WhatFinger


Our tin nemesis shined like new when we finished, and from then on, we gave Coop the cop what all lawmen deserve

Respect



The Mississippi Delta’s cotton crops did well that year, and Leland’s football team went undefeated. We seniors were happy. Only one thing bugged us: Coop.
“Y’all drive too fast on Third Street by the school,” Chief B. Ware said, “so we’re stationing Sergeant Cooper at the intersection.” Coop was tall and two-sided. Drivers heading either way caught his stern stare. Mounted on a metal base, he wore a policeman’s hat, uniform, boots, pistol, and badge. In one hand he held a sign reading, “SLOW! 15 MPH DURING SCHOOL.” We despised Coop, and showed our disregard for his authority not only by speeding past him, but also by altering his appearance. Chief Ware sent someone to erase the goatee and moustache we drew on him early in his tour of duty, and warned that anyone caught vandalizing Coop would be punished. We weren’t fazed. On Valentine’s Day, Coop greeted morning traffic with lipstick kisses on his face and a heart covering his sign that read, “Roses are red, collards are green, why am I treated so mean?” On Mother’s Day, he flaunted women’s jewelry and clothing. Beads adorned his neck, daisies festooned his sign, a wide-brimmed hat with a pink band draped jauntily across his brow, gaudy bracelets encircled his wrist, and a miniskirt girded his midsection.

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A dedicated lawman, Chief Ware viewed our pranks as insulting to his profession. He persuaded school administrators to announce that anyone caught defacing Coop would be suspended. Leland is a small farming community, and except for us three boys, no one stirred that moonless late October night, as we hoisted Coop onto a pickup. We planned to dump him in Deer Creek. His base was heavy, and loading him was difficult, but finally there he was, standing in the truck, making his final tour down Third Street. As Coop teetered on the bridge rail, we saluted him disrespectfully and shoved him in, laughing gleefully at the huge splash. Off we sped, certain no one would ever find the tin cop, rusting in Davy Jones’ Locker. Summer had been extremely dry that year, and it never occurred to us that Deer Creek’s depth at the bridge was only four feet. Coop stood over seven feet. From his badge upward, he was above water! Monday morning, everyone reported to the auditorium for a special meeting. Chief Ware stepped to the podium. “Yesterday, we found Sergeant Cooper half submerged below the creek bridge,” he scowled. “I know none of y’all were involved in this outrageous act of disrespect toward our town’s law and order, and it’s a good thing, too, because if you were, you’d face permanent expulsion from school and possible jail time. “Now, we need someone to retrieve Sergeant Cooper, clean him up, and place him back on duty. Any volunteers?” The three of us, pale as ghosts, flung up our hands. Our tin nemesis shined like new when we finished, and from then on, we gave Coop the cop what all lawmen deserve: Respect.


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Jimmy Reed -- Bio and Archives

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)).


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