Dust swirled behind my father’s pickup as he sped through the fields on his Mississippi Delta farm, delivering lunches to tractor drivers, one of whom was Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor. The old black man and I had been riding together on his tractor since daylight.
I loved everything about that John Deere 830 — its bright green color, its long, broad nose, the large cleated tires, the engine’s powerful roar, the smell of diesel exhaust blowing in my face, and especially the big lever that engaged the clutch.
We were plowing beside a highway bordering the farm, and Jaybird had let me drive most of the morning. What thrilled me most was pushing that clutch lever forward.
When Dad pulled up, he said, “Jaybird, can Junior handle that tractor?”
“Yes, sir, he’s been driving it all morning.”
“Son, I need Jay’s help during lunch — rain is coming and we have got finish plowing these fields,” Dad said, handing me a sandwich and a drink. “Eat a quick bite and keep ’er rolling.”
As they watched, I eased in the clutch lever, lined up for the next pass, lowered the plow, and headed across the field. Satisfied, Dad drove away.
Chugging along, I spotted Arlin and her mother parked on the highway’s shoulder. She and I were schoolmates, but I had never registered the slightest blip on that good-looking woman’s radar screen. I nosed up to the highway and hopped down.
“Can I ride with you a little bit?” Arlin purred. Before I could answer, her mother snapped, “Boy, how long have you been driving that tractor?”
“Shoot, Miss Helen, Boss don’t allow nobody but me to drive this workhorse — yo’ daughter will be as safe with me as she is with you in that Cadillac.”
“I’ll wait here,” she said.
Arlin was impressed by my explanation of the gauges, pedals, and the plow. Reaching for the clutch, I said, “To make ’er go, you ease this big lever forward, but if you push it too fast, why, this big brute will rear up like a wild stallion.”
And that’s exactly what happened! Roaring out of control, the tractor nosed skyward, lurched up the roadbed and across the highway. When the plow dug into the shoulder, the nose dropped, the front wheels banged the pavement, and the engine died.
The 830 squatted across both lanes, and traffic was halted on either side. Arlin was howling, and Miss Helen, ghost-white in shock, eyes bulging, was blaring the Cadillac’s horn. Then I saw dust in the distance.
Arlin, Miss Helen and a bunch of disgruntled motorists stood witness as Boss administered a thrashing the likes of which they would never see again. I was demoted from tractor driver to hoe hand.
While sharpening my hoe one morning for another long day in the field, Jaybird pulled up on the John Deere.
“Boss is gone fishing — want to drive?”
My pride mortally wounded, I muttered, “Shoot naw: I hate that dirty 830.”
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)).
Dust swirled behind my father’s pickup as he sped through the fields on his Mississippi Delta farm, delivering lunches to tractor drivers, one of whom was Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor. The old black man and I had been riding together on his tractor since daylight.
I loved everything about that John Deere 830 — its bright green color, its long, broad nose, the large cleated tires, the engine’s powerful roar, the smell of diesel exhaust blowing in my face, and especially the big lever that engaged the clutch. 
