Because hairy honey hunters have raided their hives since the dawn of creation, bees hate hairy creatures, and the preacher’s face was hairy.
The sign on his car read, “The Most High Right Reverend Doctor Thaddeus Isaiah Sichensich, Thunderbolt Of The Deep South.”
We called him Brother Love. His Sunday morning singing and sermonizing radio show, “Don’t Let The Devil Ride,” was more entertaining than enrapturing, and we obliged when he solicited donations.
Brother Love wore white suits, bow ties, stacked heel shoes and wide straw hats. The pewter cross around his neck inscribed an arc below the scraggly ends of his Old Father Time beard.
One morning, as a blood-red egg yolk sun peeked over the horizon, I was tending my bees when the pious man of the cloth pulled up in his long white Lincoln. My boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird was with him.
“Morning, gents,” I said. “Brother Love, thanks for providing us broken sinners such wonderful Sunday morning radio messages.”
“Bless you, my child,” he said. Other saintly salutations he used included “praise the Lord” and “amen, brother,” but what happened that day demonstrated his knowledge of vernacular that wasn’t sanctified.
Wary of honeybees, Jaybird stood back a safe distance, but Brother Love didn’t.
“Harvestin’ honey, I see,” he said. “One of our Maker’s bountiful blessings,” he rhapsodized. “Sho’ hope you’ll give me a jar.”
Which I planned to do ... until I noticed squadrons of bees in attack formation, wings vibrating, humming in high octaves, drawing themselves up to their fullest extent, and glaring at his holiness’ hairiness.
“Preacher, you might oughta move back,” Jaybird warned … but too late.
“Heavens!” the preacher shrieked, combing bony fingers through scraggly strands. “I believe one of those little fellows is in my beard! Lawd have mercy! Bunch of ’em is in my beard, down my shirt, up my britches legs — oh, ouch!”
Then he let fly with a fusillade of foul language unbecoming a man of the cloth. The vituperative, venomous vehemence he spewed while slapping and streaking toward his car earned him no merits from his Maker that day.
Jumping in the Lincoln, he sped away, cursing, praying, and leaving Jaybird behind.
The prayers went unanswered as swarming, buzzing passengers gave their last full measure in Kamikaze suicide stings.
Suddenly, the door flew open, and Reverend and ride parted ways. Across a field he sprinted as the car eased off in a ditch. After the bees departed, Jaybird pulled the Lincoln back up on the road.
“I’m so sorry, Brother Love,” I said. Then I offered him a jar of honey and a donation for his radio program.
Sopping wet with sweat and eyeing his ruined clothes, he said, “I appreciate the donation, but I believe I’ll pass on the honey. I done had all I want to do with bees today.”
After he drove off, Jaybird burst into laughter and said, “Them bees sho’ stole the thunder from the Thunderbolt of the Deep South.”
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)).
