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Key Fobs



Sometimes kids can be so dad-gummed insensitive. Many a time since my three daughters came into this world, I have gone without so that they could have what they wanted, but when it comes to reciprocating, they are amnesiacs.
Because I’ve reached a point in life where I’m old, worn out, frail, and absent-minded, one of my fondest hopes is that my three Southern belle beauties, all bearing striking resemblances to their father, will coddle me a little, cater to me, or at least honor my wishes. Recently, we were enjoying a postprandial confab, and I brought up the subject of how I want them to dispose of my remains. I was surprised that they went along with everything I wanted … almost. Yes, Dad, they purred, we’ll see to it that you are cremated and that your ashes are spread over those Mississippi Delta cotton fields that you farmed for so many years. We’ll be certain that your friends are there to witness the spreading and that a bugler will play taps while Bubba, your old pilot buddy, makes the ash-disposing swath, and, yes, we’ll host a get-together afterwards, where everyone can feast on crawdads, catfish, or chitlins, depending on their gustatory preferences. Supremely pleased, I thanked them for promising to dispose of me in a way that is fit and proper for an old farm boy.

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“You girls don’t know what it means to me that y’all are being so solicitous in this matter,” I sniffed. “As far as the material items I leave behind, all I own that I really care about is the little Bible Mama gave me when I was ten years old and Loretta, my beloved pickup. Take care of those two things, and get rid of the rest in a yard sale.” Then I thought about a subject dear to my heart. I wanted each of them to have a personal memento, something they could hold in their hands every day that would evoke memories of Dad. I thought about copies of the books I had written, but heck, they’d just stash them on a shelf and forget them. I thought about my pocketknife collection, but being girls, they wouldn’t carry knives around. Then I hit on it. “Listen, y’all, here’s what I want done. Before the mortician fires up the crematorium, tell him to extract three items from my body — one for each of you: the two titanium screws in my knees and my pacemaker. Y’all can use them for key fobs. That way, figuratively speaking, you can touch dear ole daddy for good luck every time you get behind the wheel.” Instantly, all three girls gagged. Three disgusted faces stared me down. Alas, as they had done so many times, they were ignoring my wishes again, and for the life of me I couldn’t understand why. Those girls flat out let me know that they would never accept such gross, repulsive items, and certainly would never use them as key fobs.


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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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