Widow woman Johnson, who lived with her brood of urchins in one of Dad’s rental houses, wasn’t overly bright. When completing her oldest son’s birth certificate, she either didn’t know how to spell the name she’d chosen, or left off the last letter, and dubbed him Lyndo. Even less mentally gifted than his dam, he was an ideal target for trickery, a trait capitalized upon by the tricksters in our secret society, the Mohicans.
The Mohicans decided that all girls, including our sisters, were beneath our manly stature, and must be shunned, so instead of building our clubhouse on terra firma, where it would be more accessible to females, we erected it in a huge oak on a side of the house not visible through the large kitchen windows from which Mama’s eagle eyes surveyed the landscape constantly, mostly to make certain the farm brats and her own little buggers weren’t raiding her fruit trees.
When completed, the leaves camouflaged the tree house so well that we warriors held many secret meetings in it, certain that it would never be sullied by a girl’s touch.
One day, a club member decided to check on the tree house. As soon as he opened the door and glanced in, he scampered squirrel-like down the trunk.
“There’s a yellow jacket nest as big around as one of Mama’s flapjacks hanging from the ceiling,” he said, “and it’s covered up with wasps (“wausts” in Mississippi Delta vernacular).
About that time Lyndo walked up. We knew that he had long wanted to be in our secret club, so we devised an initiation rite. If he could climb blindfolded to the tree house and retrieve the Bowie knife hanging from the ceiling, he would qualify for Mohican membership. He agreed, and I wrapped a bandanna around his eyes.
Ascending as slowly as a three-toed sloth, he soon found the house and crawled into it. Almost immediately, we heard slapping and screaming. Lyndo landed amongst a bunch of Mohicans who realized too late that an entire battalion of angry yellow jackets had followed him down, determined to attack anything that moved.
Even for fleet-footed warriors, outrunning infuriated wasps is impossible. Thank goodness, the swimming pool was close by, and in we dove, fully clothed, which brought Mama running. When yellow jackets began buzzing around her, she forgot all about us and went running back in the house.
Every Mohican ached from at least a dozen stings, and our victim could count about two dozen. Our cruel trick made us feel awful, and what Lyndo said didn’t help: “I sure did want to join y’all’s club, but before I found that knife, I stuck my hand right square in the middle of a waust nest. Will y’all please give me another chance?”
After we assured him that his courageous act merited full-fledged membership in the Mohican band, he sauntered homeward, hurting and happy.
His fellow warriors made a solemn pledge: From that day forward, we’d leave Lyndo alone.
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
