learn to control himself,” my father shot
back. “He’s too headstrong, Ruby, just like you.” An exasperated
look took over my father’s face. “Ruby, I’m tired of the way
you’re always telling Aaron how poor black folks shouldn’t have
to live this way. The truth is there’s no other way but this one.”
A match flared in the dim light of our cabin. My grandfather
lit the lantern and set it down beside the stove. “Stop bickering,
both of you,” he said in a quiet, but firm voice to my parents.
“Times are hard, but they’ve been worse, a whole lot worse.”
6

Ardell and I glanced at each other. We knew what was
coming — more of Grandpa’s stories about slavery times. His
own mother had been sold like a piece of merchandise. The
way Boone treated the sharecroppers made me wonder if the
times had really changed all that much.
I shared a bed with my older brother Kermit. Kermit
didn’t pick cotton. He got himself a job cooking for a white
family in town. But he always came home in the evening.
That night I couldn’t fall asleep. There was a full moon,
I remember, and the sound of a train going by. I wondered
where it was bound and what sort of life I could find anywhere
else but here in Jefferson County.
7

A Change In the Air
The next morning I heard something so strident it
sounded like a squall of wild cats. I looked out the window and
saw a tractor chugging down the road, belching soot from a
skinny smoke stack. And there was Boone occupying the driver’s
seat. “Get a move on!” he yelled. “All you croppers got some
serious picking to do if you want to get the crop in on time.”
Then he gunned the engine and started driving toward our
place.
“This here tractor can do the work of 100 hands. Take it
from me, your days are numbered,” Boone called out to every
sharecropper within hearing distance.
I had seen pictures of tractors before. But seeing one up
close made me realize that our life as sharecroppers was about
to change in ways I couldn’t even begin to imagine. Like he did
every morning, my father walked over to my side of the bed and
gently put his hand on my shoulder. “Time to go, son,” he said.
That day was hotter than the day before. Boone was back
on his horse riding from field to field, trying to get the workers
to pick faster. Everybody knew how he had bad-mouthed
Ardell, and some of us decided to get even. We started picking
the cotton bolls lower on the stem, thorns and all. It took us less
time to fill our sacks, and when we weighed in, the sacks were
heavier than usual. Ardell and I finished picking by four o’clock.
Boone did the weighing. He looked warily at us, but he never
figured out that he’d been tricked.
8

My brother Kermit had asked me to come over to the
Johnson place where he was working. He said they needed
someone to do some outside jobs and would pay in cash. The
town was only a few miles away. It had everything a small town
is supposed to have, including a swimming pool, which was
right next to the high school. On warm days the school principal
made sure no black folks ever got in to use the pool when it
wasn’t their time to use it.
The principal was good at his job. By the time I got to
town, he had already caught a boy about my age trying to jump
over the chain link fence around the pool.
9

I could hear the principal lecturing him for ignoring the
rules and telling him in no uncertain terms that coloreds could
only use the pool during off-hours. I felt a fire burning inside
me. I wanted to run across the street and tell the principal to
leave the boy alone. But I was afraid of what would happen to
me if I did. So I kept quiet and went on my way.
The Letter
My brother was really happy to see me. He was wearing
a clean white jacket and looking just like a proper cook. While
he finished making dinner for the Johnsons, I raked up a huge
pile of leaves, straightened out their tool shed, and hosed down
the family car, a shiny black Ford. Then Kermit and I sat on the
back porch and ate. Mrs. Johnson gave us leftovers. I liked her,
but I didn’t like not being allowed to eat in the kitchen.
The cicadas were singing their hearts out. Georgia twilight
made everything look better than it really was, but it also
seemed to promise a change in the air. I took out a piece of
paper from my back pocket and unfolded it. Kermit came down
the steps and sat beside me. “What’s that” he asked.
“A letter from Uncle Eugene,” I said. “It came yesterday.”
Uncle Eugene was my mother’s brother. He grew up on a farm
just like me. But when he was only sixteen he slipped off one
night aboard a freight train. He was determined to make something
of himself.
He ended up in Atlanta and tried his hand at all sorts of
businesses. Eventually, Uncle Eugene opened up his own movie
10

house on Sweet Auburn Avenue. He called it “The Palace,” and
it was a great success.
Kermit couldn’t read very well, so I read the letter out
loud. What I most remember about that letter was the part
where Uncle Eugene said he’d be coming down for a visit in
Thanksgiving. I always loved seeing him. He had a way of
making us all believe the Promised Land was just around the
next bend.
The next day was Sunday, the only day we had off during
the harvest. Our plantation had a church for all the sharecroppers.
We put on our best clothes and went to the morning
service. My sister sang in the choir. I got to turn the pages of the
music book for the piano player. Sometimes he even let me play.
I guess he thought I had the potential to be a piano player, too.
The ladies wore their finest hats and fanned themselves to
keep away the heat. I remember the preacher, a tall, dignified
man with short white hair and a thin mustache. I can still hear
his voice and the way his words flowed over us. He urged us to
have patience. Better times were coming, he kept repeating.
I had trouble believing him. I knew there was something
wrong with the way things were, and I didn’t think sitting
around, waiting for a change to come was the answer. But I was
still too young then to know what had to be done.
After church, my father took me fishing. We went to his
favorite spot — a pond near an old Catalpa tree. We turned
over some of the leaves and found a few green and black caterpillars.
My father called them tree worms.
11

We baited our hooks with them, then threw our lines into
the water and waited. With luck, we’d bring home a mess of
catfish for Sunday dinner. My father caught the first one, and
that put him in a good mood.
“I know your mother’s been talking to you about moving.”
I nodded. He went on. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t think
it’s the right thing. This is our home. Our family’s been occupying
this land for over 100 years. Cotton is in our blood. That’s
the truth, and nothing will ever change that.”
“What about Uncle Eugene” I said, only daring to challenge
him because he seemed in such a good mood. “He left the
fields and made a life for himself in the city. Maybe we could do
the same. I heard on the radio that President Roosevelt wants
to help poor folks. He could find you a job, and we wouldn’t
have to pick cotton any more.”
My father stuck another worm on his hook. “Cotton, corn,
tobacco — they’re all dropping in price. But that won’t last
forever. The government will set things right, you’ll see, and
when prices shoot back up, sharecroppers like me will come out
ahead. I figure the best thing we can do is stay put and not be
running off with our tails between our legs.” My father plunked
his line in the water and sat back against the Catalpa tree.
I knew there was nothing more I could say to change his mind.
We got our cotton in by the end of the following week.
It was a good harvest, and my father was more hopeful than I’d
seen him in a long time. He was sure this year’s settle would net
him a pile of money.
13

He even figured out how many more acres he could cultivate
next year with the money he made this year. But my
mother wasn’t so optimistic. She was afraid once their account
was settled they’d fall even further behind.
The settle wouldn’t happen until a week or so before
Christmas. That’s when Boone would add up the money he got
from the sale of our cotton and then deduct expenses.
Thanksgiving
Getting ready for Thanksgiving and a visit from Uncle
Eugene took our minds off work. My mother planned on serving
sweet potato pie, black-eyed peas, cornbread, and chicken.
When the big day finally arrived, Uncle Eugene announced
his arrival by blowing the horn on his car. I ran outside and
saw him driving up in a shiny red Buick with chrome bumpers.
He parked the car and stepped out with those long legs of his.
“Aaron, Ardell, come here and give your Uncle Eugene a big
hug,” he said with a grin.
During dinner, my father didn’t talk too much. He
frowned a lot and looked disapproving, like maybe he thought
Uncle Eugene was turning our heads in the wrong direction.
Uncle Eugene spent the whole meal telling us about the movie
business and the famous entertainers who sometimes performed
at The Palace. Movie houses in those days didn’t just show
movies. They were also places where performers could do their
acts. My uncle’s stories started me thinking about the kind of
life I wanted to have someday.
14

After dinner, we piled into Uncle Eugene’s Buick and drove
to town. He took us to Schenley’s Drugstore for ice cream with
all the toppings. We sat at a table near the back, right below a
faded sign. My mother read it out loud. “Colored Section,” she
said with a streak of anger in her voice. White customers sitting
at the counter kept staring at us like we were doing something
wrong.
“Things any different in Atlanta” my mother asked.
“Or does Jim Crow live there, too”
“He’s there, Ruby,” my uncle said. “Old Jim’s got white folks
thinking the sun rises and sets just for them, and black folks
ought to keep to themselves if they want to stay out of trouble.”
15

“But all along Atlanta’s Sweet Auburn Avenue, we got our
own businesses. That’s where I got my start. Any time you want
to make a change, Sister, you let me know and I’ll help set you
up. That’s a promise you can take to the bank.”
My father stood up and put on his hat. “We don’t need
your promises, Eugene,” he said. “And we surely don’t need
your high-sounding talk about things being better in Atlanta.
I got a wife and three kids to raise, and working the land is what
I know best.”
The Settle
Uncle Eugene left for Atlanta the next day. A few weeks
later my father got called to the plantation office. It was time
for the settle. Boone was alone in the office when my father
and I walked in. He met us with a thick accounting book in his
hands. He showed us the numbers he’d written in neat columns,
and then said, “It looks like we’re even again this year, Thomas.
I’ll see you in the spring.”
My father looked dazed, like he’d been struck with a brick.
He didn’t say anything to Boone. He just grabbed the sleeve of
my coat and pulled me outside. Snow was falling. We walked
home in dead silence. “How’d we do this year, Thomas” my
mother asked quietly when she saw him.
But he didn’t answer her. He just sat down at the table
and put his head in his hands. I’d never seen my father
cry before.
16

The next morning, my father and mother were sitting at
the table, talking in hushed voices. They went quiet when we
sat down for breakfast. Then my father got up and left, without
saying a word to any of us.
When spring came, my father fixed up a broken down old
Ford another family had left behind. With nothing but a few
dollars in our pockets, a box of crackers, and the promise of a
better life, we left our cabin and headed for Atlanta.
17

Life in Georgia
My uncle helped us as best he could. He got my father and
my brother jobs in construction through one of those government
programs. Back in those days, when the Depression was
bearing down on everybody, black or white, President Roosevelt
started something called the New Deal. He believed the best
way to get the economy going was for the government to lend a
hand. So he started programs that put people to work building
all kinds of things, like libraries, roads, parks, and schools.
Uncle Eugene put me to work as an usher in his movie
house. When I wasn’t showing people to their seats, I ducked
down to the basement and tinkered away on an old piano.
Once it made silent movies come to life. But those days were
long gone.
By the time the war started, I was making a little money
playing piano in small clubs along Sweet Auburn. But I hurt
my hand during the war, so after I got out of the Army, I had
to do something else. I started writing music, book, and movie
reviews for a local paper and columns about life in Georgia
after the war. Twenty years later, I’m one of the editors. I’ve got
a nice home and my own family now. For the son of a sharecropper,
I guess you could say I did all right.
18

Responding
TARGET SKILL Cause and Effect In this
story, you read about a family of sharecroppers
in the 1930s. Copy the chart below. Write down
the effects working on the plantation had on
Aaron and his family.
Cause
Working as
sharecroppers
Effects
School closed when
cotton needed to
be picked.
Write About It
Text to Self Write a paragraph describing the
effects of sharecropping on Aaron’s family.
Remember to include main ideas from the story.
19

TARGET VOCABULARY
confronting
contempt
exasperated
implored
intently
occupying
scornfully
strident
subsided
warily
EXPAND YOUR VOCABULARY
berating
furnish
plantation
settle
sharecropping
TARGET SKILL Cause and Effect Tell how events
are related and how one event causes another.
Write About It
TARGET STRATEGY Analyze/Evaluate Think
carefully about the text and form an opinion about it.
In a famous quotation, Aung San Suu Kyi said,
GENRE “Please Historical use your Fiction freedom is a to story promote whose ours.” characters
and What events freedoms are set in do a you real value period most of history. Why Write
a letter to the editor of a Burmese newspaper
explaining the freedoms you have and why they
are important to you.
20

Level: X
DRA: 60
Genre:
Historical Fiction
Strategy:
Analyze/Evaluate
Skill:
Cause and Effect
Word Count: 3,561
6.5.23
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN
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