My mother and Jaybird befriended animals — then slaughtered them. Mama loved chickens, but showed no feelings when fixing to fry fowl for family feasts. She’d chortle her feed call and scatter corn from her apron, and the flock flapped to the feeding frenzy. As they ate, Mama eased a cane fitted with a hook under a soon-to-be-plucked pullet and snatched. Sunday’s supper squawked for mercy, but the unmerciful executioner rung its neck. The decapitated carcass flopped its finale in a feathery flurry, and I fled in fright.
Just as ruthlessly, Jaybird betrayed his pigs. They were shot between the eyes, scalded, swung from a scaffold, scraped, and converted into cracklings, chitterlings, sausage, souse, chops, ribs, and hams.
Jaybird’s goats faced Fate on the Fourth of July. The old man was an excellent cook and, on America’s birthday, invited friends to feast on barbecued goat, baked beans, potato salad, corn on the cob, and watermelon. I loved the barbecue, but hated the goat dispatching process.
Using chewing tobacco, an irresistible goat snack, Jaybird lured each victim under a shade tree to which he’d attached a board. As the goat chewed contently, Jaybird suddenly pulled backward on its horns and slashed its throat with his Bowie knife. Then he looped a rope tied to the goat’s back legs over the board, and let the blood drain.
Watching headless hens fling blood around in a death dance upset me; watching shot hogs pin-wheeling gave me nightmares. But those gory spectacles didn’t terrify me nearly as much as a goat’s legs running in mid-air, with unhinged head thrashing about, tongue flopping, bleating baa-aah-aahs of betrayal.
The Fourth was near, and Aunt Ina and her snobbish, snooty daughter Sabrina were coming to visit. I loathed Sabrina, mainly because she was a girl, but also because she condescendingly called me her “country cousin.”
“Son, y’all go outside and play,” Mama said. “Be nice to Sabrina, and don’t take her to Jaybird’s house. You know why.”
No sooner were we outdoors than Sabrina wanted to know why. “On accounta Jay’s killin’ goats,” I said.
“I wanna see, I wanna see,” she shouted. Mama’s admonition was no match for the devil within me. I could withstand anything to see Sabrina scared — even a goat slaughtering.
The first victim was Giles, my favorite goat. Sabrina and I scratched his floppy ears while Jaybird stropped his knife. To my surprise, instead of screaming when Jaybird slashed the goat’s jugulars, Sabrina gloated as Giles gamboled in ghastly, gory, gallows gyrations.
Then it happened — the rope broke. Giles hit the ground running, and pounced directly on me! Immediately Sabrina, in patent-leather shoes, starched blue dress, and knee-length socks, jumped astraddle the bleeding, bleating beast, grabbed its horns and pulled it away, shouting all the while, “Leave my cousin alone, you mean ole goat!”
That evening, while gorging on Giles’ ribs and watching Jaybird shoot fireworks, I said what I thought I’d never say: “Sabrina, I’m mighty proud to be yo’ country cousin.”
Jimmy Reed——
Bio and Archives
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)).
