When the dust finally settled, those witnessing the disaster crept closer, and peering through shattered glass, saw four men, pale as ghosts, clinging to each other
While driving the Farmall M, his favorite tractor, toward home, John was mindful of what Boss said about not letting the cultivator he was towing bump anything along the roadside, but with the warm spring breeze in his face, he dozed off while the M was crossing a bridge, and his hands dropped from the steering wheel.
When the tractor eased off the pavement, the cultivator snagged a bridge railing, jerking John awake from his peaceful reverie. Instantly, tractor, cultivator, and driver parted ways. Into a deep, weedy ditch the M plunged, throttle still in the open position, muffler sheared off, and engine silent.
Boss and three cronies were heading for their favorite fishing hole when they spotted John, gawking in shock at the M. Glaring at the poor man and shaking his head in disgust, Boss hooked pickup and tractor to each other with a heavy log chain.
After ordering John to steer as best he could and not remove his foot from the clutch, Boss towed the M homeward. When they turned into the farm headquarters, the chain slackened. Not wanting to bump the pickup, John forgot Boss’s order and began easing his foot off the clutch. Instantly, the M exploded into life. Belching smoke rings, the un-muffled monster bellowed, wide open, in gear.
Novelist William Faulkner once noted that mules have been known to work ten years willingly and patiently for an opportunity to kick their master once. So will an M. Here was M and opportunity. Four frantic faces peered through the pickup’s rear window as the tractor and its bug-eyed rider shot by. The pickup jerked obediently behind it.
As its long-eared counterparts are wont to do, the iron mule headed straight for the barn with the pickup flailing behind, scattering fishing poles, tackle, and minnows in its wake. Inside the cab, chicken bones, snuff cans, rifles, cartridges, and men swirled kaleidoscopically.
On the M went, roaring louder, galloping faster, charging through a cloud of white chickens, across Miss Lena’s garden, and straight through her loaded clothesline.
The barn’s only resident, a rheumy-eyed old mule, sensed his metallic brother’s rapid approach, and deducing his long-dreaded trip to the rendering company was nigh, commenced neighing a death bray.
When the M plunged its nose into the barn’s feed trough, it stopped, but still the rear tires churned, digging deeper until the battered brute’s screaming motor gave one last valiant howl, shuddered and died. Only the mule’s mournful brays broke the silence.
When the dust finally settled, those witnessing the disaster crept closer, and peering through shattered glass, saw four men, pale as ghosts, clinging to each other. Fishing was the last thing on their minds. Even though the pickup was an unrecognizable hulk, the cultivator destroyed, fishing tackle strewn all over, and Miss Lena yet to face, Boss and his buddies felt blessed just to be alive.
Contemplating the catastrophe, John gazed at his beloved tractor, shook his head woefully, and muttered: “Today was yo’ day.”
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)).
