When Geoff and I moved to N.C. the first time back in 1993, we were driving through the town of Richlands which is a farming community just down the road. It must have been this time of year because the cotton was brilliant white in the fields, like a dusting of snow- all ready for harvesting. I had never seen a field of cotton ready for picking before and I made Geoff stop and pull over. I got out and went over to a nearby plant to touch the white fluffy bolls. It seemed really weird that cotton would just grow this way, like I could just pick it, dip it in some witch-hazel and rub it on my face. I also couldn’t help but think, as I still sometimes contemplate today when I see the big cotton picking machines, what a hard life picking cotton by hand must have been, especially if you had no choice in the matter, and no hope of change or escape.