Ned’s tractor wouldn’t shift gears, so he headed toward the shop at my father’s Mississippi Delta farm to see if the mechanic could figure out what was wrong.
As he drove along the blacktop road, the warm spring sun, the engine’s soothing hum, and the wind caressing his face lulled him to sleep. Meandering aimlessly, the tractor eased off the road, rolled down the embankment, splashed into a ditch, and stalled.
Awakened by the abrupt halt, Ned found himself in a heap of trouble. The tractor was bogged down, the transmission was stuck in gear, the muffler had fallen off, and the engine wouldn’t restart.
Having loaded poles, tackle, minnows, and snacks into Matilda, his beloved truck, my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird picked me up and was driving down the road toward our favorite fishing hole when he spotted the tractor.
“Lawd, Ned, looks like you done got yo’self in a sho-nuff mess,” Jaybird said.
“I sho’ have. It won’t crank and it’s stuck in gear. Can y’all pull me to the shop?” Jaybird nodded.
As the chain connecting truck and tractor tightened, Jaybird warned, “Ned, be sho’ to keep yo’ foot on the clutch — else we can’t pull you.”
As truck and tractor neared the shop, Jaybird slowed down, which allowed the chain to slacken a bit. Not wanting to bump Matilda, Ned let out on the clutch. Instantly, the tractor, in gear and with its throttle wide open, exploded into life. Terrified, Ned catapulted from the seat and fled.
Someone once noted that mules will work for you ten years for an opportunity to kick you once. So will cantankerous old tractors. Just such a tractor now had its opportunity.
Two frantic faces — Jaybird’s and mine — peered through the truck’s rear window as the driverless tractor shot by with Matilda slewing and bouncing backward behind, scattering fishing poles, tackle, minnows, and tools in her wake.
Inside the cab, chicken bones, snuff cans, rifles, cartridges, an old black man and a frightened white boy swirled kaleidoscopically.
Onward the un-muffled, metallic monster charged, roaring louder, blowing smoke rings, and galloping faster and faster. Like a giant tomcat fleeing a tin can tied to its tail, it charged straight through a cloud of squawking, flapping, white chickens, straight through a loaded clothesline — straight toward the barn, barely missing a braying mule.
When the tractor plunged its nose into the barn’s feed trough, it stopped, but still the rear tires churned, digging deeper until the fiendish brute’s screaming motor gave one last valiant howl, shuddered and died. Only the mule’s mournful brays broke the silence.
Scratched, shaken, and frightened out of our wits, Jaybird and I crawled out of Matilda. After he’d calmed down a bit and caught his breath, the old black man dusted himself off, looked woefully at his banged-up truck, turned to me and said, “Boy, I don’t know ’bout you, but fishin’ is the last thing on my mind … I’m jes’ glad to be alive.”
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)).
