Pickin' cotton and second-hand guitars
It was Saturday, and my fingers were a bloody mess. All week, after school, and since sunrise, I had been picking cotton for a neighbor. In spite of the hard rocky ground, stinging nettles, plus the pain an ol’ cotton burr could inflict on one’s fingers, I threw myself into that job with considerable gusto. And with good reason! Boots Roberson had promised to sell me his second-hand guitar for just $3, and according to my mental arithmetic I was almost there. In fact, I felt that by quitting time I’d have the necessary $3 and a little extra for a few strings.