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Pappy led the Mexicans to the truck。 They got into the bed and sat shoulder…to…shoulder； feet and legs intertwined。 They were silent and stared blankly ahead as if they had no idea where their journey would end。
The old truck strained with the load but eventually leveled out at thirty…seven； and Pappy almost smiled。 It was late in the afternoon； and the weather was hot and dry； perfect for picking。 Between the Sp mills and the Mexicans we finally had enough hands to harvest our crop。 I reached into my pocket； and pulled out the other half of my Tootsie Roll。
Long before we arrived at our house； we saw smoke and then a tent。 We lived on a dirt road that was very dusty for most of the year； and Pappy was just puttering along so the Mexicans wouldn't get choked。
〃What's that？〃 I asked。
〃Looks like a tent of some sort；〃 Pappy said。
It was situated near the road； at the far end of our front yard； under a pin oak that was a hundred years old； very near the spot where home plate belonged。 We slowed even more as we approached our mailbox。 The Spruills had taken control of half our front yard。 The large tent was dirty white with a pointed roof and was erected with a mismatched collection of hand…whittled sticks and metal poles。 Two sides of the tent were open； and I could see boxes and blankets lying on the ground under the roof。 I could also see Tally napping inside。
Their truck was parked beside it； and another canvas of some sort had been rigged over its bed。 It was anchored with baling rope staked to the ground so that the truck couldn't move without first getting unhitched。 Their old trailer had been partially unloaded； its boxes and burlap bags scattered on the grass as if a storm had hit。
Mrs。 Spruill was tending a fire； hence the smoke。 For some reason； she had chosen a slightly bare spot near the end of the yard。 It was the exact spot where Pappy or my father squatted almost every afternoon and caught my fastballs and my curves。 I wanted to cry。 I would never forgive Mrs。 Spruill for this。
〃I thought you told them to set up out behind the silo；〃 I said。
〃I did；〃 Pappy answered。 He slowed the truck almost to a stop； then turned into our place。 The silo was out back； near the barn； a sufficient distance from our house。 We'd had hill people camping back there before…never in the front yard。
He parked under another pin oak that was only seventy years old； according to my grandmother。 It was the smallest of the three that shaded our house and yard。 We rolled to a stop near the house； in the same dry ruts Pappy'd parked in for decades。 Both my mother and grandmother were waiting at the kitchen steps。
Ruth； my grandmother； did not like the fact that the hill people had laid claim to our front yard。 Pappy and I knew this before we got out of the truck。 She had her hands on her hips。
My mother was eager to examine the Mexicans and ask me about their traveling conditions。 She watched them pile out of the truck as she walked to me and squeezed my shoulder。
〃Ten of them；〃 she said。 〃Yes ma'am。〃
Gran met Pappy at the front of the truck and said； quietly but sternly； 〃Why are those people in our front yard？〃
〃I asked them to set up by the silo；〃 Pappy said； never one to back down； not even from his wife。 〃I don't know why they picked that spot。〃
〃Can you ask them to move？〃
〃I cannot。 If they pack up； they'll leave。 You know how hill people are。〃
And that was the end of Gran's questions。 They were not about to argue in front of me and ten new Mexicans。 She walked away； toward the house； shaking her head in disapproval。 Pappy honestly didn't care where the hill people camped。 They appeared to be able…bodied and willing to work； and nothing else mattered to him。
I suspected Gran was not that concerned either。 The picking was so crucial that we would've taken in a chain gang if they could've averaged three hundred pounds of cotton a day。
The Mexicans followed Pappy off to the barn； which was 352 feet from the back porch steps。 Past the chicken coop； the water pump； the clotheslines； and the tool shed； past a sugar maple that would turn bright red in October。 My father had helped me measure the exact distance one day last January。 It seemed like a mile to me。 From home plate to the left field wall in Sportsman's Park； where the Cardinals played； was 350 feet； and every time Stan Musial hit a home run I would sit on the steps the next day and marvel at the distance。 In mid…July he'd hit a ball 400 feet against the Braves。 Pappy had said； 〃He hit it over the barn； Luke。〃
For two days afterward； I'd sat on the steps and dreamed of hitting 'cm over the barn。
When the Mexicans were past the tool shed； my mother said； 〃They look very tired。〃
〃They rode in a trailer； sixty…two of them；〃 I said； eager； for some reason； to help stir things up。
〃I was afraid of that。〃
〃An old trailer。 Old and dirty。 Pearl's already mad about it。〃
〃It won't happen again；〃 she said； and I knew that my father was about to get an earful。 〃Run along and help your grandfather。〃
I'd spent most of the previous two weeks in the barn； alone with my mother； sweeping and cleaning the loft； trying to make a home for the Mexicans。 Most of the farmers put them in abandoned tenant houses or barns。 There'd been a rumor that Ned Shackleford three miles south had made his live with the chickens。
Not so on the Chandler farm。 For lack of another shelter； the Mexicans would be forced to live in the loft of our barn； but there wouldn't be a speck of dirt anywhere to be found。 And it would have a pleasant smell。 For a year my mother had gathered old blankets and quilts for them to sleep on。
I slipped into the barn； but stayed below； next to Isabel's stall。 She was our milk cow。 Pappy claimed his life had been saved in the First War by a young French girl named Isabel； and to honor the memory； he named our Jersey cow after her。 My grandmother never believed that story。
I could hear them up in the loft； moving around； settling in。 Pappy was talking to Miguel； who was impressed with how nice and clean the loft was。 Pappy took the pliments as if he and he alone had done the scrubbing。
In fact； he and Gran had been skeptical of my mother's efforts to provide a decent place for the laborers to sleep。 My mother had been raised on a small farm at the very edge of Black Oak； so she was almost a town girl。 She actually grew up with kids who were too good to pick cotton。 She never walked to school…her father drove her。 She'd been to Memphis three times before she married my father。 She'd been raised in a painted house。
Chapter 3
We Chandlers rented our land from Mr。 Vogel of Jonesboro； a man I'd never seen。 His name was rarely mentioned； but when it did slip into a conversation； it was uttered with respect and awe。 I thought he was the richest man in the world。
Pappy and Gran had been renting the land since before the Great Depression； which arrived early and stayed late in rural Arkansas。 After thirty years of backbreaking labor； they had managed to purchase
from Mr。 Vogel the house and the three acres around it。 They also owned the John Deere tractor； two