Of Crown and Cotton 7/26/2020

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

Both my parents grew up picking cotton.  My mother’s family did so in the Appalachian foothills of northeastern Alabama. I am not entirely sure how they managed much by way of field agriculture there considering the rock to dirt ratio is roughly 200 to 2 but somehow apparently her family managed to grow the quintessentially southern crop in addition to sorghum cane.  My father’s agricultural time was spent in the fertile flatland of southeastern Alabama. Yes, I realize that makes the whole matter sound like some sort of farm-based prison sentence.  If you heard them speak about these experiences you would know they didn’t have much more fond feelings about them than that. They both had sizable broods (my mom is one of 8 children, my dad one of 5) so they had a fairly decent group of farmhands to work the fields. Large families were handy for such purposes. I’ve heard tales of hoeing, chopping and picking cotton and I cannot say any of the stories of said tasks are particularly pleasant. I have watched their noses curl up quite a bit upon discussion of the miserable summer heat in which a great deal of this backbreaking work was done.  It was hard work.  It was grueling. Yet, it had to be done.

There are many cotton fields around my home and I cannot help but think of my parents’ sweaty toil when I pass their lush green rows. I will do so again in the fall when they are white waiting for harvest.  They both grew up poor in the typical rural south.  In addition to his farming my mother’s father retired from the steel mill.  He also may or may not have (for a brief period in his earlier life I am assured) produced and sold untaxed libations but that is a tale for another time.  My father’s father retired from the textile mill.  My parents grew up eating the products from animals they raised and the gardens they planted. I remember the excitement my mother told of on the day her brother accidentally killed two chickens with one shot so they got to have two chickens for supper instead of their usual one.  Yes, you read that correctly. A household of 10, 6 of whom were male, regularly split one chicken amongst them for a meal.  How does one even do that? I don’t know that a chicken has that many divisible parts to speak of in the significantly edible sense, and certainly not for a gaggle of hungry boys. And my father wasn’t even picking his own cotton in his younger days but doing on local farms to earn money for school clothes. They both had humble but honorable beginnings filled with hard work.

I suppose my modest origins are what have instilled in me a fascination with all things that are, shall we say, well beyond such means.  From a small child I have always been fascinated with things such as royalty, old manor houses and castles. Maybe it is being so far removed from such things that draws me to them. I suppose it could be as simple as a classic girlish desire that I suppose most females have to be a princess.  These are things that I have always been enamored with and I’ve discovered leaving childhood has not really lessened such things. The idea of dressing formally for dinner each night, having vast estates for leisurely walks or even to entertain in elegant parties, these are all things that speak to me on the most base of levels, almost to the point of embarrassment really. I can hope I would have sided with the rebels had I lived during the Revolution but, knowing how I feel about royalty, the taxes would have had to have been very oppressive! Fear not, I am a patriot present-day. Don’t offer me a crown though because I can make no promises. Not necessarily a royal title, but just something sparkly to wear upon my head. Some weaknesses cannot be denied. It can be an American-made crown though, if that says anything.

In researching my family tree I have actually stumbled upon some branches that excite me to no end.  There is actually a castle, or the ruins thereof, in Somerset, England that was built by my 13^th great grandfather and lived in by his descendants thereafter. When I learned of this I was thrilled to the equivalent of a beagle at a bacon party, or, really most any gentile at a bacon party honestly. Now, the deeper I dug the classic middle age scandal broke out and I learned of a few distant relatives I wouldn’t mind skipping in the genealogy but the point was, my family, very distantly and indirectly, was of nobility and had a castle. Did this somehow sneak into my blood and make me love all things grand and titled? I suppose it is possible.  Have I just watched too much British television?  I think that is entirely possible as well. I may or may not be typing this in a British accent. If you need to go back and re-read it with such to add to the authenticity feel free.  I wouldn’t start until after the cotton bits though or else it might feel a bit off.

I’ve told you all these interludes of my ancestry and upbringing I suppose to tell you a bit more about me. In my bones there is instilled the value of hard work. I wholeheartedly embrace the integrity of working to earn one’s keep or provide for a family. This is something that I daresay rural America probably grasps better than most.  The street on which I live has goats and chickens and there are cattle within earshot so I certainly get it. Also however, hidden away in the little known corners of my veins there is blood that causes me to stare off into the distance of my 11 acres (which really isn’t so far to stare) and imagine it a dramatic estate. I can almost hear the sound of being announced in some nobility’s court as Lady So-and-So or Duchess Whatnot.  I can envision the ability to help any cause with my name and fortune. Does it sound trivial and possibly ridiculous? Perhaps.  But interestingly my bones of rural labor and blood of distant aristocracy seem to dwell rather at peace within me.  I can enjoy the view of a vibrant sunset beyond a field speckled with black Angus. I could just as easily be captivated by ancient familial towers lined by formal gardens. I adore my small town, pastoral lifestyle. I am also enamored by queens and knights and the thought of being known as “Your Ladyship”.  Does this give me some deep insight?  Possibly.  Perhaps in knowing that a family that would have been filled with Lords and Ladies centuries ago, lives today vastly more simply in rural Alabama, might help me remember in casting judgement upon anyone that a book’s chapters might be far more than its cotton bound cover.