High Cotton

Ask Grandpa Monroe Barnes, How are you? and his answer would be, Im walking in high cotton.

This was not just a pleasantry, but a philosophy of life well earned and recognized as such by the cotton farmers of Boot Heel, Missouri, back when King Cotton was the cash crop.

If a newcomer seemed puzzled by the reply, Grandpa would explain:

Well, it means you have a good piece of bottom land, the rain has been just right, no boll weevils, the cotton has grown waist high shading out weeds, can be picked without stooping over, and is selling for 55 cents a pound on the Memphis Exchange.

In todays parlance: It doesnt get any better than this.

A local, agricultural greeting by Grandpa Barnes was treated as expert opinion. He once won First Prize for the best 500- pound bale at the Memphis Cotton Fair.

As the old saying goes, You can take the child out of the country, but you cant take the country out of the child.

Thus, I and my sweetheart o f 59 years (wife of 58) took off for her annual high school reunion at Holcomb (Hawk-em). Only other graduate of the class of 1940 was Halloween Toole, a retired schoolteacher.

Halloween -- she was born on that special day -- had been captain of the girls basketball team, and county champs, when the playing court was outside on the dirt.

The original, frame-built high school was bulldozed and buried for a parking area years ago. The modern, brick building complex has a state-of-the-art gymnasium and the school still fields all-star basketball teams.

After the reunion, we crisscrossed the Boot Heel for days, locating graves of family members in little church cemeteries and visiting our natal hometowns of Gibson and Steele. My, how the towns have shrunk.

It was a pleasure to see the endless fields of healthy cotton. On our last visit ten years ago, the principal crops were soybeans and rice. Worked-out land and polyester had nearly wiped out cotton cult ivation.

Now, cotton fabric has become fashionable once more. Agricultural corporations bought up poor farms and consolidated them. The huge cotton fields today are operated entirely with machinery, traveling sprinklers, and pesticides.

Gone are the share croppers and field laborers of old. But the rusty White Oak Cotton Gin of our childhood is back and running with a fresh coat of paint white, of course.

Cona spent a day at Kennett researching the record of Civil War Cavalryman John Fite a family hero. He fought in 24 engagements, including the battles of Chickamauga and Atlanta. His grave is well marked and tended, as is that of Conas parents; but the old church nearby is gone.

Also gone are the Davidson family graves bulldozed by the farm corporation that helped create profitable cotton.

I spent a day at Caruthersville searching old copies of the Democrat-Argus newspaper for details of the murder of my Great Uncle Sam Jones Hungerford. The account, published in 1918, is illustrative of life in rural Boot Heel at that time.

Constable Killed
Sam Hungerford, 40, constable of Cooter Township, was shot and almost instantly killed by Paul Watley, on the street in Cooter about 7 oclock Friday afternoon, June 7. The killing was practically without any provocation.

After firing the fatal shots, Watley made his escape to the county ditch about a mile away. He was arrested there about 30 minutes later by Deputy Sheriff Smith, who rushed him to the safety of the Caruthersville jail at once to escape a possible lynching.

Watley, is about 20 years old and married. He had apparently been in search of trouble all day drinking and looking for Charles Harston with whom he had previous trouble following Harstons request that Watley cease calling on some girls at his, Harstons, home.

When Mr. Harston drove into town that afternoon, Watley came out of the poolroom, stopped Harston and began cursing and abusing him, threatening to kill him.

Harston sat down on the edge of his wagon bed and was trying to reason with the frenzied man, being unarmed and wishing to avoid any difficulty.

Constable Hungerford happened to come along about that time and tried to put an end to the quarreling. He attempted to get Watley into a good humor, but failed. He asked Watley if he had a gun and Watley said no.

Finally he said to Watley, You do not want to shoot Harston. Come go with me, putting his hand on Watleys arm.

Watley pulled loose, stepped back and fired two shots at close range into Hungerfords breast.

The stricken officer walked a few feet, fell and died without uttering another word. As he was staggering away, it is said Watley fired a third shot into his back.

Watley ran back through the poolroom and made for the county ditch about a mile away. In spite of the fact that he has an artificial leg, he made good time to the ditch and hid.

Dep uty Sheriff Smith was notified in just a few minutes after the killing of his friend and co-worker, and took up the chase, following Watley to the ditch.

Placing men to cover each side of the ditch, he began wading down it, with the water up high on his body, holding his pistol in front of him, ready to shoot if necessary.

Suddenly he heard the snap of a stick. Looking quickly, he saw Watley just a few feet from him, drawn back under the bank and almost hidden by overhanging willows.

The officer at once took charge of him, brought him ashore, hurried him up to the town, placed him in his car and left Cooter before the muttering crowd could get into action.

Through Steele he hurried at a rapid speed and did not stop until his prisoner was safely behind bars of the county jail.

Mr. Hungerford was a man generally liked in his hometown. He had lived in that vicinity about ten years. By trade, he was a barber, but was elected constable of Cooter Town ship in November 1916. He made many friends by his careful attention to the duties of his office.

His funeral was held Sunday afternoon and is said to have the largest attended funeral service that was ever held in that section. People came in cars for miles and miles. He was a native of Newbern, Tenn., and is survived by a wife and four children.

Watley, the slayer, bears a bad reputation. Some years ago, he was implicated in the theft of an automobile and escaped punishment by a parole. He is under bond for carrying a pistol and once was given up by his bondsmen who would not be responsible for his actions any longer.

Some years ago he married a Miss Walker, and to them was born one child, which by an irony of fate, died the day the father killed Mr. Hungerford. The child was buried but two hours before the slain officer was laid to rest in the same cemetery.

* * *

Watley was convicted six weeks later of murder and sentenced to life imprisonme nt.

Cooters population today is 491, according to a sign on the one-man police station and one-woman post office there.

Lindsey Williams is a Sun columnist who can be contacted at:

LinWms@earthlink.net

LinWms@lindseywilliams.org

Website: http://www.lindseywilliams.org

Author:: Lindsey Williams
Keywords:: High Cotton, Missouri, Americana
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