The train that passed through Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm often stopped to leave boxcars on a spur. My brother and I memorized the boxcars’ names, and played a game in which one said a name and the other answered with a different name. For instance, if I said, “B & O,” he’d say, “Illinois Central.” The loser couldn’t come up with another name.
My brother always won. He was smarter, not encumbered by an insatiable ego as I was, and was Mama’s favorite, mainly because she knew he would never lie to her, as I sometimes did.
One afternoon when the train unhooked from the caboose to leave boxcars on the spur, I said to my brother, “Let’s get in the caboose. We can jump off before the train starts going too fast.”
“I’m scared. You’ve always been the brave one — you do it.”
What a ruse! My ego fell for it, and I hopped on the caboose. As the train began to move, I stepped out on the back platform and waved at my brother running alongside.
“Shoot, I wish I was up there with you,” he yelled.
“You chicken — this is a blast,” I yelled back. Then he stopped running and, writhing in laughter, shouted, “So long, sucker.”
One look at the crossties blurring beneath me, and I knew I’d been had … bad. Suddenly, we brothers realized simultaneously that his caboose caper had become a calamity. Fearing Mama’s willow switch, he ran to Jaybird’s house instead of hers for help.
“Lawdy mercy!” my boyhood best friend and mentor shouted. “You mean to tell me Junior is on dat train? Hit don’t stop fuh anothuh hunnud miles.”
The road passing through the farm crossed the railroad track twenty miles away. Jaybird and my brother jumped in his pickup, and the race was on.
By minutes, they beat the train to the crossing. Standing between the rails, Jaybird waved his arms frantically, and the train jolted to a halt.
“I’m already behind schedule,” the engineer said. “Why are you stoppin’ me?” Then he saw a terrified boy flash by and jump into the old black man’s arms. No explanation was needed. The engineer shook his head, laughed, and waved us out of the way.
During supper, Mama asked, “What did you boys do today?” This time the favorite son didn’t hesitate to lie.
“You will be proud of me, Mama,” he said. “When the train stopped to leave boxcars on the spur, my beloved but sometimes foolish brother got in the caboose. When the train re-hooked to it and started pulling away, he froze in terror. I jumped on the rear platform, grabbed him, and jumped off.”
“Glaring at me, she said, “At least I’ve got one son who is always truthful and smart enough not to pull stupid stunts.”
After looking at the haughty sneer on my brother’s face and the disapproving glare on my mother’s, I realized that two words summed up my day: had … bad.
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)).
