Jaybird owned four kinds of footwear: rubber boots for rainy days; brogans for dry ones; Saturday night jukin’ boots, and “Sundy mawnin’ fuhgivniss boots.”
Juke joints dot the Mississippi Delta, and even upper-crust folks seem to accept them as part of flatland life. Jaybird patronized those near Dad’s farm, and sometimes he’d take me, which would have horrified Mama. Fortunately, she didn’t worry when I spent the night at the black man’s house, and never found out.
For me, getting ready was easy — jeans, t-shirt, baseball cap, and sneakers, but Jaybird wore his best threads. After bathing, shaving, and slathering on cologne, he donned khakis, his most colorful shirt, and red jukin’ boots.
Upon entering a Delta juke joint, all five senses are set afire. Above the sounds of laughter and shouting, you hear the pulse-quickening rhythm and blues of black musicians performing in their natural milieu; you smell whiskey, beer, cigarettes, sweaty bodies, and cheap perfume; you feel the jostling and hugs of happy folks celebrating after a week of hard work.
But the main attraction is what you see. In the darkened atmosphere, white grins and eyes blink from all directions; on the dance floor couples gyrate, swoop, and swirl in the most perfect rhythmic expression God ever created. Dressed to enhance their natural endowments, the women wear high-heeled shoes, frilly hats, and long, swaying gowns, with jewelry bespangling ears, necks, wrists, and ankles.
Our first stop was always the bar, where Jaybird would light a Camel, order a soda pop for me, and a shot of whiskey for himself. He was a lady’s favorite, and soon enough one would sidle up to him. After small talk and a sip of booze, he’d say, “Boy, watch my drink and mind yo’ mannuhs. I’ze gwine juke dis gal right outen huh shoes.”
He never worried about my being the only white person there. Most of the patrons recognized me, and all of them were well aware that my mentor could wield the switchblade in his boot as skillfully as surgeons wield scalpels.
Around midnight, Jaybird would put me to bed, and return to the juke joint. The next day we might or might not attend church, depending on whether the fish were biting, but when we did, he wore his Sundy mawnin’ fuhgivniss boots. Not gaudy like those worn the night before, they were what you might call repentance black. With other sinners, we’d walk to the small, white chapel just down the road, known as the Dunleith Mt. Ararat multi-congregational MBE church.
I once asked him why he called those boots what he did, and he said, “De Lawd knows I love and fear Him, but He also knows I’m jes’ lak all His chillun — made of flesh, and subject to Satan’s temptations evuh so often.”
Then he’d flash a gold-toothed smile, give me a wink, and say, “Besides, I don’t eben have to axe fuh His mercy, ’cause He sees I’m wearing those Sundy mawnin’ fuhgivniss boots.”
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)).
