THE NEWBIE DAD - APRIL 2008

The Amherst Cotton Company

It was just about this time last year when I asked my then-two-year-old son what we should plant in the garden. Without hesitation, he replied, “flowers and meat.”

“Hmm,” I thought looking skyward and stroking my chin, “that’s interesting.” I envisioned picking some meaty pork chops and tossing them right on to the nearby grill. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing like homegrown pork chops,” our guests would remark over dinner on the patio. “They’re so tasty. Not like those hothouse chops you get at the grocery store. Those taste like styrofoam. Must be something about this Buffalo soil.”

Then I snapped out of it. “We can’t grow meat,” I told the little guy. “But, we should grow something cool and unusual — maybe cotton.” Yes, cotton — that crop that thrives on the sizzling Southern heat — just popped into my head as an outlandish plant to try to cultivate up here in the land of the two-month summer.

That night, I hopped on the computer and searched for cotton seeds. Immediately, I was directed to www.cottonman.com. The site claimed to be the “world’s #1 raw cotton provider.” I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it sounded impressive. With another click of the mouse, I found out that the site’s owner, Fahey “Butch” Byrum III (could there be a more fitting name for the “Cotton Man?”), was shipping live potted cotton plants from his North Carolina farm to any location in the United States.

The plants cost one price to ship to customers east of the Mississippi and a higher price for folks west of the Mississippi. The courteous Cotton Man even noted on his website to “e-mail your zip if you are not sure about the pricing.” I, for one, was certain that I lived east of the Big Muddy, but I sent an e-mail anyway to inquire whether a cotton plant would survive more than a weekend north of the Mason-Dixon line.

He promptly responded, saying that, yes, the plant could survive up North as long as it was kept in a pot outdoors during the summer and was brought inside when the temperature dipped below 60 degrees. I was convinced this experiment was worth a try, so I ordered one live cotton plant.

A few days later, the cotton arrived. My son jumped with joy. I was pretty excited, too. We removed it from the box and placed it in the sunniest spot we could find in the backyard. Anytime a visitor showed up at the house, our son was quick to clue them in to our exotic new addition. He’d point to the plant and say, “That’s Amherst cotton.” And they’d say, “That’s what?” “That’s Amherst cotton,” he’d repeat, delighted to have the chance to say it again. And I’d chime in with the whole story, Fahey “Butch” Byrum III and all.

At first, the cotton looked like any other large, shrub-like plant. Then, it started growing flowers. Lots of flowers. Large white and pink and red flowers, the exact kind you’d expect to see in some stately Southern courtyard. “Are you sure the Cotton Man didn’t send you a magnolia plant?” my wife offered. I headed back to the Internet and found out that cotton plants flower for about six weeks (each flower starts white, then darkens to pink and red) as it sets the actual cotton boll. What a pleasant bonus, I thought.

As the summer began to fade, the flower petals dropped off and hard green husks took their place. Inside, the cotton fibers were growing. I prayed that we’d get some actual cotton and that I wouldn’t have to break the news to my trusting young son that our Amherst Cotton Company was a bust.

When the late summer temperatures began to dip below 60 degrees over night, I brought the plant inside. My dedicated son would help me haul the cotton back out during the days for some dedicated sun.

Then, one day, it happened. And, of course, it was the boy who noticed. “Daddy, look!” he said as we ate breakfast. He pointed to the plant sitting in our kitchen window. “Cotton!” I screamed, a little too loud. One of the bolls had opened, revealing a soft tuft of white fiber. We jumped around as if we had won the lottery. Over the next few weeks, we counted 15 more cotton bolls and had that same celebration each time one opened.

It’s pretty neat what kids do to you, when you think about it. They encourage wacky behavior. The prompt you to do stuff “just for the fun of it.” They’re the reason to try things you never would have thought of trying before. And they’re the ones who know that anything is possible — even growing cotton in Amherst, New York.


Brian Kantz



		© 2008 Brian Kantz • All rights reserved • Contact Brian

	THE NEWBIE DAD - APRIL 2008 The Amherst Cotton Company It was just about this time last year when I asked my then-two-year-old son what we should plant in the garden. Without hesitation, he replied, “flowers and meat.” “Hmm,” I thought looking skyward and stroking my chin, “that’s interesting.” I envisioned picking some meaty pork chops and tossing them right on to the nearby grill. “I’m telling you, there’s nothing like homegrown pork chops,” our guests would remark over dinner on the patio. “They’re so tasty. Not like those hothouse chops you get at the grocery store. Those taste like styrofoam. Must be something about this Buffalo soil.” Then I snapped out of it. “We can’t grow meat,” I told the little guy. “But, we should grow something cool and unusual — maybe cotton.” Yes, cotton — that crop that thrives on the sizzling Southern heat — just popped into my head as an outlandish plant to try to cultivate up here in the land of the two-month summer. That night, I hopped on the computer and searched for cotton seeds. Immediately, I was directed to www.cottonman.com. The site claimed to be the “world’s #1 raw cotton provider.” I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it sounded impressive. With another click of the mouse, I found out that the site’s owner, Fahey “Butch” Byrum III (could there be a more fitting name for the “Cotton Man?”), was shipping live potted cotton plants from his North Carolina farm to any location in the United States. The plants cost one price to ship to customers east of the Mississippi and a higher price for folks west of the Mississippi. The courteous Cotton Man even noted on his website to “e-mail your zip if you are not sure about the pricing.” I, for one, was certain that I lived east of the Big Muddy, but I sent an e-mail anyway to inquire whether a cotton plant would survive more than a weekend north of the Mason-Dixon line. He promptly responded, saying that, yes, the plant could survive up North as long as it was kept in a pot outdoors during the summer and was brought inside when the temperature dipped below 60 degrees. I was convinced this experiment was worth a try, so I ordered one live cotton plant. A few days later, the cotton arrived. My son jumped with joy. I was pretty excited, too. We removed it from the box and placed it in the sunniest spot we could find in the backyard. Anytime a visitor showed up at the house, our son was quick to clue them in to our exotic new addition. He’d point to the plant and say, “That’s Amherst cotton.” And they’d say, “That’s what?” “That’s Amherst cotton,” he’d repeat, delighted to have the chance to say it again. And I’d chime in with the whole story, Fahey “Butch” Byrum III and all. At first, the cotton looked like any other large, shrub-like plant. Then, it started growing flowers. Lots of flowers. Large white and pink and red flowers, the exact kind you’d expect to see in some stately Southern courtyard. “Are you sure the Cotton Man didn’t send you a magnolia plant?” my wife offered. I headed back to the Internet and found out that cotton plants flower for about six weeks (each flower starts white, then darkens to pink and red) as it sets the actual cotton boll. What a pleasant bonus, I thought. As the summer began to fade, the flower petals dropped off and hard green husks took their place. Inside, the cotton fibers were growing. I prayed that we’d get some actual cotton and that I wouldn’t have to break the news to my trusting young son that our Amherst Cotton Company was a bust. When the late summer temperatures began to dip below 60 degrees over night, I brought the plant inside. My dedicated son would help me haul the cotton back out during the days for some dedicated sun. Then, one day, it happened. And, of course, it was the boy who noticed. “Daddy, look!” he said as we ate breakfast. He pointed to the plant sitting in our kitchen window. “Cotton!” I screamed, a little too loud. One of the bolls had opened, revealing a soft tuft of white fiber. We jumped around as if we had won the lottery. Over the next few weeks, we counted 15 more cotton bolls and had that same celebration each time one opened. It’s pretty neat what kids do to you, when you think about it. They encourage wacky behavior. The prompt you to do stuff “just for the fun of it.” They’re the reason to try things you never would have thought of trying before. And they’re the ones who know that anything is possible — even growing cotton in Amherst, New York.