What about the family farm?
From my house, I can see the cotton gin behind the Subway across the street. For weeks now, it’s been running nonstop, like most of the gins in this part of the world at this time of year. The cotton fields have been picked bare, and enormous bales sit waiting in the fields and crowding the gin lots. Harvest doesn’t punch a clock. It’s an all-day, every-day operation. And the dust? Incredible. Especially this year, when the rain just hasn’t come. Everything already feels dry and coated, and the gins keep right on running. Even the trees look worn out. Those changing leaves might pass for autumn color at a glance, but around here, drought is doing its share of the decorating. And the farmers around here are hurting. From where I’m sitting, the economy is in the tank. But seed still has to be bought. Fuel still has to go into the equipment. Machinery still breaks, and somebody has to pay to fix it. Where the gins own the land, the men and women farming it can still be the ones footi...
