Dad looked at his prize dog, at his sniffling son, at his wife, at his cotton pickers and tractors sitting idle, and shaking his head in total disgust, all he could think to say was: “Boy, boy, boy, boy, boy!”
Newman was old, cantankerous, and deaf as a doorknob, but mighty handy around Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm. When hauling off garbage, he let me sit on his knees and steer the old flat bed truck as we drove to the dump.
Once, when cotton harvesting was in full progress and rain was in the forecast, Dad was running in ten different directions at once, supervising cotton pickers and stalk cutters, delivering lunches to drivers, and handling Newman’s job of weighing up sacks for the hand pickers.
After loading the garbage, Newman said, “Junior, Boss is in a powerful hurry with all these folks on the payroll and him trying to git the crop out ’fore it rains. You can’t drive today. Find sumpin’ else to do.”
Dejected, I stood behind the truck, poking my finger through holes in the bumper. One was a little tight, but I shoved my finger through anyway, frowning and glaring defiantly at Newman. He cranked up, and I heard the gears grinding as he shifted.
“Wait, Newman — don’t go yet,” I yelled. “My finger is stuck.” He didn’t hear me, and I panicked as he left the farm shop and pulled up on the blacktop road.
At first, I trotted along behind, yelling louder and louder, but soon I could no longer keep up, and was holding on with one hand while trying to free the other. “Newman, Newman,” I screamed with all my might, as he shifted to a higher gear.
Big Willie was driving one of the cotton pickers and happened to see the calamity unfolding. Abandoning his machine, he galloped across the field, waving his arms, trying to get Newman’s attention. Rufus, the stalk cutter man, followed him. Everyone quit working and stampeded toward the road to witness the pandemonium. Finally, they stopped Newman. I hung limp and crying, smelling the odor of burnt rubber from the toes of my tennis shoes.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” my father roared as his pickup skidded to a stop. Sizing up the situation, he roared again, “Willie, go tell his mama to bring some soapy water so I can pull his finger out.”
Mama was feeding Queenie, Dad’s prize bird dog, in season at the time.
“Miss Lena, Boss said bring some soapy water to git Junior untangled from that truck.” Horrified, Mama dropped the dog food and scrambled toward the house, leaving Queenie’s gate wide open.
“Boy, you brought this whole farm to a halt at the worst possible time,” Dad snarled as he pulled up to the house. “Don’t cause me no more trouble, dang it.”
Suddenly, stomping the brakes, he groaned, “Oh, no!” There was Queenie, now the common law bride of the mangiest cur in the county.
Dad looked at his prize dog, at his sniffling son, at his wife, at his cotton pickers and tractors sitting idle, and shaking his head in total disgust, all he could think to say was: “Boy, boy, boy, boy, boy!”
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)).
