When my daughters were young, I’d take them to a bridge across a canal near my father’s Mississippi Delta farm, and let them improve their marksmanship with small caliber rifles.
While they stood locked and loaded on the bridge’s downstream side, I’d toss inflated balloons attached to small weights from the upstream side. When they scored hits, the balloon killers made chalk marks on the railing. If they succeeded in bursting all of them, we’d go to Fratesi’s Grocery for sodas and snacks.
Once, when the canal was full following heavy rain, I dropped a balloon into the stream, but instead of a fusillade, I heard cries of distress.
“There’s a cat down there!” the girls caterwauled. Leaning over the railing, I saw a shivering kitten clinging to a bridge piling. The looks on the shooters’ faces confirmed what I suspected: We wouldn’t leave without rescuing the frightened feline.
My first idea flopped. I lowered a rope, but the chilled creature merely hissed at it. Certain the cat was starving, I lowered a few sardines in a bucket. Again, no results, only more hissing.
“Dad, you’re a man and must do what men must do,” one daughter remonstrated. “You must swim out and rescue the poor thing.” My ego being what it is, I saw an opportunity to be a hero in my daughters’ eyes.
At the water’s edge, I gauged the swift current, moved upstream to a distance that would allow me to intersect the piling, got a running start, and hit the water at full stroke. The triangulation landed me on target, and I grabbed the piling.
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I coaxed, extending a hand. Ignoring the hand, it leaped directly into my face, grabbing hold with all twenty claws. Downstream we writhed, the cat fighting to repel a perceived predator, and the preyed-upon man trying to swim and de-cat himself simultaneously.
Finally, having redesigned my face with countless scratches, the cat released its grip, swam to the bank, scurried away, and was never seen again.
When I climbed up to the bridge, I expected praise for my heroic efforts, but instead the girls were whining because I didn’t hold on to the cat and deliver it to them so that they could give it warmth, food, lots of love, and a home.
Later that day, I dropped by to visit Jaybird, hoping I would at least get some consolation from my boyhood best friend and mentor.
“Lawdy mercy, boy, what happened to yo’ face?” he asked. “Hit looks lak a roadmap.”
When I told him about my vain efforts to be a hero, the old black man looked once again at my face, turned away, tried to control himself but couldn’t, and burst into howls of laughter.
Finally his laughter subsided, and wiping the tears from his eyes, he thought for a moment, and trying to hold back even more guffaws, choked, “Well, young man, let that be a life lesson: Don’t never listen to women.”
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)).
