James Nicholson, known by all as Jimmy Nick, loved expensive clothes. Every day, he wore pressed khakis, a white shirt and bow tie. When he returned from the university to practice law in our little Mississippi Delta farming community, he filled his closets with the finest suits money could buy.
On a day when he was to attend a very important meeting in St. Louis, he awoke to find the world blanketed in a foot of snow. Unconcerned, he reserved a seat on a small shuttle flight from nearby Greenville to the Memphis airport. Dressed in his nattiest suit, he sat beside Mrs. Dowd, the preacher’s wife, who was visiting relatives in St. Louis.
Looking out the window, the young lawyer saw the engine belching smoke, as large dollops of oil plopped on the tarmac. The pilot shut it down. Panicking, Jimmy Nick said, “We’d be fools to risk flying to Memphis in this clunker. Let’s get off.”
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Dowd said, “The Lord’ll get us there safely.”
Well, the Lord isn’t piloting this rattletrap, Jimmy Nick thought to himself, as he deplaned.
In the terminal, he saw a charter flying service advertisement and called Bubba, the owner, who agreed to fly him to Memphis. When the pilot arrived, he leered at the shuttle, shifted his tobacco cud to the other jowl, and said, “You doin’ the right thang. No way I’d fly in one of them ground lovers.”
Bubba’s confident nature reassured Jimmy Nick as he buckled up beside him in the small Cessna.
“We’ll be thar ’fore you know it,” Bubba said, spitting in a large cup.
Once airborne, Jimmy Nick wondered why he couldn’t see the Mississippi River, which coursed north to south from Memphis to Greenville. He wondered out loud when they crossed north-south Highway 61 at a ninety-degree angle.
“Dad Gummit!” Bubba exclaimed, banging his fist on the instrument panel. “That compass sticks in cold weather. Now hit’s right.” Sweat soaked Jimmy Nick’s suit as Bubba banked northward.
At the time, the Memphis airport was quite small. As Bubba approached it, Jimmy Nick saw a large airliner on the same runway they were landing on.
“I’ll swunny — that joker is taking off on my runway,” Bubba said as he veered over a taxiway. The Cessna touched down, skidded sideways and plowed into a snow bank.
“You idiot — you almost killed us,” Jimmy Nick screamed, grabbing his bag and kicking open the door.
Galloping through the terminal, he arrived just as passengers were preparing to board the St. Louis flight. His shoes were soggy, his pants were soaked and his coat reeked of tobacco juice that sloshed out of Bubba’s spit cup.
In front of him stood none other than Mrs. Dowd. “The Lord got us up here without any trouble,” she said, assessing the attorney’s attire. “But it looks like you had your share of it. At least you made it in the nick o’ time, Jimmy Nick.”
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)).
