-Cap
Hot Air
Mamaw and Bijou
set off to discover the bluff behind the fields. The cotton was taller that Sunday, and the air was heavy. The trapped moisture seemed to combat
the gusts from a warm breeze - creating a harmonious hum through the uniformed
rows. Neither Mamaw nor Bijou knew
the specifics to the farm’s depth, and they had little confidence in its stability. That was Papaw’s thing. He kept the farm intact while the rest
of the world sat back and wondered where cotton balls came from.
“You find that
balloon?”
“Yes, I have it.”
“You packed dat
string?”
“Yes, Mamaw.”
“You sure you
packed dat string? Dat’s the most
important part.”
“Yes, Papaw cut
the string.”
“What a pauvre
bête.”
“Mamaw!”
“But I love him
all the same.”
“Why do you need a
balloon?”
“We need it,
Bijou.” You gonna see when you’re
meant to.”
Bijou carefully
walked through the rows, while Mamaw barreled through with an obvious intent to
escape the grid.
“Watch your step,
Mamaw. That’s the new row!”
“Oh sha! If those seeds can’t handle a lil’
pressure now, dey sure gonna die when dey sprout.”
“Well, there’s no
need to make it harder for them, or Papaw. You know he gets pissy if the rows aren’t even.”
“Co faire?”
“He says it takes
away from the natural beauty.”
“Natural? Mais, jamiais d’la vie! Dis ain’t natural. He planted it!”
“Papaw says he
just plants what the good lord intended.”
“Go to bed! He don’t know nothing!”
Bijou walked
further into the fields. She was
not much for exploration, but the rows of cotton created an easy path for her limited
hiking skills. Mamaw continued
forming her own row, bewildering Bijou to her core. Bijou hollered through the sticky air, “Mamaw, do you ever
wonder if the cotton would grow better in another pattern?”
“I wonder that all
the time.”
“Why doesn’t Papaw
ever try it?”
“He sticks to what
he knows, sha. Just like a pauvre
bête. His daddy thought him about
farming cotton rows, and he don’t like the idea of backsliding from dat. Ya know, Bijou, it’s fine letting your
elders show you the ropes, but sometimes you gotta make your own knot. I’ve never been one for cotton rows.”
“Maybe they need the
close formation for survival, Mamaw. Do you think that helps them grow taller?”
“Nah, sha. It’s nothing about dat.”
“But Papaw says
they’re a congregation.”
“Well, now! Just because a measly little sprig of
cotton stands amongst a row of sprigs doesn’t mean that cotton is any stronger. It just has a better hiding place.”
“But I think they
need each other. Don’t you?”
“No, Bijou. Dey gotta make their own roots. Dat’s the only way to really
survive. Dat’s why Papaw sticks
with the rows. He got his roots tangled
up with his daddy’s, and now he’s too afraid that ole’ man was right.”
“What if he was?”
“Den I guess Papaw
will be happy.”
“And what if he
was wrong?”
“Den Papaw won’t
know a difference.”
“But Papaw said
the rows were sacred. He said
cotton was a Eunice family tradition.”
“Well, dat’s what Papaw
believes.”
“What do you
believe?”
Mamaw didn’t
answer Bijou. Instead she started
chanting her favorite Doris Day tune, “Que Sera, Sera… whatever will be, will
be…”
Bijou was lost in
the cotton field motif – not listening to Mamaw’s casual reasoning. Mamaw mumbled to herself, “She gonna
hear it when she needs to.” Then,
she bellowed, “Bijou, we’re almost there! Come over to da bluff!”
The vibrations from her voice shook the fragile cotton pods that sat
flimsily on top of the tall stalks.
Bijou followed Mamaw’s robust path across the cotton rows.
“I know Papaw
talks a lot about the cotton fields and these rows, but what Papaw doesn’t tell
you is that you have control in that cotton’s growth too.”
Mamaw motioned for
Bijou to pass the balloon and string.
She blew a strong, powerful breath into the nylon sack until it slowly
grew to life. Then, she tied it
off tight and attached the polka dotted string Papaw cut for them.
“You have da power
to make a difference. You don’t
have to wait for no saving grace.
I don’t want you holding on to Papaw’s small town glory. He’s a good man, but he don’t want
nothing more than these here rows.
I know you got more than that in you.”
Bijou beamed at
her Mamaw as they walked closer to the edge of the bluff. Once they grew nearer, Bijou saw a mass
of bright colors floating through the sky. The fire torched under the large, majestic balloons, and
Bijou dreamed of floating in the comfort of the perfectly woven basket lead by
the supremacy of the wind. Mamaw
handed Bijou their small balloon, and Bijou clasped to the polka dotted string.
“You don’t have to
let it go. Just know dat you can.”
