Jay’s Gar Ponds Part 1

(Note: An agrichemical company hosting a farming conference asked the author to write a “tall tale” to be read in installments each morning.) Like a fierce-eyed fowl, the brutal sun that torrid July day glared down on Jaybird and Junior, and the Mississippi Delta humidity was so high that breathing would have been easier with gills. After loading their boat on Loretta, Junior’s beloved old pickup, they opened two soda pops, crawled into the cab, and headed down the road back to their farm. They were content. In addition to a nice mess of bluegills, crappie and bass, Jaybird caught a fine specimen of his favorite fish: the speckled blue catfish. With the wind blowing in his face as they rolled along, the old black man gazed wistfully across the neat, rectangular catfish ponds along the roadside. Jimmy Reed's Jay's Gar Ponds: Parts 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6,

Junior began describing what would become a multi-million dollar enterprise

“Shoot, Junior, I would love to have a few of those ponds,” he said, turning toward the young man he always called his white son, who had that faraway look in his eyes signifying he was in a state of deep concentration. Convinced that Junior was a lot smarter than folks thought, Jaybird left him alone and returned to gazing across the roadside ponds. After a long silent spell, Junior shifted his cud of chewing tobacco from one jowl to the other and mumbled, “Gar ponds, Jay … that’s what you need.” With those words, an empire was born. Mystified, Jaybird asked, “Gar ponds? What in the world are you talking about, boy?” Expectorating a caramel colored stream down Loretta’s side, Junior said, “The gar is a true game fish, a fighter of the first order. Besides, his flesh is far tastier than the meat of your ordinary, lazy, pond-raised, bottom-feeding catfish.” As much a fish expert as his companion, Jaybird disagreed. “Junior, you know as well as I do that gar ain’t fit to eat unless they feed on live prey in moving water. Even mud turtles wouldn’t much care for ’em if they were raised in ponds like cats.” “I ain’t talking about the kind of ponds you’re looking at,” Junior said, nodding toward those they were passing. “I’m talking about round ponds.” Totally baffled, Jaybird made no reply as he waited for his quasi-philosopher, quasi-lunatic partner to explain. At best, Junior’s plan was a Rube Goldberg idea, but Jaybird, adept mechanically and not handicapped by an overabundance of imagination like his friend, envisioned potential in the outlandish scheme. In all their years of hunting, fishing and farming together, Junior had been the thinker — more accurately, the dreamer — and Jaybird had been the practical one, the doer. According to Junior’s description, the ponds would be shaped like donuts, with an island in the middle supporting a giant windmill generating power to turn large subsurface propellers housed in wire mesh boxes that water could pass through, but not gars. Storage batteries would retain excess power to be used on windless days, ensuring that the water in the ponds would always be moving. “But how will you feed them?” Jaybird asked. With that, Junior began describing what would become a multi-million dollar enterprise: Jay’s gar ponds.