James Jefferson Nicholson, III, known by all as Jimmy Nick, loved expensive clothes. Every day, he wore khakis, white shirt, blazer, and bow tie. When he returned from the university to practice law in our little Mississippi Delta farming community, he filled his closets with the finest suits money could buy.
On a day when he was to attend a meeting in St. Louis, he awoke to find the world blanketed in a foot of snow. Unconcerned, he reserved a seat on a shuttle flight from nearby Greenville to Memphis, 150 miles due north. Dressed in his nattiest suit, he sat beside Mrs. Dowd, the preacher’s wife, who was visiting relatives in St. Louis.
Looking out the window, the young lawyer saw the engine belching smoke, as ominous dollops of oil plopped on the tarmac. The pilot shut it down. Panicking, Jimmy Nick exclaimed, “We’d be fools to risk flying to Memphis in this clunker. Let’s get off.”
“Don’t worry, Jimmy Nick,” Mrs. Dowd said, “The Lord will get us there safely.”
Well, the Lord isn’t piloting this rattletrap, Jimmy Nick thought, as he deplaned. In the terminal, he saw a charter service advertisement and called Bubba, the owner, who agreed to fly him to Memphis. When the pilot arrived, he leered at the shuttle, shifted his tobacco cud to the other jowl, and said, “You doin’ the right thang. No way I’d fly in that ground lover.” Bubba’s confident nature reassured Jimmy Nick as he buckled up beside him in the tiny Cessna.
“We’ll be thar ’fore you know it,” Bubba said, spitting in a cup.
Once airborne, Jimmy Nick wondered why he couldn’t see the Mississippi River, which coursed north to south from Memphis to Greenville. He wondered out loud when they crossed north-south Highway 61 at a ninety-degree angle.
“Dad Gummit!” Bubba scowled, banging his fist on the instrument panel. “That compass sticks in cold weather. Now it’s right.” Sweat oozed into Jimmy Nick’s suit as Bubba banked northward.
At the time, the Memphis airport was small. As Bubba approached it, Jimmy Nick saw a commercial airliner departing from the same runway on which they were instructed to land.
“I’ll swear — that joker is taking off on my assigned runway,” Bubba said as he veered over a parallel taxiway. The Cessna touched down, bounced a few times, skidded sideways, and plowed into a snow bank.
“You idiot — you almost killed us,” Jimmy Nick screamed, grabbing his bag and kicking open the door. Galloping through the terminal, he arrived just as passengers were boarding the St. Louis flight. His shoes were soggy, his pants were soaked, and his coat reeked of tobacco juice that sloshed out of Bubba’s spit cup.
In front of him stood none other than Mrs. Dowd. “The Good Lord got us here without any trouble,” she said, assessing the attorney’s attire, but you sure had your share of it, looks like. At least you’re here: nick o’ time, Jimmy Nick!”
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)).
James Jefferson Nicholson, III, known by all as Jimmy Nick, loved expensive clothes. Every day, he wore khakis, white shirt, blazer, and bow tie. When he returned from the university to practice law in our little Mississippi Delta farming community, he filled his closets with the finest suits money could buy.
On a day when he was to attend a meeting in St. Louis, he awoke to find the world blanketed in a foot of snow. Unconcerned, he reserved a seat on a shuttle flight from nearby Greenville to Memphis, 150 miles due north. Dressed in his nattiest suit, he sat beside Mrs. Dowd, the preacher’s wife, who was visiting relatives in St. Louis.
