Job, Wife, And Truck

While managing Dad’s gin on his Mississippi Delta cotton farm, I worried constantly about fires, having heard nightmarish stories about sparks igniting incoming cotton, which then coursed its way through the entire plant, turning it into a cauldron of cooking cotton and corrugated roofing tin, caving in. Gin fires are unforgettable, but on one Thanksgiving holiday I witnessed a most unforgettable fire that took place — not inside but outside the gin. On Thanksgiving eve, truck driver Jock Jones, whose intelligence quotient was on a par with a cotton bale, parked his rig at the loading dock. After we filled his truck, Jock chugged toward town to visit Maggie — not Mrs. Jones — before heading out for a textile mill. Parking an 18-wheeler at the address of one’s mistress in a small town clearly indicated Jock’s mental deficiencies. The gin was so far out in the boondocks that at night automobile headlights on a highway ten miles distant were the only indication that civilization existed. Just before dawn, more than headlights spangled the highway. We were finishing the last trailer load of cotton and preparing to shut down the gin long enough to enjoy a holiday meal with our families, when my lifelong friend and mentor, the old black man affectionately known as Jaybird, yelled from the dock for me to come quickly. When I did, he pointed toward a roaring conflagration speeding down the highway. “Must be a truckload of cotton on fire. Looks like it’s slowing down. Lord — it’s turning on the road to this gin!”

It was Jock. Word spread that Mrs. Jones spotted her husband’s rig in front of Maggie’s house, and in the wee morning hours, stuffed a smoldering bundle of rags between bales at the front of her husband’s load. Innocent of the impending inferno, Jock jockeyed up to cruising speed as the wind turned his rig into a rolling Roman candle. Realizing that a catastrophe was in the making, Jaybird raced to the control panel to stop the incoming cotton flow, while the rest of us cleared bales off the dock. Even Jock’s Maker was probably surprised by his next maniacal maneuver, which convinced a crowd of spectators that his cognitive capabilities equated a cabbage’s. After backing up to the dock, he leapt from the cab, and while dodging metal straps flying in all directions from bursting bales, pleaded with us to get the cotton off his truck, but unloading it amidst those soaring flames was impossible. Later that day, Jaybird told me that he’d heard the latest about Jock. “On this Thanksgiving, he had three less blessings to give thanks for: job, wife, and truck.”