In the land of cotton …

. . . old times there are not forgotten.

I once had an American family, back when I was young. We were sons and daughters of the Old South. We are almost all gone now. Dust to dust.

Three generations, and we had names.

BollDee, Charlie, Diane, me, Mama Powell, Papa Powell, Mama D, Papa D, Aunt Ned, and Marthalyn. Not that many, actually.

All dead now, save three. Diane, me and Marthalyn who is quite old, my father’s younger and only sister who never married.

Willie and Cap, the domestics. And Pepper the pooch. The cars in the southern end of the state were Fords, farther north Chevrolets. All made in Detroit.

The places had names like Sylvester, Red Rock, Albany, Marietta, Atlanta — and Jacksonville, our 10-year exile in Florida with the Yankees and Cubans.

We had crops like pecans, cotton, peanuts and corn. We had beasts called cattle. And, for a spell, chickens, lots and lots of chickens.

Especially in the southern end, we ate what we grew. Corn, string beans, beef, chicken, tomatoes and okra, which is good when battered and fried.

The roads in the southern end were red clay. Farther north they were paved. Down south we were farmers. Up north we were a number of things, including housing developers.

I gaze around me at times, and wonder how I ended up here.

Among sombreros and tacos.

21 thoughts on “In the land of cotton …”

  1. Thank you for the morning chuckle Señor Zapata! 🙂 You know where I am from, and I remember some of the same or similar things you do. Now? I gaze around me, and know why I am still here, and I also see lots of sombreros and tacos! 😉

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  2. I haven’t forgotten the wild year I spent in Atlanta in 1970, next to Piedmont Park. Those were the days, my friend … before Atlanta got too big for its britches. What a kaleidoscope that was, back in the days of Lester Maddox and the Great Society.

    I’ve never doubted that I would eventually wind up in Mexico someday, the land of my dreams.

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    1. Andres: I was born in Atlanta, but my folks carried me away about six months later to southwest Georgia. I have never lived in Atlanta since, so I really do not know it. My parents and my sister, at different times, moved back. My sister is still there. I have visited there a million times.

      I never thought of moving to Mexico until 1999. Then I up and did it with scant thought or planning.

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      1. Yes, you are correct. Maybe in a few more years (10-15) I will have adjusted to the culture a little more and it won’t be such culture shock when I finally do retire there. LOL!! 😉

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    1. Andean: I have a light southern accent. You should have heard my mother, however. She only set foot out of the Old South once, briefly, in her entire life. She talked like Scarlett O’Hara.

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    2. I was quite interested in Felipe’s accent when I met him, but since F was along with us, we ended up speaking in Spanish the entire time, so I didn’t really get to hear the accent. Hopefully next time!

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          1. Andean: I would rate my Spanish at high intermediate. I can communicate whatever I need to communicate almost always. What I lack is nuance, subtlety. I speak Spanish all day because my wife’s English is marginal at best. I would be better if I socialized more here with the locals, which I do not do. I understand my wife almost always. It’s when I speak with others that I sometimes have problems and, of course, in all tongues some folks speak clearer than others. Often, though not always, it has to do with one’s education level.

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  3. Old times are still not forgotten, although they become more homogenized with the “progressive” North with each passing year. Still lots of trees and chickens; but also way too many yankees who are fleeing the wrath that is coming.

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