Big O-O-Oh!

While handing over the money, Jaybird muttered, “Boy, you’re a sucker for advertising. This money — a loan, mind you — will be wasted on yet another lure as fish-frightening as the Pearly-Eyed Wobbler you foolishly had to have and that I foolishly loaned you money to buy — just another piece of junk designed to catch fishermen, not fish.” Ignoring the wise old black man, my boyhood mentor and best friend, I hurried to Clyde’s bait shop, hoping he hadn’t sold all of bass-fishing’s hottest lure: the Big-O. Angler fanatics like myself had never seen anything like it. Made of balsa wood, the body’s top half was green, separated from its ivory belly by a black line. The most innovative feature was a transparent, spoon-shaped, protruding lip, positioned so that a few reel cranks sent it diving to the deep, murky depths where the biggest bass lurk.

My thoughts were no longer on the lure, but on survival

Knowing how badly I wanted a Big-O, Clyde saved one for me; the rest, priced at a whopping $20, sold immediately. The next day, a Sunday, I headed for one of my favorite fishing spots known only to a few anglers — a “honey hole” — that teemed with bass. Jaybird wouldn’t join me, but promised that, in church, where I should be, he’d ask God to forgive earthly preferences that were more attractive to the boy he called his “white son” than worshipping in church on the Sabbath, a prayer I soon learned went unheeded by the Lord. Arriving at the honey hole, I paddled into willow bushes and cypress trees, and made the first cast. God’s wrath struck. Instead of plunking down in the water, the lure sailed beyond my control and lodged its treble hooks high above the water in a slender willow tree. Hoping not to spook those trophy bass waiting to ambush the Big-O, I jerked gently, which only drove the hooks deeper into the tree. Then the line broke. Determined to retrieve the lure, I edged close to the tree. God’s wrath struck again. As I leaned over and grasped the tree, the boat skittered from under my feet, the tree snapped and fell over on me, and down we went. Clawing up through the branches, gasping for air, I was shocked to see that the boat was far beyond my reach. My thoughts were no longer on the lure, but on survival. Then I heard the voice of an old man fishing from the shore: “Lord have mercy, what the hell are you doing, boy? Hold on — I’ll untie my boat and come out to get you.” Half drowned, cold, ashamed, and mindful of Jaybird’s remonstration, I clambered into his boat, and he took me to my own. Aware that finding the lure in the sunken, tangled mass from which I barely escaped was hopeless, I thanked the man, who was still shaking his head in disbelief, and departed the honey hole. From that day to this, whenever I think of that lure, all I can say is: “Big O-O-Oh!”

This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s upcoming book, entitled The Jaybird Tales. The book will be available before the holiday season. Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (jimmycecilreedjr@gmail.com).