My Six Foot Sack
By
W. Ross Berry -1992
When I was a kid in the cotton patch
pulling a six-foot sack
I hated that Arkansas sun, sweat and dust
and the pain in my tender back
I fretted and cried as each day wore on
and I begged for sweet relief
And my Mom would threaten and my Dad would scowl
as the tears rolled down my cheeks
I remember the way the cotton-seed smelled
and the soppy-wet dew on the leaves
and I well recollect, how I’d have to fight off
the mosquitoes, the gnats, and the bees
I remember those thorny tips on those bolls
that stabbed my fingers red . . .
Which made me wish for the end of the day
and the restful fluff of my bed
With pleasure I think of the water-bucket
with cooling drinks to imbibe
and the lunches we’d have in the noon-day shade
with the rest of the pickin’ tribe
Which was often a biscuit, or cold cornbread
and some onions, sleek and green
And some salt-pork meat, and a hard-boiled egg
and perhaps, a chicken wing
I remember the shade of those tall cotton stalks
where I’d hide whenever I could
And how my Momma would help me pick
when I behaved really good
That sack that I stuffed my cotton clumps in
sure was heavy to pull
Especially so, at the end of the day,
‘cause it was a’burstin full
Then up on the scales they’d hang my sack
and would weigh it with a "pea"
What relief I felt when they took that sack,
for my shoulders felt so free!
I recall the ride home on a wagon piled high
with a bouncing mountain of white
And how we’d all sing as the horses plied
with all their main and might
I hated those fields, when I was a kid,
and was lugging that long muslin sack
Who’d have thought that the day would arrive
when I’d ever want to go back?
But, now that my Age of Nostalgia has dawned
and near fifty years have elapsed . . .
Believe it or not, I’d welcome ONE day
[not more!]
back in Arkansas, pulling my sack!
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