Read Online Mississippi Cotton by Paul H. Yarbrough - Free Book Online Page A

up laughing.
    From downstairs I heard Cousin Carol. “Y’all better get dressed and get down here before I throw these pancakes out and make you paint the chicken house instead of goin’ fishin’.”
    Painting—the curse of mankind. “C’mon, y’all, let’s get goin’.”
    Cousin Carol made pancakes like she made pies. They were great. Or maybe it was easy to make pancakes. I don’t know. Anyway, my mother made good ones, too. I couldn’t remember if that was a family trait my grandmother had mentioned in her book or not. But we ate as many as she fixed, and almost all the Aunt Jemima in the large bottle was gone by the end of the meal. We probably could have eaten more, but we wanted to get on down to the branch.
    Cousin Trek had already left. He and Big Trek went downtown most Saturday mornings and drank coffee at the café, waiting for the seed and feed store to open, or to talk with other planters before they made their rounds in the fields. Today he had gone alone since Big Trek was still in Clarksdale.
    “Y’all got your poles and everything you need?”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Taylor said.
    “Finish your milk, Casey. Now wipe your mouth, and not on your sleeve. Use your napkin.” Too late. “Casey!”
    Trying to recover, Casey wiped his sleeve with his napkin. Awkwardly, he murmured, “May I be excused?”
    Cousin Carol didn’t answer. She stared at him with one corner of her mouth up, one corner down. There was a brief silence. “Get out of here. All of you.” A slight smile materialized.
    “The pancakes were good, Cousin Carol. I sure enjoyed ‘em,” I said.
    “Well, I’m glad you did, Jake.”
    “Me, too. Thanks, Mama.” Taylor said.
    “Me, too, Mama,” Casey uttered, licking his lips.
    “Y’all get upstairs quick and brush your teeth. And be back here for dinner. I didn’t have time to make you any sandwiches.”
    We walked through the back yard, past the garage and the chicken house, toward the field of ripening cotton. We walked our bikes down one of the rows that led to Cottonseed Road, then followed it to the bridge.
    It was about a mile and a half to where the branch passed under the bridge. We left our bikes and walked along the branch. It was eight o’clock or thereabouts, since none of us had a watch. And we’d have to guess about what time noon came so we’d not be late for dinner.
    We carried our cane poles over our shoulders. Casey carried the can of worms. Cousin Trek had also scooped up a few roaches out of the barn and put them in a jar for us, careful to poke some ice pick holes in the top so they wouldn’t die before we killed them. I carried the roaches while Taylor had a cigar box under his arm full of extra hooks, sinkers and some extra line.
    Roaches, crickets and worms were the best bait for bream, although they would even bite on white bread if it stayed on the hook long enough. All of these were also terrific for catfish, because catfish were scavengers and would eat most anything.
    I started with a worm and began sticking it head-first, though I was never sure which end was the head, over the point and past the barb and bend, crushing the life out of it. Taylor put a roach on, its squirming little feet wiggling just like anybody’s would, I thought. He ordered Casey to do the same. Taylor said that worms were a sure thing, but we needed to see if they were biting roaches this early in the morning. I had my line in the water first and soon heard Taylor hollering at Casey.
    “Casey, don’t do that. That’s dumb. You wanna have ‘em alive for a little bit.”
    “What difference does it make? They’re gonna die anyhow when they drown.”
    Casey was shaking a roach out of the can and then squashing it with his tennis shoe. Then he scraped it onto his hook.
    “I don’t like ‘em wiggling in my hand. It tickles. Besides, roaches’ll put a hex on ya.”
    Taylor shook his head. “You dope,” he said. “That’s jus’ some ol’ story you