jg.paintedhouse-第1部分

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　　　The　hill　people　and　the　Mexicans　arrived　on　the　same　day。　It　was　a　Wednesday；　early　in　September　1952。　The　Cardinals　were　five　games　behind　the　Dodgers　with　three　weeks　to　go；　and　the　season　looked　hopeless。　The　cotton；　however；　was　waist…high　to　my　father；　over　my　head；　and　he　and　my　grandfather　could　be　heard　before　supper　whispering　words　that　were　seldom　heard。　It　could　be　a　〃good　crop。〃
　　　They　were　farmers；　hardworking　men　who　embraced　pessimism　only　when　discussing　the　weather　and　the　crops。　There　was　too　much　sun；　or　too　much　rain；　or　the　threat　of　floods　in　the　lowlands；　or　the　rising　prices　of　seed　and　fertilizer；　or　the　uncertainties　of　the　markets。　On　the　most　perfect　of　days；　my　mother　would　quietly　say　to　me；　〃Don't　worry。　The　men　will　find　something　to　worry　about。〃
　　　Pappy；　my　grandfather；　was　worried　about　the　price　for　labor　when　we　went　searching　for　the　hill　people。　They　were　paid　for　every　hundred　pounds　of　cotton　they　picked。　The　previous　year；　according　to　him；　it　was　1。50　per　hundred。　He'd　already　heard　rumors　that　a　farmer　over　in　Lake　City　was　offering　1。60。
　　　This　played　heavily　on　his　mind　as　we　rode　to　town。　He　never　talked　when　he　drove；　and　this　was　because；　according　to　my　mother；　not　much　of　a　driver　herself；　he　was　afraid　of　motorized　vehicles。　His　truck　was　a　1939　Ford；　and　with　the　exception　of　our　old　John　Deere　tractor；　it　was　our　sole　means　of　transportation。　This　was　no　particular　problem　except　when　we　drove　to　church　and　my　mother　and　grandmother　were　forced　to　sit　snugly　together　up　front　in　their　Sunday　best　while　my　father　and　I　rode　in　the　back；　engulfed　in　dust。　Modern　sedans　were　scarce　in　rural　Arkansas。
　　　Pappy　drove　thirty…seven　miles　per　hour。　His　theory　was　that　every　automobile　had　a　speed　at　which　it　ran　most　efficiently；　and　through　some　vaguely　defined　method　he　had　determined　that　his　old　truck　should　go　thirty…seven。　My　mother　said　（to　me）　that　it　was　ridiculous。　She　also　said　he　and　my　father　had　once　fought　over　whether　the　truck　should　go　faster。　But　my　father　rarely　drove　it；　and　if　I　happened　to　be　riding　with　him；　he　would　level　off　at　thirty…seven；　out　of　respect　for　Pappy。　My　mother　said　she　suspected　he　drove　much　faster　when　he　was　alone。
　　　We　turned　onto　Highway　135；　and；　as　always；　I　watched　Pappy　carefully　shift　the　gears…pressing　slowly　on　the　clutch；　delicately　prodding　the　stick　shift　on　the　steering　column…until　the　truck　reached　its　perfect　speed。　Then　I　leaned　over　to　check　the　speedometer：　thirty…seven。　He　smiled　at　me　as　if　we　both　agreed　that　the　truck　belonged　at　that　speed。
　　　Highway　135　ran　straight　and　flat　through　the　farm　country　of　the　Arkansas　Delta。　On　both　sides　as　far　as　I　could　see；　the　fields　were　white　with　cotton。　It　was　time　for　the　harvest；　a　wonderful　season　for　me　because　they　turned　out　school　for　two　months。　For　my　grandfather；　though；　it　was　a　time　of　endless　worry。
　　　
　　　On　the　right；　at　the　Jordan　place；　we　saw　a　group　of　Mexicans　working　in　the　field　near　the　road。　They　were　stooped　at　the　waist；　their　cotton　sacks　draped　behind　them；　their　hands　moving　deftly　through　the　stalks；　tearing　off　the　bolls。　Pappy　grunted。　He　didn't　like　the　Jordans　because　they　were　Methodists…and　Cubs　fans。　Now　that　they　already　had　workers　in　their　fields；　there　was　another　reason　to　dislike　them。
　　　The　distance　from　our　farm　to　town　was　fewer　than　eight　miles；　but　at　thirty…seven　miles　an　hour；　the　trip　took　twenty　minutes。　Always　twenty　minutes；　even　with　little　traffic。　Pappy　didn't　believe　in　passing　slower　vehicles　in　front　of　him。　Of　course；　he　was　usually　the　slow　one。　Near　Black　Oak；　we　caught　up　to　a　trailer　filled　to　the　top　with　snowy　mounds　of　freshly　picked　cotton。　A　tarp　covered　the　front　half；　and　the　Montgomery　twins；　who　were　my　age；　playfully　bounced　around　in　all　that　cotton　until　they　saw　us　on　the　road　below　them。　Then　they　stopped　and　waved。　I　waved　back；　but　my　grandfather　did　not。　When　he　drove；　he　never　waved　or　nodded　at　folks；　and　this　was；　my　mother　said；　because　he　was　afraid　to　take　his　hands　from　the　wheel。　She　said　people　talked　about　him　behind　his　back；　saying　he　was　rude　and　arrogant。　Personally；　I　don't　think　he　cared　how　the　gossip　ran。
　　　We　followed　the　Montgomery　trailer　until　it　turned　at　the　cotton　gin。　It　was　pulled　by　their　old　Massey　Harris　tractor；　and　driven　by　Frank；　the　eldest　Montgomery　boy；　who　had　dropped　out　of　school　in　the　fifth　grade　and　was　considered　by　everyone　at　church　to　be　headed　for　serious　trouble。
　　　Highway　135　became　Main　Street　for　the　short　stretch　it　took　to　negotiate　Black　Oak。　We　passed　the　Black　Oak　Baptist　Church；　one　of　the　few　times　we'd　pass　without　stopping　for　some　type　of　service。　Every　store；　shop；　business；　church；　even　the　school；　faced　Main　Street；　and　on　Saturdays　the　traffic　inched　along；　bumper　to　bumper；　as　the　country　folks　flocked　to　town　for　their　weekly　shopping。　But　it　was　Wednesday；　and　when　we　got　into　town；　we　parked　in　front　of　Pop　and　Pearl　Watson's　grocery　store　on　Main。
　　　I　waited　on　the　sidewalk　until　my　grandfather　nodded　in　the　direction　of　the　store。　That　was　my　cue　to　go　inside　and　purchase　a　Tootsie　Roll；　on　credit。　It　only　cost　a　penny；　but　it　was　not　a　foregone　conclusion　that　I　would　get　one　every　trip　to　town。　Occasionally；　he　wouldn't　nod；　but　I　would　enter　the　store　anyway　and　loiter　around　the　cash　register　long　enough　for　Pearl　to　sneak　me　one；　which　always　came　with　strict　instructions　not　to　tell　my　grandfather。　She　was　afraid　of　him。　Eli　Chandler　was　a　poor　man；　but　he　was　intensely　proud。　He　would　starve　to　death　before　he　took　free　food；　which；　on　his　list；　included　Tootsie　Rolls。　He　would've　beaten　me　with　a　stick　if　he　knew　I　had　accepted　a　piece　of　candy；　so　Pearl　Watson　had　no　trouble　swearing　me　to　secrecy。
　　　But　this　time　I　got　the　nod。　As　always；　Pearl　was　dusting　the　counter　when　I　entered　and　gave　her　a　stiff　hug。　Then　I　grabbed　a　Tootsie　Roll　from　the　jar　next　to　the　cash　register。　I　signed　the　charge　slip　with　great　flair；　and　Pearl　inspected　my　penmanship。　〃It's　getting　better；　Luke；〃　she　said。
　　　〃Not　bad　for　a　seven…year…old；〃　I　said。　Because　of　my　mother；　I　had　been　practicing　my　name　in　cursive　writing　for　two　years。　〃Where's　Pop？〃　I　asked。　They　were　the　only　adults　I　knew　who　insisted　I　call　them　by　their　〃first〃　names；　but　only　in　the　store　when　no　one　else　was　listening。　If　a　customer　walked　in；　then　it　was　suddenly　Mr。　and　Mrs。　Watson。　I　told　no　one　but　my　mother　this；　and　she　told　me　she　was　certain　no　other　child　held　such　privilege。
　　　〃In　the　back；　putting　up　stock；〃　Pearl　said。　〃Where's　your　grandfather？〃
　　　It　was　Pearl's　calling　in　life　to　monitor　the　movements　of　the　town's　population；　so　any　question　was　usually　answered　with　another。
　　　〃The　Tea　Shoppe；　checking　on　the　Mexicans。　Can　I　go　back　there？〃　I　was　determined　to　outquestion　her。
　　　〃Better　not。　Y'all　using　hill　people；　too？〃
　　　〃If　we　can　find　them。　Eli　says　they　don't　e　down　like　they　used　to。　He　also　thinks　they're　all　half　crazy。　Where's　Champ？〃　Champ　was　the　store's　ancient　beagle；　which　never　left　Pop's　side。
　　　Pearl　grinned　whenever　I　called　my　grandfather　by　his　first　name。　She　was　about　to　ask　me　a　question　when　the　small　bell　clanged　as　the　door　opened　and　closed。　A　genuine　Mexican　walked　in；　alone　and　timid；　as　they　all　seemed　to　be　at　first。　Pearl　nodded　politely　at　the　new　customer。
　　　I　shouted；　〃Buenos　dias；　senor！〃
　　　The　Mexican　grinned　and　said　sheepishly；　〃Buenos　dias；〃　before　disappearing　into　the　back　of　the　store。
　　　〃They're　good　people；〃　Pearl　said　under　her　breath；　as　if　the　Mexican　spoke　English　and　might　be　offended　by　something　nice　she　said。　I　bit　into　my　Tootsie　Roll　and　chewed　it　slowly　while　rewrapping　and　pocketing　the　other　half。
　　　〃Eli's　worried　about　payin'　them　too　much；〃　I　said。　With　a　customer　in　the　store；　Pearl　was　suddenly　busy　again；　dusting　and　straightening　around　the　only　cash　register。
　　　〃Eli　worries　about　everything；〃　she　said。
　　　〃He's　a　farmer。〃
　　　〃Are　you　going　to　be　a　farmer？〃
　　　〃No　ma'am。　A　baseball　player。〃
　　　〃For　the　Cardinals？〃
　　　〃Of　course。〃
　　　Pearl　hummed　for　a　bit　while　I　waited　for　the　Mexican。　I　had　some　more　Spanish　I　was　anxious　to　try。
　　　The　old　wooden　shelves　were　bursting　with　fresh　groceries。　I　loved　the　store　during　picking　season　because　Pop　filled　it　from　floor　to　ceiling。　The　crops　were　ing　in；　and　money　was　changing　hands。
　　　Pappy　opened　the　door　just　wide　enough　to　stick　his　head　in。　〃Let's　go；〃　he　said；　then；　〃Howdy；　Pearl。〃
　　　〃Howdy；　Eli；〃　she　said　as　she　patted　my　head　and　sent　me　away。
　　　〃Where　are　the　Mexicans？〃　I　asked　Pappy　when　we　were　outside。
　　　〃Should　be　in　later　this　afternoon。〃
　　　We　got　back　in　the　truck　and　left　town　in　the　direction　of　Jonesboro；　where　my　grandfather　always　found　the　hill　people。
　　　
　　　We　parked　on　the　shoulder　of　the　highway；　near　the　intersection　of　a　gravel　road。　In　Pappy's　opinion；　it　was　the　best　spot　in　the　county　to　catch　the　hill　people。　I　wasn't　so　sure。　He'd　been　trying　to　hire　some　for　a　week　with　no　results。　We　sat　on　the　tailgate　in　the　scorching　sun　in　plete　silence　for　half　an　hour　before　the　first　truck　stopped。　It　was　clean　and　had　good　tires。　If　we　were　lucky　enough　to　find　hill　people；　they　would　live　with　us　for　the　next　two　months。　We　wanted　folks　who　were　neat；　and　the　fact　that　this　truck　was　much　nicer　than　Pappy's　was　a　good　sign。
　　　〃Afternoon；〃　Pappy　said　when　the　engine　was　turned　off。
　　　〃Howdy；〃　said　the　driver。
　　　〃Where　y'all　from？〃　asked　Pappy。
　　　〃Up　north　of　Hardy。〃
　　　With　no　traffic　around；　my　grandfather　stood　on　the　pavement；　a　pleasant　expression　on　his　face；　taking　in　the　truck　and　its　contents。　The　driver　and　his　wife　sat　in　the　cab　with　a　small　girl　between　them。　Three　large　teenaged　boys　were　napping　in　the　back。　Everyone　appeared　to　be　healthy　and　well　dressed。　I　could　tell　Pappy　wanted　these　people。
　　　〃Y'all　lookin'　for　work？〃　he　asked。
　　　〃Yep。　Lookin'　for　Lloyd　Crenshaw；　somewhere　west　of　Black　Oak。〃　My　grandfather　pointed　this　way　and　that；　and　they　drove　off。　We　watched　them　until　they　were　out　of　sight。
　　　He　could've　offered　them　more　than　Mr。　Crenshaw　was　promising。　Hill　people　were　notorious　for　negotiating　their　labor。　Last　year；　in　the　middle　of　the　first　picking　on　our　place；　the　Fulbrights　from　Calico　Rock　disappeared　one　Sunday　night　and　went　to　work　for　a　farmer　ten　miles　away。
　　　But　Pappy　was　not　dishonest；　nor　did　he　want　to　start　a　bidding　war。
　　　We　tossed　a　baseball　along　the　edge　of　a　cotton　field；　stopping　whenever　a　truck　approached。
　　　My　glove　was　a　Rawlings　that　Santa　had　delivered　the　Christmas　before。　I　slept　with　it　nightly　and　oiled　it　weekly；　and　nothing　was　as　dear　to　my　soul。
　　　My　grandfather；　who　had　taught　me　how　to　throw　and　catch　and　hit；　didn't　need　a　glove。　His　large；　callused　hands　absorbed　my　throws　without　the　slightest　sting。
　　　Though　he　was　a　quiet　man　who　never　bragged；　Eli　Chandler　had　been　a　legendary　baseball　player。　At　the　age　of　seventeen；　he　had　signed　a　contract　with　the　Cardinals　to　play　professional　baseball。　But　the　First　War　called　him；　and　not　long　after　he　came　home；　his　father　died。　Pappy　had　no　choice　but　to　bee　a　farmer。
　　　Pop　Watson　loved　to　tell　me　stories　of