A seven year drouth plagued East Texas in the ’50s. The rich, black, river bottom land crusted and cracked like a near-emptied paint can. Boll weevils scourged the cotton fields year after year and the farmers grew dry and tired and hopeless with the land.
One spring day a county agent strolled through the long rows of new cotton plants fresh green and not half way to his knees. He squatted between the dusty rows counting insects on random groups of twelve plants, then he raised his young face to the glum, sun tempered farmers around him and recommended a crop duster. The farmers nodded and went their ways to borrow money.