A train passed through Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm, and during harvest season left boxcars on a spur at his cotton gin.
Memorizing the cars’ names was a favorite pastime of my brother and me. We played a game in which one of us said a name and the other answered with a different name. For instance, if I said, “B & O,” he might say, “Illinois Central.” The one who could no longer respond, lost.
My brother usually won. He was smarter than I … and craftier, often devising Machiavellian schemes to trick me. One of his schemes created a calamity.
“I wish I was brave enough to hop on the caboose when the train pulls away,” he said, as we lay in bed one night. “What a thrill it would be — hearing those big steel wheels turning and watching the countryside whiz by.”
The next day, the train chugged to a stop and unhooked from the caboose to leave boxcars on the spur. The conductor was hanging off the side of a car, exchanging hand signals with the engineer, leaving the caboose empty.
“Let’s hide in the caboose,” I said. “We’ll jump off before the train picks up speed.”
“I’m scared, Junior. You’re the brave one — you do it.” What a ruse … and I fell for it!
Standing on the caboose’s rear platform, I felt the rumbling jar when the train re-coupled, heard its wheels scraping on the tracks, and looked down at my chicken brother running alongside.
“How does it feel?” he shouted.
“You’re missing the ride of your life,” I yelled back. He ran until he could no longer keep up, and then, writhing in laughter, pointed at me and hooted, “So long, Junior the hobo.”
One look at the crossties blurring beneath me, and I knew I’d been tricked. The train was going too fast for me to jump off.
My brother not only realized the same thing, but also realized his caper had become a calamity, and raced to Jaybird’s house, praying that my boyhood mentor and best friend was home.
Upon hearing my brother’s story, the old black man and my brother jumped in his pickup and raced toward a crossing ten miles down the track, barely beating the train.
When the engineer saw him waving his arms, he pulled the emergency brake, and the train screeched to a jolting halt.
After accepting Jaybird’s profuse apologies, the engineer warned me never to do anything stupid like that again, boarded the train, and resumed his journey.
Confessing his devilish deed, my brother said, “It’s all my fault, Jaybird. I tricked him — I even called him Junior the hobo. Please don’t tell Mama.”
Jaybird tried to keep a straight face, but when he mumbled, “Junior the hobo,” he burst into a wheezing fit of guffaws.
Finally catching his breath, he croaked, “All right, I won’t tell Miss Lena. Promise me you’ll stay away from the train, and she won’t never know ’bout Junior the hobo.”
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)).
