Almost every harvest season we hear a few complaints about cotton strewn along the roadsides. And we hear rebuttals that basically advise people not to get their shorts in a bundle, that cotton is biodegradable and the problem that some people perceive will take care of itself in short order. 

Recently, in our Rants and Raves column, someone noted that he  thought this scattered cotton was a beautiful sight because it reminded him of his childhood and that he was a proud Southerner.

When I read this comment, I was taken back to a song recorded by the group “Alabama” which contained the lyrics “Cotton on the roadside, cotton in the ditch. We all picked cotton but we never got rich.”

I side with that person who thinks those cotton bolls on the roadside are beautiful. And yes, this fiber biodegrades and goes back into the good earth.

I especially like this time of year because it brings back fond memories. I like to smell fresh dug peanuts. For me that experience is a form of aroma therapy. And I don’t have to pay for it. 

I often drive around the county during harvesting time and take this all in. I can still imagine the grit in my teeth one would know if he had ever sacked peanuts on one of those old combines. It gave new meaning to the expression, “boy you got grit.” 

And the smell of cotton defoliant reminds me that dove season is coming in. I recall many days of shooting doves over a peanut or corn field. In my mind these are Norman Rockwell moments … mental paintings of a father and son enjoying rural life.

Freshly turned earth, as farmers get ready to plant winter grazing on recently harvested fields, is another particle of aroma therapy in my world. As a teenager I would almost be hypnotized watching that track furrow as I turned land with a one-row SuperA Farmall tractor. Killdees circling around me looking for worms and bugs in the fresh aromatic sod would break that trance.

For those who don’t know,  killdees are birds that some novice hunters often mistake for doves. They make a distinct tweek as they fly, often in small groups. 

This is also nearing the time of year when we burn off woods and pastures which brings out the redtail hawks. They dive bomb field mice as they flee the flames. What a sight!

I was reminded of how special these events were on that day when a couple of fellows from Atlanta stopped by my farm where I was burning off a Bermuda grass pasture.

They were city boys down for the Rattlesnake Roundup we have at Whigham each January. After a few hours among the serpents, they decided to drive around the countryside.

There were a lot of hawks sailing around that day, and they asked if they could watch me burn. I had done this all my life and had never perceived it to be entertainment. They really didn’t need my permission, but I gave it anyway. 

When a hawk dropped down and captured a fleeing mouse, they applauded. It was old hat to me, but to them it was an adventure. Had I been a rascal, I likely could have charged them admission. 

After an hour or so, they left for the big city, leaving me there in the beauty of that nature, and maybe feeling just a little guilty that not everyone could experience such peace and closeness to the earth, a heritage I will never take for granted. 

But let me clarify one thing. I never picked cotton. I did get a Q-tip hung in my ear once.

Email: dwain.walden@gaflnews.com