The first time I saw cotton fields was in Guelph Georgia. I was volunteering at a public health project involving checking blood pressures and weights of a small community—a town composed of a post office, a cotton gin, and a house. I thought those fields were white roses.
Later I learned that the first perfect cotton bale occupied a position of honor in Augusta Georgia for one year until the next year’s harvest. People told me about picking cotton and how heavy the bags were and how rough the bolls were.
Then I moved to Texas and decided to grow cotton one year in my front yard–not nearly enough to make enough a handkerchief. I was amazed at how lovely the blossom was—and later learned it was in the same family as okra and hollyhocks. I learned about prison grown cotton and how wonderful it was.
On my way to Del Rio I encountered what I thought initially was rain–but it was bits of cotton stalks being blown across the road. The cotton was being put into large round bales–just like hay.
And two days ago I just had to stop and take pictures of more cotton. I was too shy to ask for a tour of the cotton gin in action–but there were those round bales of cotton and then there was this immense stack of cotton easily thirty feet high and several hundred feet long. Cotton was on the sides of the road—looking like bits of snow.
And tomorrow—snow in Colorado!