Competitive by nature, my father would not allow himself to be outdone … in cotton farming, hunting, fishing, or anything else — even winemaking, the inimitable talent of his best friend and neighboring farmer, Guido.
Many Italians, Guido among them, immigrated to the Mississippi Delta and promptly began producing large families and large cotton crops. Each year, the Italian families ordered wine grapes by the boxcar load.
The word vintner was probably not even in Guido’s vocabulary, but he was one of the best. Those lucky enough to be on his Christmas wine list looked forward to the best in holiday spirits.
Behind his home, a shed housed Guido’s winery, and my pal Robert and I often visited it to watch the distilling process. The aroma was heady, and we spent hours trying to figure out the steps in fermentation, as we watched the juice ooze through tubes from barrel to barrel and finally into the last one, with a spigot at its bottom. From it, bottles were filled and sealed with corks.
One Sunday morning, Robert and I were tossing a football when we smelled something familiar. Its source was a small building outside the backyard fence. Determined to outdo Guido, Dad had set up a wine distillery in it. We were careful not to touch anything — except the spigot at the bottom of the last barrel, from which a tin cup hung.
“Dad will never know if we sample some,” I said. The taste reminded me of my favorite soft drink — Barq’s Grape Soda. I passed the cup to Robert, and he too found it delicious.
One cup wasn’t enough — nor two. Then we heard my parents, prominent members of the local Baptist Church, calling us. The Dodge De Soto station wagon was packed — parents in front, the girls in the second seat, and my pal and I in the rear cargo space. As the cotton fields whirled by, our heads began to whirl.
That Sunday, shortly after the sermon began, one of my sisters, seated next to me, moved to Mama’s other side, and whispered, “Them boys’ breath smells funny.”
One whiff and my mother, a full-blooded Italian, knew exactly what happened. Angrily, and a little too loudly, she said, “Jimmy, these boys drank some of your new wine and are drunk.”
Dad gawked, as did worshippers seated nearby. When we dropped Robert off, my father explained to his dad what happened, and I knew my plastered pal would get the switching of his life.
And so would I — at least I thought, but Dad had a different plan. He marched me to his winery, filled the tin cup, and offered me a choice: either drink it or get his leather belt across my buttocks. Still queasy, I retched at the notion of having to drink more of that evil brew, and chose the belt.
That sinful Sunday in the Lord’s House, Robert and I were ashamed to be what we were: blasted, blitzed, bombed boys among Baptists.
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)).
