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said. His stern demeanor reminded me of Pastor Emery’s face when he stormily reminded his congregation about our multitudinous iniquities.
    Inwardly, I groaned, for I knew I’d be carting the heavy pickax home at the end of our outing. Sometimes my ideas—deemed as inspired and ingenious at the time—ended up tottering on the realm of insanity.
    We trudged closer to the North Pole, that magical, invisible place where all of earth’s longitudinal lines meet together at a single point. The wool jacket I wore scratched my neck and arms. Sweat pooled in my armpits, behind my knees, and in the hollows of my collarbone. It slid into my belly button and down my back. I wished to throw my coat, hat, and mittens into the burning bin, but I couldn’t, for the boys were true explorers now, bravely fighting the elements and any polar bears that might try to eat us. They spoke in the lowered, deepened voices of men on a mission as we staggered on, battling boreal winds, storms, blizzards, and snowdrifts up to our knees. How valiantly they surged forth, fearless of frostbite and subzero temperatures. We plunged on in our quest to reach the North Pole, and felt we had accomplished the task when, at last, we reached the ridge overlooking Mr. Peavy’s farthermost field.
    The twins turned their beet-red faces downward and gazed at the white world below us. Cotton covered the land—white ruling the world as it had in the time of Robert Peary’s expedition. As our gazes soaked in the blinding whiteness, for a brief moment in time hot Texas cotton became cold arctic snow. It was a winter of cotton.
    “We did it, men!” I shouted. “We reached the North Pole, and just in the nick of time. See that black cloud, way over there on the horizon? It’s heading this way, and it looks like trouble.”
    The boys’ gazes followed my extended finger. A single white cloud appeared in the distant sky. Though tiny and far away, it sufficiently fueled the twins’ excitement.
    “We’d better … uh, what’s that word, Emma Grace?”
    “Stake our claim.”
    “Oh, yeah. We’d better stake our claim right now, ’fore that bluzzard hits us,” Micah said. He withdrew a swatch of cloth and a small stick from his pocket.
    Caleb glanced at Micah and nodded. Micah smoothed the scrap of cloth—his American flag—and together my brothers raced down the ridge.
    I stayed my position at the top, watching with wonder as Caleb lifted the pickax with wobbly arms. I cringed as he rammed it into the first row of cotton. I sighed with relief when Micah jabbed his flagpole into the hole and planted the flag of the United States of America into a winter world of snow.
    Micah and Caleb stood like little tin soldiers, straight and tall as they looked across the glacial field they had just conquered. In their mystical, unspoken way, they raised right arms at the exact same moment, saluting the starchless flag that hung limply in the breezeless afternoon. Then they turned as one and marched up the ridge. We linked arms—we, the conquering heroes—honorable patriots of our country. We, the hot, weary wanderers who were more than ready to shuck our winter uniforms.
    “Men,” I proclaimed in the manliest voice I could muster, “you’ve vanquished the wilderness and triumphed over the elements. You completed your mission despite dangerous storms, boreal winds, and record-breaking snowfalls. Now it’s time for you to go home and tell the world about your victory.”
    “Don’t forget about them cold, cold bluzzards we had to fight off, Emma Grace,” Micah reminded me.
    Off the twins ran; peeling outer garments as though the cloth crawled with vermin. I stooped and retrieved discarded articles, lest Mama give me a good skinning when I got back to the house. Then I hefted the weighty pickax to my shoulder and followed my brothers home.
     

Eight
    Tragedy struck our family at the end of cotton season, when the ground lay cracked and parched beneath a ruthless