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Out where the cotton grows
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Down in the fields where the cotton grows.
Where the irrigational system flows.
Where the tallest stalks of corn grows.
In a little town no bigger than my own.
Out in the East where the cotton grows.
Blooms no bigger than the palm of my hand.
In the Delta of little ol' Arkansas.
Where the cotton grows.
Two hundred pounds by hands a day.
Out in the sun his seven kids to play.
Great grand daddy Smithee picking away.
Where the cotton grows.

This poem was written by my 12 year old grand daughter, browneyedbailey. She is the Princess of the family. We have another princess, but she is too young to be on LitNet.
When her mother was younger and at home, there was always an ongoing fight over who the princess was, motherhubbard or her younger sister. They both were, and still are, but the arguments were all in fun and enjoyable to listen to. Now there is no doubt about who the Princess is. Browneyedbailey will always be the Special Princess in our family and in my heart.

Browneyedbailey is the oldest of our grandchildren and has become a very independent young lady. She is intelligent. She is beautiful. She is special. The poem she wrote touched my heart like no other. In August she went to my family reunion for the first time since she was a toddler. There were a lot of people there and a lot of stories being told about everyone, even the ones who were no longer with us. Browneyedbailey must have been listening like I no longer listen to the stories. My Dad, her great grandfather, died when motherhubbard, her mother, was 3 years old. Motherhubbard only remembers him from pictures of her with him at a family reunion.
My Dad’s cousin grew up working the cotton with my Dad and his family. He always tells the same story, every year. He talks about how Dad, being a young man of small stature, could pick more cotton than anyone else, 200 lbs a day. Everyone would try to beat him, but no one ever did. Now, anyone who knows anything about picking cotton knows that this is an amazing amount. But Cousin Ralph never tires of telling us about it. Maybe he knows we miss our Dad and enjoy hearing such stories. (But I do remember him talking about it when Dad was living, so maybe he just likes to hear himself talk.)
That browneyedbailey would take note of the story was special and surprising to me. Most of the kids are running around and playing and trying to ignore the grownups, or just being bored. A few days after we got home, she posted the poem as a surprise. It made me cry, because she would write it and because she will remember the story her whole life. That way, my Dad will live forever.