One-eyed Deacon hauled cottonseed from my father’s gin to the oil mill in town. His cornflower blue glass eye neither matched the brown one, nor were the two orbs synchronized. The good eye bulged like a bulldog’s, while its store-bought mate floated up, down, and sideways.
One day I asked Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor, how Deacon lost his eye.
“He used to love frog legs. One night he gigged a huge one, helt it up close, looked the frog in the eye, and said, ‘Them big legs you got sho’ gonna eat good.’
“Glaring at Deacon, the frog reached out, poked him in the eye with a front leg, and put it out. From then on, he’s been skeered to death of frogs … claims they is Beelzebub himself, and casts curses on folks that mess with ’em.”
“I bet he’d jump out of his skin if I showed him a frog.”
“Do that, and I’ll tear yo’ butt up.”
One day I crawled under the gin’s truck scales and captured a few Beelzebubs who resided there. About the time I crawled out, Deacon pulled up to the gin in his old Packard and went inside to chat with Jaybird, leaving his overcoat in the car. He had always been kind to me, but Satan and I couldn’t resist being unkind to him: I dumped the frogs in the coat’s pockets.
The old man came out, threw on the coat, and fired up the Packard. I felt awful, but it was too late. Suddenly, the car lurched to a stop, and out tumbled Deacon, flinging off the coat and fleeing its amphibious occupants. My father pulled up about that time.
“What’s wrong, Deacon?” he asked.
“Don’t know, Boss. I heard sumpin’ thumpin’ under the hood and jumped out to see what it was.”
After Dad left, Deacon glared at me with both brown and blue eyes, and asked, “How much you got saved up from yo’ allowance?”
“Twenty-five dollars,” I said, bowing my head.
“Well, I jes’ bought that coat — cost me fifty dollars, but I ain’t never wearin’ it again. You come up with fifty dollars rat quick, or I will tell the boss what you did.”
Only one person might consider helping me out: Jaybird, so I told him what I had done. Good to his word, the old black man gave me a switching I’ll never forget. Then, he loaned me twenty-five dollars.
“We gwine take this money to Deacon rat now, and you gwine beg his forgiveness. Yo’ heart got a streak o’ evil in it; Deacon’s ain’t. He’s always been a kind, forgivin’ man, and the Lawd will forgive him on Judgment Day.”
Remorseful and ashamed, I handed Deacon the money and begged his forgiveness. Both brown and blue eyes glared at me a while. Then he smiled and gave me a hug, bringing to mind something Jaybird had always preached to me: The most forgiven are those who forgive.
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)).
One-eyed Deacon hauled cottonseed from my father’s gin to the oil mill in town. His cornflower blue glass eye neither matched the brown one, nor were the two orbs synchronized. The good eye bulged like a bulldog’s, while its store-bought mate floated up, down, and sideways.
One day I asked Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor, how Deacon lost his eye.
