Cotton Pickin'

I've decided that I love Georgia.

This past weekend while driving down a dusty red dirt road, passing through pine forests and spanish moss, we suddenly came across a huge cotton field.

We squealed and slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop in the middle of nowhere. We got out of the car and ran to the edge of the field. All the cotton looked ready to pick [I don't think you'd say ripe, would you?]. The top of every stalk was covered in soft, fluffy white balls of cotton. We each plucked one off. It was so clean and pure and white. There weren't any insects or seeds or anything in it. It smelled like sunshine.

I always knew that cotton grew like that, but seeing it was kind of bizarre. There was just a puff of cotton, occurring naturally, the same size as a cotton ball. It was ready to be spun or combed or made into anything. It was really pretty cool. I wish I had my sewing machine with me so I could make something and use it as batting.