A Good Year

Sandra Martz
Daddy stands near the Chrysler engine that powers the irrigation well. This is the last time he’ll water the cotton this summer. The stalks are full, almost touching each other across the furrows, the creamy-yellow flowers beginning to wilt and brown at the edges. They’ll drop soon, revealing tight green bolls. Most of the serious threats are past: the blistering spring sandstorm that can strip the young plants right down to the stems; moths that lay eggs on the tender cotton leaves that hatch into ravenous boll worms; the blistering July sun that drives midday temperatures to 100 degrees or more.

“This will be a good year,” my father says, not so much with words but with the glitter in his eyes, the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth. This year--if the cotton puller doesn’t break down, if the prices hold up, if there’s no August hail storm--there’ll be enough to pay the butane bill and buy seed for next year and make the payment on the farm. Maybe even enough to get that bailer for the alfalfa. And, of course, enough to pay the church tithe on what’s left.