Early Spring Garden - 2013

This is our patio/garden area 2 days ago. With a bit of hard work by Sue, the place has already begun to show signs of life after the mild, but long, winter. The fig tree to the left is doing nicely, and we expect to enjoy more of its fruit this year, just as we did last year.

The banana tree is still too young to bear fruit, but with some tender loving care, mostly from Sue; I just look at it in awe and admiration; it will thrive and bear with time. I wish I could say the same for this year’s cotton crop, which is mine. The seeds have broken ground, and hopefully, since I planted early this year, they will yield some tangible results beyond the pretty pink flowers which they produce. We will just have to wait and see. The spice plants are all doing nicely and promise to bring some fresh flavor to our cooking once again.

Meantime, I’ll be monitoring the progress from my lounge chair; writing, playing guitar and reading. The winter is really over now, and a whole world of birds and lizards and little furry creatures are beginning to make them-selves known once again. The whole cycle is renewed, and we move on.  Though spring is a time of renewal, it can also be a time of reflection, as we look back upon springs past, remembering Aesop’s fable about the ant and the grasshopper. And this is the time of year we all make that choice.

The Levine Museum of the New South - Without Sanctuary

Sue and I went to the Levine Museum of the New South; whatever that means; the other day, primarily to see the exhibit "Without Sanctuary", which is composed of photographs taken of lynching’s in the United States between 1882 and 1968. There were some 5,000 of them; and with 1,200 of the murders being distributed amongst various white groups such as Catholics, Jews and Hispanics; the visitor must take a momentary pause as they realize that no one group is/was ever safe from mindless hatred.

Another big surprise was that the 5,000 lynching’s were recorded in 44 of the 48 contiguous states; the only 4 dissenting states being Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut and New Hampshire. This was really a surprise to me, as I have always thought of these murders as being in the “pastoral south”, as Billie Holiday hauntingly sings in “Bitter Fruit”, which happened to be playing during the exhibit. I was very relieved to hear the song in that setting, as I had earlier remarked to both Sue, and a friend, that it would be most appropriate for the exhibit.

I don’t have to go into the viciousness of the topic of lynching, as I assume my “audience”; small though it may be; is way beyond that type of thinking, let alone action. There was a billboard provided for the people who chose to leave a comment. Most of them were along the lines of “God is great”, or, “Politicians kill people.” There were some that blamed the culture of the times; which to a certain extent may be true. I had to leave one of my own, which I felt really summed it up nicely. I wrote that in every era, and every nationality; be they Asian, as with the Japanese; or German, as with the Second World War; or Napoléon in his quest to conquer Europe and parts of Asia in the early 19th century; or even Caesar himself, with his holy Roman Empire; all the way to the tribal and cultural wars of the Middle East and Africa today; people are all capable, when properly manipulated; of the most horrendous horrors imaginable. It’s a sobering, and sad, reality, but history bears it out.

The exhibit was very informative; even to the armchair historian such as myself; and several facts were revealed to me regarding how widespread the practice of lynching was. And when that part of the exhibit was through, you get to walk through the “standing” exhibit of the Levine Center itself; which chronicles the emergence of the Charlotte region post-Civil War up until today. That’s me sitting at a mockup of the original Woolworth counter which was part of the early Civil Rights Movement here in Charlotte in 1960. Since I remember those events more clearly, this exhibit was extra special.

The cotton gins and the mills were represented in several exhibits which highlighted the plight of the mill worker in the earlier days of the 20th Century. The rise of the millworkers eventually caused the area to change from an agricultural to banking community, as the rising wages drove some of the mills out of business. The photographs of the millworkers; living in all but abject poverty; while toiling away for 60 hours a week; and always in hock to the “company”; were heart wrenching. These were people in their 30’s, who looked as if they were 60 years old.

This was a very educational and thought provoking exhibit. It asks you, as the patron, to examine the past, and judge the present and the future for yourselves. When confronted with the misery endured by others yesterday, it is often much easier to understand the present.

Cotton

Last year Sue and I were riding around Mooresville, looking at the pumpkin fields just before Halloween, when we saw the most beautiful field of cotton. Stopping the car I managed to pick a few bolls, feeling very much like a sharecropper as I did. It was, after all, someone else’s crop which I was picking.

I have grown cotton before; just a few plants on my back porch. I love the way it grows so patiently, with the buds giving way to the white flowers; which quickly turn pink; eventually become hardened bolls of the coveted white fluff.

We live in North Carolina, a state known for tobacco and cotton, both during the days of slavery, as well as after. Most of the tobacco is gone now, but cotton is still grown in the area. The beauty of the crop, as with opium, belies the pain behind the façade; the pastoral image of the Old South, with slaves singing in the fields as they harvested the crop.

In reality, when this time of year came, and the plants flowered so beautifully; creating fields of white flowers mimicking a snowfall; the slaves were very cognizant of what that beauty meant to them. This was the yearly lottery; when whole families could be separated from one another, never to meet again.

From late November, after the last of the crops were in, until the first of March, was the usual time when slaves were hired out for the winter; if they were lucky; or sold outright if they were not. The difference between the two lots is staggering; as with the former there was at least a chance of being re-united with your family after your “hiring out” was done. But, with the latter, there was no way of predicting what your fate would be, or even where that future lay. When you were “sold”; a vulgar term when used in conjunction with human beings; you were simply gone, most likely never to be seen again by your family or friends.

So, when I look at the beautiful plant which I have grown, or drive about looking at the fields of soon to be harvested cotton, I am very much aware of the “social” history of this pretty little flower. All of the cotton raised in this area is now harvested by machine, although many adults my age, both white and black, have picked cotton at some point in their lives.

There is no point to this post. It’s just me, looking past the flower.

Cactus and Cotton

Cole Porter once composed a song called “Summertime”, in which he wrote; “the living is easy, the fish are jumping and the cotton is high….” Well, he was right on three out of the four; I don’t have any fish; but my cotton is getting higher. It’s a pity he didn’t mention the cactus though, because mine just keeps on blooming, rain or shine. As a matter of fact, the last two blooms have emerged in the middle of sultry, rainy nights, upending my previous belief that they only bloomed in the hot desert sun. The cactus was a gift from my daughter, and this is the 4^th time it has bloomed in the last several months.

Now; let me get back to the cotton. I have only had one previous experience in growing cotton. That was about 10 years ago on the back porch of the house we were living in at the time. I had quite a crop. There were about 6 plants in all, which is like a plantation to someone from Brooklyn. The seeds come up fast, in only a few days, then after a few more weeks the little pink flowers; which soon turn white; appear. These are the harbingers of the cotton bolls which will take their place, eventually becoming hard and wood like husks protecting the precious cotton growing within.

My crop is small. Mostly, I just take a certain joy out of the plant and its little white balls of fluff. It amazes me; as do most things; that there is a code embedded within these tiny seeds which never changes.  It’s eternal.

There is nothing quite like a field of cotton in bloom, it looks like snow has fallen. There are several cotton fields near my house, which is where I got the seeds last fall. I have given some of the cotton balls which I picked then; and contain the seeds; to some of the kids down the street. I hope that they will have success with them.

There is little that can be compared to watching a seed grow into something as majestic as fully grown cotton.  It’s like looking at the history of ancient Egypt; and also like peeking into our own American past, when cotton was king, and human beings were enslaved for the harvest. And, in spite of the beautiful view, if you look at the fields hard enough, you can almost imagine hearing the crack of the whip.