The July sun pecked us like a fierce-eyed fowl, and the humidity was so high we needed gills to breathe. Way out in the middle of a Mississippi Delta field, I was working alongside Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor. While my schoolmates enjoyed the summer, I was chopping cotton.
When Dad brought us lunch, I complained that it wasn’t fair that I had to work, but my pals didn’t.
“You are paid $30 a week, you get all you can eat, and you’re learning how to work while your buddies are learning how to goof off. I better not hear any more complaining. You’ll earn yo’ pay,” he snapped.
“Don’t worry, Boss,” Jaybird said, and turned to me. “Junior, I’m gonna make sho’ you earn yo’ pay.” Dad patted the old black man on the back and drove away.
Later that day, Brander pulled up in his new car and came out in the field to taunt me.
“I’m taking Judy out tonight,” he boasted, walking behind me as I shuffled along, hunched over my hoe. “We’re going to a movie.”
I was mad about Judy, and Brander knew it. Her picture was in my locker. Her name and mine, connected by plus signs, were scrawled in secret places. The thought of this dude — with slicked-back ducktails, a shiny new car, stylish clothes, and money to spend — being with her was killing me.
I bent to my task, trying to chop away the pain, but Brander hovered behind me, so close I smelled his cologne.
“After the movie, we’re going to park up on the levee,” he bragged. “Man, how great it’ll be, listening to the radio, gazing across that big river … smooching.”
How I did it, I don’t know, but I couldn’t have aimed better if I’d been looking straight at him. A tall weed poked up between the cotton in front of me, and venting my frustration, I whacked it with all my might. It offered no resistance, letting all my pent-up anger carry into the follow-through of my swing.
Instantly, I felt a solid thump and heard Brander howl. The hoe handle poked him squarely in the mouth! Blood spattered his fancy shirt, and his lips bulged like water-filled balloons.
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As he sprinted toward his car, holding a handkerchief to his mouth and howling, I ran behind him, apologizing, offering to help … barely concealing my glee. Off he flew, squealing tires for a quarter of a mile. At least he wouldn’t kiss Judy that night.
From then on, I liked being a workingman, not a goof-off like Brander. I began to see why Jaybird worked me so hard: He wanted to be certain I could rely on the same strong work ethic that had sustained him for so many years.
“Dey is no such thang as a free ride in dis world,” he said, as we headed home at sundown. “Dat’s why I told yo’ daddy I’d make sure you earn yo’ pay.”
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)).
The July sun pecked us like a fierce-eyed fowl, and the humidity was so high we needed gills to breathe. Way out in the middle of a Mississippi Delta field, I was working alongside Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor. While my schoolmates enjoyed the summer, I was chopping cotton.
When Dad brought us lunch, I complained that it wasn’t fair that I had to work, but my pals didn’t. 
