Somewhere, in the back country of Pitt County, where roads are bestowed the names of patriarchs, black birds huddle, like a battle brigade, along high strung power lines and whole towns are condensed into Xroads, there’s a cotton field ready to be plucked this time of year.

Cotton, like the metamorphosis of a regal butterfly, is picked, pulled, twisted and combed to create beautiful finery for kings, costumes for thespians, coats for the cold, bathing suits for beachgoers who dare and for those who believe it’s ok to shop Walmart in their sleepwear any hour of the day. Not since Adam and Eve has there been a more sought after necessity than that which covers our loins.

All hail to this southern crop of warmth and comfort, which thrives in the black soil of eastern North Carolina. On this day, I was blessed, if just for a moment, as I was steppin’ high to walk through this great big ol’ field of cotton.