The power in a picture
Ifirst visited downtown Hartselle in the fall of 1942 when I was five years old. J. J. was taking a wagon load of cotton to be ginned. I had begged to go to town with him until he finally gave in to my pleas.
We left home before daylight so we could get in line early at the gin ahead of others and perhaps shorten our wait and get the wagon back to the field before noon. The cotton made a soft bed and it was not long until the rhythmic clip-clop of the team’s hooves on the raveled road lured me to sleep. Dawn was breaking as we pulled up on the cotton scales to be weighted when I awakened. Then we pulled in line to wait our turn for the powerful suction tube to transfer our cotton into the blades of the gin.
After the cotton had been ginned, we crossed the scales once again to weigh the empty wagon and determine the weight of the load. Then we pulled underneath an overhead bin and waited while the seeds of our cotton were loaded onto the wagon. They would be used as cow feed in the winter months.
After we found a place where the team could be tied for a half hour, we made a trip downtown to Main Street so J. J. could spend a little time visiting with other farmers and comparing crops. They all were dressed alike in faded overalls, a much-worn denim jacket, and straw hat. They all looked the same to a five-year-old boy.
It was not long until we got separated as I paused looking at all the window displays. When I looked around panic overtook me. I could not see my father anywhere. It was the first time in my life I had been lost. Then I heard his voice and ran to his side.
That was the first trip I made to “downtown” Hartselle. I have made many more over the last eighty years. The town has become a city that has expanded and changed in many ways. It has kept up with the times as it has grown and expanded its boundaries and welcomed multitudes of new people. Now its police jurisdiction reaches a number of miles in each direction from its boundaries where its influence is felt.
Indeed, my father would not recognize all the changes that have come about if he were able to visit today a hundred years after he attended at Morgan County High School. But the faith and ethos of the people have changed very little.
I am a visual-orientated individual. The picture of the old gin scales in a “Blast from the Past” section of the Enquirer reminded me of a past era much more vividly than words filed away in a library ever could. I thank the Historical Society for making it and other pictures available to the Enquirer to share with us as a “Blast from the Past.” They say that “a picture is worth a thousand words.” That certainly applies to me in my understanding of history.
