Ever since Miz Thornton gave me permission to fish her cattle ponds, I’d been angling for that monster bass, only to go home frustrated, fishless, and often lureless. Mean … he was just plain mean.
Miz Thornton was mean, too — a mean, spiteful, straight razor totin’ woman. Her sinister stare could freeze you into a saline statue as quickly as Lot’s wife’s backward glance did her. With one crabby finger, she’d slide her spectacles down her nose, knit her eyebrows, stab you clean through with stiletto, steel-gray eyes, squinch up her cheeks, and purse her lips, as if the person she was staring at stank.
Miz Thornton was my landlady. She was fullback big, stingier than Scrooge, and richer than Croesus, having inherited half the county when old man Thornton gave up the ghost after quaking in fear of his battleaxe bride for what to him must have seemed an eternity.
When I moved into the garage apartment above her three Cadillacs, she said, “Boy, keep an eye on my cows, and while you’re out there you can fish them ponds.”
To me, fishing is the chief reason for living, so I jumped at the offer, thinking to myself … old lady, you got yourself a cow watcher.
One spring day, Miz Thornton and her daughter Jasmine, a churlish, corpulent clone of her dam, were picnicking under a shade tree on the bank of the pond where my finny foe resided. I sauntered up, paid my respects, and headed toward her little skiff.
“Boy,” she rasped, “While you’re out there, fetch my pole. I think a turtle drug it off.”
I looked across the pond and saw the butt of a cane pole shark-finning through the water.
“We got tard of fishin’, so we stuck the poles in the mud,” she belched, flinging a chicken bone in the water.
Paddling out, I grabbed the pole. Snickering at her primitive tackle, I muttered to myself … a turtle is the only thing she’d ever catch with this — a twenty-foot cane, forty-pound line, and a bobber as big an apple.
Hand over hand, I pulled until the pole purloiner broke the surface. Folks, I tell you no lie. My blood froze. Instead of a turtle, I was looking dead in the eyes of that bucket-mouth behemoth!
Instantly, I swooped the net under him. “Got you now, you ole moss-backed monster,” I whooped. “On the wall you’re a-goin’.”
Galloping up to Miz T, I shouted, “Look, Landlady! He’ll go ever bit of twelve pounds. What a beautiful mount he’s gonna make.”
“Dress him,” is all she said.
“Surely you don’t mean to eat this trophy!” I gasped.
“My pond, my pole, my fish … and gonna be my supper,” she snarled.
Well, at least she gave me his head. I got it mounted, and put it on the wall. It shoots me a mean stare every day, putting me in mind of Miz Thornton. But, at least I finally caught that bucket-mouth behemoth.
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)).
