The July sun pecked us like a fierce-eyed fowl, and the humidity was so high we needed gills to breathe. Yet, there we were, my brother and I, chopping cotton.
While our schoolmates enjoyed the summer — swimming, riding around, hanging out — Boss, our father, sent us to the field with hoes — those hated ignorant sticks, which he called one-row cultivators.
Boss didn’t talked much, but the fear of his thunderous voice and the withering stare of those piercing blue eyes kept us from complaining about the drudgery of our summer work. Occasionally, he would remind us, “Y’all get paid $30 a week, plus all you can eat. What more can you ask?”
One hot, muggy day about quitting time, Brander pulled up in his new car and came out in the field to taunt me.
“Guess who I’ve got a date with tonight?” he asked, walking behind me as I shuffled along, hunched over my hoe.
“J-u-u-u-u-u-dy,” he gushed, as if there were a bunch of U’s in her name.
I went rigid. The thought of that gorgeous woman turned my knees to jelly. Her picture was in my locker. Her name and mine, connected by plus signs, were scrawled in secret places. Once she even asked me to bring her some “cotton bugs” for her insect collection. But I never had the nerve to ask her for a date. And now this dude with slicked-back ducktails, a shiny new car, stylish clothes, and money to spend was taking her out.
I bent to my task, trying to chop the pain away, 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, it’s gonna be great, snuggling, listening to the radio, gazing across that big river.”
How I did it, I don’t know, but I couldn’t have aimed better if I’d been looking straight at him. There in front of me was a huge weed, and I whacked it with all my might. It offered no resistance, letting all my anger carry into the follow-through of my swing. I felt a solid thump and heard Brander howl. The hoe handle poked him squarely in the mouth! Instantly, blood spattered his fancy shirt, and his lips bulged like water-filled balloons.
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 mile. At least he wouldn’t kiss Judy that night.
From then on, I liked chopping — being a workingman, not a goof-off like Brander. I began to see why Boss worked us so hard. When we had our own families, he wanted to be certain we could rely on the same strong work ethic that carried him through good years and bad.
It carried him through fifty-two crops. He always had a hoe in his pickup. He chopped, and he made us chop.
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)).
