My father’s Mississippi Delta farm was so remote that walking in any direction brought one closer to civilization. Large drainage canals crisscrossed the area, providing ideal habitat for creatures that would have been at home in the Jurassic Era: bullfrogs, catfish, moccasins, beavers, loggerhead turtles, fish eels, and alligators.
My boyhood best friend and mentor, Jaybird, told terrifying tales about the canals, hoping to keep us away from them. The old black man knew that if we got in trouble, we’d be too far out in the boondocks to get help in time. His stories about the canals’ alligators were the most frightening of all.
In one of those stories, he claimed that he and his pal Lucas were fishing in a canal’s sharp turn known as “No-Bottom Bend.” When Lucas’ line got hung and he waded out to untangle it, the surface erupted, and ridged, spiked lines following a giant, gaping, tooth-filled jaw, torpedoed toward him. In a heartbeat Lucas disappeared.
“You reckon that gator is still alive?” we asked. Jaybird assured us that the monster male, whom he named Lucas in memory of his departed friend, still lurked in the murky depths of No-Bottom Bend and was not only alive, but also bigger and meaner than ever. Sensing that we couldn’t resist seeing for ourselves, he said, “I’m warning you boys — leave Lucas alone!”
Casting caution to the winds, my pals and I came up with an idea that was certain to lead to Lucas’ demise: We’d make a bomb.
First, we slipped into the farm shop and stole a can of calcium carbide, a compound that reacts with water and generates acetylene for use in cutting torches.
Next, we poured the carbide into a large glass jug, sealed watertight with a cork and weighted with bricks so that it could be lowered to the bottom with a strong cord.
Once the bomb was resting on the bottom near Lucas’ lair, our plan called for running the cord through a piece of iron with a hole drilled in it that would zip down the cord and burst the glass, causing an instant explosion. We couldn’t wait to drag the vanquished blood brute of the deep to Jaybird’s doorstep.
A large culvert provided an ideal base of operations. From it we lowered the jug to the bottom, ran the cord through the hole in the iron, and dropped it.
Following an earth-shaking seismic doomsday rumble, a geyser the size of Old Faithful erupted skyward, throwing fish, snakes, turtles, and mud in every direction.
Certain that everyone at the farm headquarters heard the blast and would come to investigate, we fled the scene. Later that day, we went back to the bend, but found no trace of Lucas.
When we told Jaybird what we’d done, he said, “I heard that racket and figgered y’all was up to no good. Now that mean man-killer is madder than ever, and will be layin’ for y’all. I’m warning you boys — leave Lucas alone!”
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)).
