At lunchtime that Friday, Boss, my father, brought us a special treat. We five tractor drivers had just finished the last cultivation of his cotton crop and were headed for the lot when a long, steady, soaking summer rain set in — just what the almost mature crop needed to finish filling the bolls.
As we sat under a shed, waiting for our paychecks and watching the thirsty earth drink its fill, we knew it wasn’t just a “sharrain” (Dad’s way of saying shower of rain), but a water-in-the-middles chunk floater.
“Yonder comes Boss with our checks,” Jaybird said.
Dad motioned me to his pickup and handed me the checks and several buckets of fried chicken.
“You boys enjoy yourselves,” he said. “I’m going home and take a long afternoon nap.”
As we feasted on the Southern fried crunchy chicken, I gazed at the rain’s slate grayness and said, “When my last day comes, I hope it’s one just like this.”
My comment struck up an interesting conversation. All of us had different ideas on the best way to depart this earth. Big Willy said he wanted to be lying in his comfortable bed when the Lord sent for him. Bumpy agreed, but said he not only wanted to be asleep, but also wrapped in the arms of the woman he loved.
“I want my woman and me to be making love when the Grim Reaper comes,” Moon mused.
Sport said he wanted to be fishing when a storm blew up and a lightning bolt dispatched him. “I’m skeered of lightning, but being fried instantly is probly the quickest way to face the Man.”
“How do you want to leave this earth, Jaybird?” I asked.
“I want to die prayin’, because if I die prayin’, I won’t die sinnin’.” We knew he’d explain.
“Supposin’ I tell my wife I’m going to the men’s weekly prayer meeting. Let’s say I’m almost to the church when Satan reminded me that beer was half-price at Jesse’s Juke Joint that night, and I drove right past the House of the Lord and headed to town.
“When I got there, I’d swill a few brews. Then supposin’ my eyes fell on a lovely lady who gave me that come-on-big-boy smile, and we danced slow and close. Suddenly, I git a tap on the shoulder. It was Levi Jones, known by all as Colonel, the meanest man in town.
“That’s my woman,” he said.
“Not now she ain’t, I shot back at him … the beer talkin’ fuh me.
“He went for his knife, I went for mine, and before I hit the floor, Colonel had cut everything but the soles of my feet.
“The next words I’d hear would be the Lord’s. ‘Jaybird, you were pleasing Satan instead of me when you died, so I’m sending you down to the Master you served on yo’ last day.’”
I’ve never forgotten Jaybird’s story. Whether it’s raining or not on my last day, I hope to die prayin’.
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)).
