When I was just a little lad
I remember all so well.
The place of  my beginnings,
of things that I will tell.

I often rode with father
as we drove around the fields.
We passed a tractor going slow
as we came around the hill.

The cotton then grew tall like trees.
It stood above my sight,
like clumps of snow upon a roof
in bowls so soft and white.

He stopped the truck,
and we got out, the dirt it smelled so fine.
He put a piece of cotton,
in that little hand of mine.

And Dad would say, we better leave,
'cause supper's on the stove.
We climbed back in and headed home,
just ole Dad and me.

Of others he looked over,
for the man who owned the ground.
Of Dad he must have trusted much,
as Dad was always there.

I remember Mama,
her apron always on.
At home she stayed, no where to go,
her work was never done.

She cleaned and cooked and sewed the clothes,
some she made by hand.
When day was done and Pa came home,
I didn't understand.

Not much we said, not much we did.
I guess the day was done.
I was put to bed, as Mama said,
I'll see you in the morn'.

I fell asleep to quiet dreams,
of fields so white and fine,
as I grasped onto the cotton
in that little hand of mine