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from Mr。 Vogel the house and the three acres around it。 They also owned the John Deere tractor； two disks； a seed planter； a cotton trailer； a flatbed trailer； two mules； a wagon； and the truck。 My father had a vague agreement that gave him an ownership interest in some 〃I these assets。 The land deed was in the names of Eli and Ruth Chandler。
The only farmers who made money were those who owned their land。 The renters； like us； tried to break even。 The sharecroppers had i he worst and were doomed to eternal poverty。 My father's goal was to own forty acres of land； free and clear。 My other's dreams were tucked away； only to be shared with me as I grew older。 But I already knew she longed to leave the rural life and is determined that I would not farm。 By the time I was seven； she had made a believer out of me。
When she was satisfied that the Mexicans were being properly situated； she sent me to find my father。 It was late； the sun was falling beyond the trees that lined the St。 Francis River； and it was time for in to weigh his cotton sack for the final time and call it a day。 I walked barefoot along a dirt path between two fields； looking for him。 The soil was dark and rich； good Delta farmland that produced enough to keep you tied to it。 Ahead； I saw the cotton trailer； and I knew he was working his way toward it。
Jesse Chandler was the elder son of Pappy and Gran。 His younger brother； Ricky； was nineteen and fighting somewhere in Korea。 There were two sisters who'd fled the farm as soon as they'd finished high school。
My father didn't flee。 He was determined to be a farmer like his father and grandfather； except he'd be the first Chandler to own his land。 I didn't know if he had dreams of a life away from the fields。 Like my grandfather； he had been an excellent baseball player； and I'm sure at one point he'd dreamed of major league glory。 But he took a German bullet through his thigh in Anzio in 1944； and his baseball career came to an end。
He walked with a very slight limp； but then so did most people who toiled in the cotton patch。
I stopped at the trailer； which was almost empty。 It sat on a narrow cotton road； waiting to be filled。 I climbed up on it。 Around me； on all sides； neat rows of green and brown stalks stretched to the tree lines that bordered our land。 At the top of the stalks； puffy bolls of cotton were popping forth。 The cotton was ing to life by the minute； so when I stepped on the back of the trailer and surveyed the fields； I saw an ocean of white。 The fields were silent…no voices； no tractor engines； no cars on the road。 For a moment； hanging on to the trailer； I could almost understand why my father wanted to be a farmer。
I could barely see his old straw hat in the distance as he moved between rows。 I jumped down and hurried to meet him。 With dusk approaching； the gaps between the rows were even darker。 Because the sun and rain had cooperated； the leaves were full and thick and weaving together so that they brushed against me as I walked quickly toward my father。
〃Is that you； Luke？〃 he called； knowing full well that no one else would be ing to find him。
〃Yes sir！〃 I answered； moving to the voice。 〃Mom says it's time to quit！〃
〃Oh she does？〃
〃Yes sir。〃 I missed him by one row。 I cut through the stalks； and there he was； bent at the waist； both hands moving through the leaves； adroitly plucking the cotton and stuffing it into the nearly full sack draped over his shoulder。 He'd been in the fields since sunrise； breaking only for lunch。
〃Did y'all find some help？〃 he asked without looking at me。
〃Yes sir；〃 I said proudly。 〃Mexicans and hill people。〃
〃How many Mexicans？〃
〃Ten；〃 I said； as if I'd personally rounded them up。
〃That's good。 Who are the hill people？〃
〃The Spruills。 I forgot where they're from。〃
〃How many？〃 He finished a stalk and crept forward； with his heavy sack inching along behind him。
〃A whole truckload。 It's hard to tell。 Gran's mad because they've set up camp in the front yard； even got a fire goin' where home plate is。 Pappy told 'em to set up by the silo。 I heard him。 I don't think they're real smart。〃
〃Don't be sayin' that。〃
〃Yes sir。 Anyway； Gran's not too pleased。〃
〃She'll be all right。 We need the hill people。〃
〃Yes sir。 That's what Pappy said。 But I hate they've messed up home plate。〃
〃Pickin' is more important than baseball these days。〃
〃I guess。〃 Maybe in his opinion。
〃How are the Mexicans？〃
〃Not too good。 They stuffed 'em in a trailer again； and Mom's not too happy about it。〃
His hands stopped for a second as he considered another winter of squabbles。 〃They're just happy to be here；〃 he said； his hands moving again。
I took a few steps toward the trailer in the distance； then turned to watch him again。 〃Tell that to Mom。〃
He gave me a look before saying； 〃Did Juan make it？〃
〃No sir。〃
〃Sorry to hear that。〃
I'd talked about Juan for a year。 He had promised me last fall that he'd be back。 〃That's okay；〃 I said。 〃The new guy is Miguel。 He's real nice。〃
I told him about the trip to town； how we found the Spruills； about Tally and Trot and the large young man on the tailgate； then back to i own where Pappy argued with the man in charge of labor； then the nip to the gin； then about the Mexicans。 I did all the talking because my day had certainly been more eventful than his。
At the trailer； he lifted the straps of his cotton sack and hung them over the hook at the bottom of the scales。 The needle settled on fifty…eight pounds。 He scribbled this in a ragged old ledger wired to the trailer。
〃How much？〃 I asked when he closed the book。
〃Four…seventy。〃
〃A triple；〃 I said。
He shrugged and said； 〃Not bad。〃
Five hundred pounds equaled a home run； something he acplished every other day。 He squatted and said； 〃Hop on。〃
I jumped on his back； and we started for the house。 His shirt and overalls were soaked with sweat； and had been all day； but his arms were like steel。 Pop Watson told me that Jesse Chandler once hit a baseball that landed in the center of Main Street。 Pop and Mr。 Snake Wilcox； the barber； measured it the next day and began telling people that it had traveled； on the fly； 440 feet。 But a hostile opinion quickly emerged from the Tea Shoppe； where Mr。 Junior Barnhart claimed； rather loudly； that the ball had bounced at least once before hitting Main Street。
Pop and Junior went weeks without speaking to each other。 My mother verified the argument； but not the home run。
She was waiting for us by the water pump。 My father sat on a bench and removed his boots and socks。 Then he unsnapped his overalls and took off his shirt。
One of my chores at dawn was to fill a washtub with water and leave it in the sun all day so there'd be warm water for my father every afternoon。 My mother dipped a hand towel in the tub and gently rubbed his neck with it。
She had grown up in a house full of girls； and had been raised in part by a couple of prissy old aunts。 I think they bathed more than farm people； and her passion for cleanliness had rubbed off on my father。 I got a plete scrubbing every Saturday afternoon； whether I needed