It all happened so fast. The fields I tended for two decades were no longer mine to tend. The cotton gin I worked in as a boy and managed as an adult was now a cold, tin building I would never enter again. We had endured yet another disastrous year. Worms devastated the crop, and the weather had never been crueler to cotton. My farming days were over.
Standing in the courthouse, memories weighed heavily on my heart as I stared back at a smug, indifferent bankruptcy judge. I was almost half a century old, working for minimum wages as a service station’s night cashier, barely able to support a wife, three kids and myself. The judge dismissed me with little more than a typewriter, the shirt on my back, my old pickup, and forgiveness of my debt.
I longed to talk to my best friend … Mama, affectionately known as Miss Lena. Her love was unconditional. Whether I was right or wrong, whether I failed or succeeded, she was always the same, always there, always a source of strength and guidance.
The year 1984 came to mind. We were poised to gather our best crop ever. Even our weakest land was yielding better than two bales per acre. Then the rains came. On the scant few sunshiny days when the cotton dried enough to gather, we pushed the harvesting machines through quagmires, leaving deep ruts. Cotton that would have made fine clothing in September was better suited for mops in February.
A devout Christian, Mama sat across the table from me on a late winter day after we finally finished that miserable harvest. I was deliberating whether or not to continue farming and chance enduring that much heartache again.
“Son, take what the Lord gives,” she said. “His will, not yours, must be done. Stay here at the farm. Things will get better.” The courage and optimism in her voice made my decision for me. And she was right … we made a fine crop that year.
But Mama was gone now, victim of a terrible disease that had brought unimaginable pain and suffering for many years. To the end, she thought of her children, not herself.
Mama loved birds, especially cardinals. Whenever one of the brilliant red creatures lit outside her window, she would clasp her hands and stare, transfixed. If awe of Nature’s glory is worship, her life was constant prayer.
Dawn broke, bright and clear. Another long night behind a service station counter was over. I despaired of ever finding a decent job, working normal hours, and earning enough to support my family.
When I pulled into the driveway, a cardinal lit on the fence. Looking straight at me, chirping cheerfully, he seemed to say … things will get better.
A letter was in the mailbox, a message from a publishing company, wanting to know if I was interested in writing for one of its magazines.
It was a message from Miss Lena.
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)).
