Open Writing

We lived in Artesia for a short time and while we were there the whole family hired out picking cotton to supplement what little money we had. I didn't do well. I was small and the cotton sacks were bulky. Phyllis and Reita were too little to be left alone so they sat on the ends of the sacks as my parents dragged them down the rows of cotton. None of us were good pickers and had little to show for our efforts.

For RG, the lure of living in the Sacramento Mountains was strong. Although Mama did not share his enthusiasm, we again moved back to the Weed area so that RG. could work in Sawmill Canyon on the old Circle Cross Ranch. At one time this ranch was owned by the famous lawman, Oliver Lee.

No housing was available at the sawmill so we moved into a tent. Actually it was one of the best tents we ever lived in. It was large, with a slab wood floor and siding that made it rather snug. There was room for our beds, a table and benches, and an iron cook stove. As with every other place we lived, Mama had a way of making it feel like home. She kept the floor swept clean, the beds made, and the "kitchen" spotless. She made do with few personal belongings. Her love for RG. must have been strong to have lived like that.

We were six, eight, and ten that summer in Sawmill Canyon when we played among the pine trees and enjoyed our chance to run free. I particularly loved the wild flowers that grew through the pine needles on the forest floor. Even at that early age I had a deep appreciation for beautiful shapes and colors. I would sometimes bring Mama colorful bouquets of wild flowers that she would place in canning jars filled with water.

One day Willie and Jessie made a shelter from pine tree limbs with needles stacked on top. Willie decided to return to our tent to chop some wood for the cook stove. But Jessie had other plans. He liked the way the shelter made him feel hidden from the world when he crawled inside and felt so comfortable. So much so in fact, that he laid back and lit a hand-rolled cigarette he had concealed in his pocket. But he accidentally dropped the match into the dry pine needles, which immediately caught fire. The only thing he had to fight the blaze with was the pants he was wearing so he used them to smother the flames. He sheepishly returned to the tent with blackened shreds for britches. Not only had he started a potentially dangerous fire, but we had so few clothes that none could be spared for firefighting purposes.

"What on earth were you doing out there ?" Mama demanded.

Jessie's pale blue eyes filled with tears as he tried to avoid admitting to smoking. "I don't know, Mama, I was just playin' and looked around and there was a fire."

Mama recognized his excuse as a lie and whooped on his bottom.

We didn't get many new clothes, and never in the summer when school was out. Once when Willie referred to his shoes as alligator shoes, I was puzzled because we could barely afford plain leather, much less ones made from alligator hide. He explained that the brogans they wore were cheaply made and the soles would sometimes come loose and could not be repaired. The only way the soles could be held in place was by wrapping bailing wire around the shoes to hold the soles to the uppers. "If you don't wire 'em together, the soles flap and snap like an alligator's jaws. That's why I call 'em alligator shoes."