America: “... Beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain, for purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plain.” She is what Jaybird called her: the good land God gave us
Upon returning home to the Mississippi Delta after overseas military service, Dad put me to work as farm manager, labor supervisor, and bookkeeper. As harvest season approached that first year, he said, “Son, we’ve got a fine cotton crop that must be gathered before fall rains set in. You’ll replace me as gin manager; I’ll tend to the harvest. Jaybird knows all about that gin and will show you the works.”
Harvest was in the home stretch
I was petrified. The cotton gin was a maze of complicated components, all of which must remain synchronized with each other and running at peak efficiency — a demanding job for four blacks, four Mexicans, and me. Storing yields in modules was unheard of at that time, and cotton was transported from fields in trailers, meaning the gin crew had no choice but to work long hours so that the harvest machines never ran out of trailers in which to dump their loads — a daunting task, often requiring the gin to run nonstop around the clock.
Harvest was in the home stretch as November hastened toward its end. On Thanksgiving Day, the gin was humming smoothly, when Juanita, the pressman’s wife, entered the office and said to me, “Señor, please shut down the gin long enough to let the crew and their families enjoy a Thanksgiving meal together.”
“Absolutely not!” I retorted. “The harvesters cannot run out of trailers.” Disconsolate, she left, and I realized why. Here, her husband earned more in a day than he might earn all week in their native country, and for that reason Thanksgiving was a very special holiday for her family. I decided to consult Jaybird, whose sound advice never led me astray. The old black man’s comment made the decision easy: “Boy, if you want these men to keep working long hours, shut down the gin for a while so that they and their families can celebrate Thanksgiving together.”
“After gathering this fine crop and enjoying this wonderful Thanksgiving meal together, we have to be most thankful for the good land God gave us.”
I sent Juanita word to bring plenty of food and to tell the other wives to do the same. With the gin silent in the background, we gathered on the loading platform, out in the glorious sunshine, laid a few cotton bales end to end for makeshift tables, and prepared to feast on cuisine from three different cultures. After giving thanks for the year’s many blessings — especially the bountiful crop — men, women, and children enjoyed delicious food.
When the meal ended, I asked Jaybird, a man who endured unbearable misery during The Great Depression, what Thanksgiving meant to him. Patting the small Bible that was always in his pocket, he said, “After gathering this fine crop and enjoying this wonderful Thanksgiving meal together, we have to be most thankful for the good land God gave us.”
Reflecting on my beloved mentor’s wise words brought to mind a favorite patriotic song that describes America as “... Beautiful for spacious skies, for amber waves of grain, for purple mountain majesties, above the fruited plain.” She is what Jaybird called her: the good land God gave us.
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)).
