I recently wrote an article about my inner child. I had fun writing it, exploring psychological reasons, and even got philosophical about it. It got me thinking, or rather, reminiscing about events from my childhood.

I experienced a relatively normal childhood, despite having contracted Polio at age two in 1949. By age seven, I was running and playing like any other boy of my age.

Every summer, my parents would make the 12hour journey to Swifton, Arkansas. It would be about a 6-hour drive today, but back then, there were no four-lane freeways from Kansas City to N.E. Arkansas. At least three times a year, we visited my paternal grandparents, who lived on a farm within walking distance of the town. One of those visits was to leave me with my grandparents for 2 or 3 weeks, along with a cousin my age.

To say it was fun would be an understatement. Getting Donald Kern (middle name) and me together for any period of time was, at the very least, a challenge. Townsfolk and family would say, “Trouble follows those two boys like… ” well, finishing that statement would shut the paper down. Let’s just say that Donald and I seemed to, without asking, attract trouble.

This summer would be no different except for one caveat: we would earn our own money.

Normally, our parents would leave us money to get us through our time with our grandparents. This money would allow us to attend a couple of shows, munching on popcorn, sipping soda, and eating cotton candy, along with a flavored icy treat.

We spent our time with our grandparents roaming the town, looking for mischief to keep us busy. There was one paved road through town that ran from the main highway, across the railroad tracks, past a few businesses, and ended at the start of a dirt road. Donald and I ran every inch of those roads.

At night, we would sit in rocking chairs on our grandparents’ front porch and hear stories of what once was. These stories always included shady tales about our dads when they were boys and their misbehavior as they roamed the same roads and alleys.

Our free ride ended when my cousin and I were 8 years old. Our dads decided that we were old enough to earn our own way. What, you may ask, are two 8-year-olds possibly qualified to do that someone would pay for? As it turned out, picking cotton. Nothing to it, right? Wrong.

Before an affordable commercial cotton-picking machine was in use, especially in and around Swifton, cotton was picked by hand, usually by Mexican migrants (at least in the field we were in) and locals earning extra income.

Sure, why not? Looked easy enough. Pick the cotton, throw it in a long burlap bag, weigh it, dump it in a wagon, and get paid 3 cents a pound. The bags were 100 lb. bags, so the potential was $3.00 per bag. Pick two bags, earn $6.00. Three for me and three for my cousin.

Doesn’t sound like a lot of money, but for two 8year-olds, it represented a couple of trips to the theater, a double feature, along with popcorn, soda, candy, and a flavored ice.

We would not be taking away income from those who needed it for survival. The fields of cotton were vast and many, and we would not be breaking any cotton-picking records.

Well, picking cotton, seen from a distance, looked easy, but the reality was a real slap in the face. We would not only receive a reality slap, but a mauling.

Grandpa introduced us to a friend who would allow us to work his field. Being a Lloyd carried its own expectation. That we would know how to pick cotton, because after all, generations of Lloyds had grown, chopped, picked, and sold cotton. We fooled them.

As Donald and I walked on either side of a long row of white wavy dots, we confidently pulled the cotton off the stems and deposited it into the bag until it was full.

Confidently making our way back to the scales, we shared what we would spend our money on. Once at the scales, the man weighing the bag suddenly had the oddest look on his face. His odd look turned into a knowing look, accompanied by a side-toside wag of the head, as he dumped our bounty on the ground.

From a knowing look to a confused look, he asked, “Are you boys sure that you’re John Lloyd’s grandsons?” After we assured him of our genealogy, he told us we were to pull the cotton from the bolls, not pick the bolls and all. Well, excuse us for being city dwellers.

CORNER The rest of the day was spent pulling the cotton from the protective pod, which had three little pointed razors covering the cotton, cutting our fingers.

To compound our ignorance, we decided, because of the hot August sun bearing down on us, to remove our shirts.

We finished our task and received our money. Being John Lloyd’s grandsons, we stubbornly insisted that we be given another chance at harvesting cotton the next day.

He looked us over and said, “If you’re able.” We hadn’t a clue what he was talking about until we got back to Grandma and Grandpa’s house, whereupon Grandma exclaimed, “You boys are burnt to a crisp.”

She had us pump pails of water, carry them into the house, and pour them into a metal washtub sitting on the kitchen floor. After we washed down, feeling the burn which resulted from being bare-backed in the searing sun, Grandma smeared the worst-smelling potion I had ever known. Because of that concoction, we slept without pain, and we never peeled.

We went out the next day, picked two bags of cotton, and the next day, and the next day, and the day after that. We had earned enough money to do what we wanted that summer. In fact, Donald and I would return to that same cotton field for several years afterward.

Today, those same fields grow rice and soybeans. Cotton eventually gave way to synthetic materials. In areas that still produce cotton, they have sophisticated machines that can clear a field in a day, rather than a week or more.

That first year was a turning point in my life. No longer would I just get paid an allowance for performing chores at home, but I learned what it was like to feel the pride of honest toil and compensation.

Oh, by the way. I also learned to pull the cotton from the pod and keep my shirt on while laboring beneath the hot August sun.