The sun was sliding toward the horizon, and my lifelong friend and mentor Jaybird and I were waiting for two men ahead of us on the ramp, launching their boat, but what was about to happen dashed all hopes of fishing that day. Fidgeting, Jaybird mused, “I wonder what’s keeping those clowns from launching. We should be fishing by now.”
I nodded in agreement with the old black man. Strange indeed … the truck’s driver, Floyd Finnegan, faced backward, but wasn’t responding to his pal in the boat who was shouting angrily for him to back further down the ramp until the boat floated free of its trailer. Frustrated, Jaybird moseyed down to chat with a few ladies fishing from the bank. On pretty days, they were always there, wearing flower dresses, wide-brimmed straw hats, and sitting on five-gallon cans. One of them, Sadie, lived on Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm.
