On his Mississippi Delta farm, Dad built a commissary store. Between it and the only paved road running through that remote corner of the county stood a huge sycamore tree. Its limbs were broad enough to hold my pal Lamar and me on summer nights when we threw hard, green sycamore balls at passing cars.
My boyhood best friend and mentor, Jaybird, warned us, “You boys keep up dat foolishness, and one of dese nights somebody gwine climb that tree and chop y’all into trotline bait.”
“You jist tryin’ to skeer us,” Lamar said. “Nobody will ever look up in this tree. We hit four cars last night, and all the drivers done was git out, look around, cuss a little, and drive on.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn y’all. Better not chunk at Thaddo. He’s outta de penitentiary, and workin’ down the road at Mr. Jeesto’s. Hit his car wid dem balls, and y’all will sho nuff end up being trotline bait.” We heard his raspy, creaking chuckle as he ambled off.
A master yarn spinner, the old black man often told horror stories that made us look under the bed before going to sleep. They scared the breath out of us, but we loved them.
In the Delta, Thaddo Rathbone was known as a “tush hog” — a term applied only to the meanest of the mean — who wielded his switchblade stiletto with surgical efficiency. Jaybird told us he could cut buttons off a man’s shirt without nicking the skin.
A few years back he was sent to the state penitentiary for carving a hot-blooded opponent into cold cuts at Hugo’s Hideaway, a country juke joint that had been the last scene seen by numerous ne’er-do-wells.
Jaybird had given us advice many times, but once again we refused to listen. The next night we were in the tree, an arsenal of sycamore balls between us. They were just the right size for throwing three at a time — six projectiles per salvo.
Spotting headlights in the distance, we got ready. Lamar whispered, “One, two, three — chunk!”
Following the rat-tat-tat of direct hits, brakes screeched, a door flung open, and a passenger’s words struck terror in our hearts.
“What wuz dat, Thaddo?”
Footsteps on gravel crunched beneath us. Like treed raccoons, Lamar and I were paralyzed with fright. Then we heard a growling voice and a switchblade’s metallic click.
“Come down. Git in de car.”
Jaybird was sitting in his porch swing when we pulled up in the yard. In the pitch black, only the whites of Thaddo’s eyes showed, as he stared at us in the back seat. After a long silence, a white, smiling, gold-toothed arc flashed below the eyes.
“Git out,” he said.
“Whose car wuz dat?” Jaybird asked. Trembling with fear, neither of us could utter a word.
He put his arms around us, pulled us up close, and said, “Uh, huh … Thaddo, wudn’t it? Y’all came mighty close to bein’ what I said: trotline bait.”
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)).
