1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE/COTTON GIN EXPLORERS PART 2

The silence of the stilled gin machinery was almost as overwhelming as the screaming whine of the gin in full operation. Standing inside, just in front of the ginstands, I tilted my head back to look up at the cavernous corrugated tin ceiling. The distance from the concrete floor to the top of the building seemed endless. The entire building was a giant tin shack. A few windows in the front of the building let in the only natural light, and large round metal light fixtures hung down in several places providing some illumination.

Most days, the large front door was slid open, and the doors to the dock area which was up on a higher level off a raised platform, were open as well, providing welcome airflow and light.

This was the offseason, and I felt a jittery excitement at being in the gin at all. My brother Stephen was fiddling with something in the corner, and he suddenly turned and asked if I wanted to climb up in the gin. I looked up, wondering where we'd start and he pointed toward the raised platform that held the press. He sprinted up the five metal steps, and I followed closely behind, sensing my adrenalin pumping.

It never occurred to me to ask if I could do it. The gin seemed like a second home, we were there so much. I trusted myself more than I allowed myself to trust others.

Jan and Susan would get in the cotton press and let Elton Jr. run the press up and down, like a tiny elevator. I would never get in, even though I knew he was the type of person who would have given his life for any of us. I still didn't trust anyone to get me out of the press if the gin started, and I could envision myself squished through the slats as the press did its job, squeezing everything inside it into a tight package.

"Come on, get in," he'd laugh. "It's not going to hurt you," as Jan and Susan sat on the red metal slats, legs folded under them, obviously enjoying the ride.

"No, I don't want to. The gin might start," I said, meaning it.

He started to say something, but after studying my eyes, stopped abruptly. "Okay," he said reassuringly, "okay."

Stephen took a step up to a catwalk that ran along the back of the ginstands. I followed him, enjoying the thrill of looking down on the machinery and floor. The gin swallowed our footsteps, as we moved along noiselessly. We walked the length of the gin easily, him leading the way, me holding tenuously to a metal rail that ran beside the wooden walk.

At the far end of the building, he turned left, and stepped up a few feet onto a platform. I bent at the waist, then pulled myself up onto the plywood. When my legs joined me, I stood up slowly. I held to the metal railing and looked back toward the front of the gin. Light shone dully through the lint covered windows, casting a gray pall over the building's interior.

We moved along a plywood trail for ten yards or so in the direction from which we'd come, then turned abruptly right, his long legs stepping easily onto the next platform while I doubled over and drug myself up, holding tightly to the metal bars forming rails.

Next, he climbed a ten step ladder attached to one of the machines. Gulping silently, I grabbed hold of the ladder and climbed blindly up. At the top, we found ourselves on a flat surface that led across the machine, then behind it. Another platform, paths to the far side of the gin. I looked up against my better judgment, but dared not look down. Tiny pinprick holes of light shone through the tin ceiling, like daystars. I was surprised seeing how many there were that the gin didn't leak like a spaghetti strainer.

"How much farther are we going?" I asked in a timid voice.

Stephen seemed to have forgotten I was following him. I was beginning to wonder if I might get in trouble for climbing so high.

"Oh, we can go back. Do you want to? Pretty fun, huh?" he said. Was that a question he expected me to answer right now? I wasn't even sure I'd make it down.

Heights frightened me, so now I was asking mmyself why I didn't remember my number two fear prior to the climb. Stephen started down at a fast clip, hopping down too heavily for my taste onto the platforms, climbing nimbly down the ladder whose attachment screws suddenly concerned me. I painstakingly descended it, holding to the machine behind it just in case the ladder loosened and fell. Scooting slowly across the platforms, I eased myself onto the pathways beneath.

Stephen practically ran the last part of the descent, ignoring me completely. When he reached the press platform, he ran to the door, jumped onto the outside platform where cotton bales would be if it were ginning season, and disappeared down the steps leading to the cottonyard.

I walked slowly now, in no hurry. Safety was in sight. I turned fully around when I was at the edge of the press platform, looking at where I'd been. I held onto the rail and leaned back so I could turn my face up and see the whole underside of the gin.

Neila said Daddy could build a gin from the concrete slab up. That was quite a ways. She said he could put a machine in and make it fit even if he only had an inch of clearance. I guessed that was why he was in Peru now, helping Murray Gin Company build gins down there. He'd probably be mad at me if he found out I'd climbed up there. I could have ruined his safety record!

To be truthful, I was proud of having climbed. I could tell I was still afraid of heights, but I did it anyway. Mother was probably over at the office. I was working on my excuse. If she figured out what I'd done, or I slipped and told her because I could not keep a secret or lie to her, I'd just blame it on Stephen since he was sixteen. It probably wasn't fair, but in our family you sometimes had to do whatever it took to survive.

We were going to Dallas tonight to pick Daddy up at the airport, so hopefully Mother would be thinking about that and forget to ask me where I'd been or what I'd been doing.





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