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Jaybird knew that gambling, like cigarettes, can be addictive, and made sure I never became a gambler— by encouraging me to gamble

Gamble No More



As a teenager I shared the false notion that most males do during those turbulent years: I was a man, not a boy. Aware of that, my best friend and mentor, Jaybird, taught me many valuable lessons the hard way … through experience.
One day while we were fishing, he lit up a Camel. When I reached over and took the cigarette case out of his shirt pocket, the old black man didn’t say a word. “I’m a full-grown man now; I can smoke if I want to,” I said. Shrugging, he passed me his lighter. I lit up, inhaled deeply, and picked up my fishing pole. After several puffs, I became woozy, nauseous, and began seeing three bobbers instead of one. Soon the sardines, onions and crackers we ate for lunch revolted in my stomach. Quickly, I leaned over the side of the boat, vomited, and flicked the cigarette into the water. As I lay down, I heard the old man chuckling. I have never smoked again. Jaybird also used experience to cure me of another vice: gambling. On my father’s Mississippi Delta farm, a Saturday dice game always followed payday on Friday. Crouched beside Jaybird, I soon grasped the game’s fundamentals, and he spotted me some money. “If you win, repay me first, and keep de rest,” he said. “If you lose, repay me from the allowance you git fuh doin’ chores.”

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To win, Jaybird said I must encourage the dice, so I learned gambling jargon … terms such as, “natchul.” This meant that the dice turned up the same amount as the previous roll by landing with identical numbers on each die, e.g., if the first roll was four (three plus one), a natural — natchul — would be two plus two. My favorite encouragement was “’pologize dice,” used when a player regains the dice, having rolled craps — two (snake eyes), three (acey-deucey), or twelve (boxcars) — his last turn. Emulating Jaybird, I kissed the dice on my first roll, bounced them off the wall, and shouted, “Seven come ’leven.” The dice obeyed, and I raked in the pot. To the other players’ amazement, I just kept on rolling and controlling those bones. The mound of money in front of me grew steadily. Amid envious glances, I rattled the dice in my fist again and let them fly. “Boxcars!” Jaybird shouted. “You done crapped out, boy.” Soon my pile of dough was gone, and he loaned me more money. At the time I didn’t realize that he was letting experience teach me not to indulge in vices — by letting me indulge in them. Jaybird knew that gambling, like cigarettes, can be addictive, and made sure I never became a gambler— by encouraging me to gamble. For several weeks, I handed over big chunks of my allowance to my creditor, an obligation that was painfully educational. After the debt was settled, I was content just to watch the dice games. The message from my beloved mentor was clear: Gamble no more.


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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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