Truman Capote's Southern Years, 25th Anniversary Edition: Stories from a Monroeville Cousin

Chapter 12. The Cotton-Bale Caper

11 The CottonBale Caper My childhood was spent in parts of the country and among people unprovided with any semblance ofa cultural attitude. Which was probably not a bad thing, in the long view. It toughened me rather too soon to swim against the cUrYI'ntindeed , in some areas I developed the muscles of a veritable barracuda, especially in the art ofdealing with one's enemies, an art no less necessary than knowing·how to appreciate one's friends. TRUMAN CAPOTE. Writers at Work, First Series In our growing-up years in Monroeville, Truman never ceased to amaze me with his inventiveness. Although in our early youth I had learned that he didn't care about other people's property, I was several years older before I realized that he was entirely unscrupulous at times. He was a charmer, and he used that charm to learn the ins and outs of a situation before capitalizing on it. Just prior to World War II, cotton was the big crop in Monroeville. In addition to the big-monied farmers, every little shirttail farmer in the country had a cotton patch where he raised a few bales. Horse- and mule-drawn wagons came into the gin during late summer and early fall. The gin was just two blocks from Jenny's house and was a great attraction . Lines of cotton-packed wagons waited for their cotton to be sucked up into the gin. People gathered outside and gossiped while the augers whirred and conveyer belts All 173 174 rM1 whizzed overhead. Cotton dust was in the air as the bales were plunked down for grading. All this was fascinating to country people who didn't see much machinery; it was even a little bit terrifying. Truman got caught up in the excitement as well, and we spent many hours at the gin watching the goings-on and listening to the talk. People seemed to like gory stories back then as much as they do now. At ginning time, they told about the little girl who had reached over to pluck a piece of lint, but she was too close to the auger, which grabbed her and chewed her arm off at the shoulder. Then there was the colored fellow who fell into the cotton press and was mashed into the cotton bale. They found him dead in the bale a day later when someone spotted a bloody hand sticking out. Our cousin, Frank Salter, worked at the gin as their bookkeeper. He was Mary's husband. Mary was Jenny Faulk's only married sister. Mary and Frank didn't have any children, and I think Frank was flattered by Truman's attention and interest in his bookkeeping job for the gin. Frank kept up with who owned the cotton in the warehouse, and he went to great pains to explain the procedure to Truman. When the cotton was ginned and baled, each individual bale was assigned a number. A cotton grader sliced the bale, pulled out a piece of cotton, held it to the light, pulled it between his fingers to test the length and strength of the flbers, then assigned it a grade. The weight, producer or farmer's name, and the grade were penciled on a card. Thousands of bales were done this way, making an enormous bookkeeping job for Frank. The federal government at that time was paying farmers a minimum price per pound for cotton. This was generally The Cotton-Bale Caper above the market price, so it was to the farmer's advantage to take the loan price. Then the government would pay to have these bales stored in the Monroeville warehouse. The government even paid rent on the cotton. Even though the cotton might be sold, it was stored there and wasn't necessarily shipped to the textile buyer. Frank showed us the locked room where he stored the filing cabinets with small card trays. There was only one door and no windows. Some of the cards dated back to the 1920S. When the cotton was sold, Frank erased the former owner's name and penciled in the new owner's name. Little did I know at the time, but while I stood there innocently taking all this in as passing but interesting information, Truman was hatching one of his biggest schemes. Truman, who was about fifteen years old at the time, and I had...