“When I told your father that I would see to it that you earned your pay, he and I wanted to be sure you learned this lesson: There’s no such thing as a free ride.”
The July sun pecked us like a fierce-eyed fowl, and the humidity was so high we needed gills to breathe. Way out in the middle of a Mississippi Delta field, I was working alongside Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor. While my schoolmates enjoyed the summer, I was chopping weeds out of cotton.
When Dad brought us lunch, I asked, “Why must I work all summer? My schoolmates don’t.”
“You’re paid $30 a week, you get all you can eat, and you’re learning how to work while your buddies are goofing off. I better not hear any more complaining. You’ll earn your pay,” he snapped.
“Don’t worry, Boss,” Jaybird said, and turning to me, said, “Boy, I’ll make sure you earn your pay.” Dad patted the old black man on the back and drove away.
After lunch Brander pulled up in his new car and came out in the field to taunt me.
“I’m taking Judy out tonight,” he boasted, walking behind me as I shuffled along, hunched over my hoe. “We’re going to a movie.”
Brander knew I adored that girl. Her picture was in my locker. Her name and mine, connected by plus signs, were scrawled in secret places. The thought of this dude — with slicked-back ducktail hair, shiny new car, stylish clothes, and money to spend — being with her devastated me.
I bent to my task, trying to chop away the pain, but Brander hovered behind me, so close I smelled his cologne.
“After the movie, we’re going to park on the levee,” he bragged. “Man, how great it’ll be, listening to the radio, gazing across that big river … smooching.”
How I did it, I don’t know, but I couldn’t have aimed better if I’d been looking straight at him. A tall weed poked up in front of me, and venting my frustration, I whacked it with all my might. It offered no resistance, letting every bit of my pent-up anger carry into the follow-through of my swing.
Instantly, I felt a solid thump and heard Brander howl. The hoe handle poked him squarely in the mouth! Blood spattered his fancy shirt, and his lips bulged like water-filled balloons.
As he sprinted toward his car, holding a handkerchief to his mouth and howling, I ran behind him, apologizing, offering to help, barely concealing my glee. Off he flew, squealing tires for a quarter of a mile. At least he wouldn’t kiss Judy that night.
From then on, I liked being a workingman, not a goof-off like Brander. I began to see why Jaybird worked me so hard: He wanted to be certain I could rely on the same strong work ethic that had sustained him for so many years.
As we headed toward home at sundown that day, Jaybird said, “When I told your father that I would see to it that you earned your pay, he and I wanted to be sure you learned this lesson: There’s no such thing as a free ride.”
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)).
The July sun pecked us like a fierce-eyed fowl, and the humidity was so high we needed gills to breathe. Way out in the middle of a Mississippi Delta field, I was working alongside Jaybird, my boyhood best friend and mentor. While my schoolmates enjoyed the summer, I was chopping weeds out of cotton.
When Dad brought us lunch, I asked, “Why must I work all summer? My schoolmates don’t.”
