Hoe, Hoe, Hoe

I guess you could say we were a little(?) spoiled.

Growing up in  the midst of a great depression, as our parents did, meant working in the fields like the grownups and maybe took a little of the joy from their childhoods. Gotta be serious, you know, when folks are starving all around you.

At any rate, I think Mom and Dad recognized this and determined that we would not have to go through the drudgery of day-to-day, all day long chopping cotton or picking cotton.

There were chores of course. And that cotton field was right there in front of the house, needing hoeing if we expected to have any spend money.

And it came to pass that my two sisters and I would find ourselves working down the long rows, in the late June sun, trying, as per Dad's instructions, not to "chop down any of my cotton" along with the weeds.

Not the most exciting work and as kids will do, we entertained ourselves as we worked. We talked, though I cannot recall any of the conversations. I told stories, to amuse myself and Brenda and Deb, though again I don't remember any of them.

My favorite thing we did was to sing. I had begun to appreciate vocal harmony and as the eldest, taught my two little sisters to sing the various parts. "Sweet Adeline" which I had heard on the Lawrence Welk Show was a good tune to start on, with its echoing harmonies.

It was the beginning of many fine times Deb and I and, later, Rodney, spent with each other, family and friends, playing and singing way into the night.

Now one of the other things siblings will do is bicker. This was complicated in our case by the insane Tolar competitive gene (there really is such a thing, you can look it up).

It was a contest to see who could finish chopping their row first. I am afraid many young cotton stalks suffered because of this. Of horticultural interest is the fact that once a cotton stalk is chopped, no amount of propping it up and piling dirt around it will prevent it from withering and dying rather quickly.

These speed-chopping contests would naturally lead to a race to pick the most desirable next row to chop, e.g. the one with the fewest weeds.

Now my sister Debi was prone to torment her opponents, though I pray that Jesus and a changed heart have rid her of these proclivities. Only God and her husband Dusty know.

So when I won a hard fought race and skipped a row to one with very little Johnson grass (a truly noxious weed for cotton choppers), she planted her bony little self athwart my new-claimed row of cotton and refused to budge.

In fact, to rub it in, she indulged in a spiteful little dance and (I'm sure) some taunting words, though again (God being merciful) I cannot recall those.

I warned her to move and she refused, with flourishes. So I fired a warning shot as it were, swinging my hoe in her general direction. Unfortunately she began her dance again and zigged even as I zagged.

Result: one wound on her arm with some pretty impressive bleeding. Actually it was a mere scratch, only a flesh wound, but being a little sister, she indulged in loud weeping and hysterical (so it seemed to me) accusations.

Panicking, I snatched her up and ran all the way to the house. I explained to Mom that as I swung at a particularly large sprig of Johnson grass, Deb had accidentally wandered into the path of the hoe. A shame really, and I hoped she would live.

A bald-faced lie of course (except the wishing she would live part: I'm no Monster. Debi.), but my lil sis was to busy suffering to rat me out.

The end of the matter is this: a rinse-off of the wound with the garden hose and a liberal application of iodine (or mercurochrome, I don't know, whichever one burns the worst), and Deb was on the road to recovery.

And the punishment to fit the crime: the victim was propped on a pillow in the air-conditioned house while the perpetrator was consigned to the cotton patch to serve out his sentence.

...and be sure your sin will find you out.