I awoke to the sound of a blue jay squawking just outside the window, and for once I didn’t mind all that much. Mary and I were down at the beach enjoying a wonderful time of peace and restful slumber, and the sound of the jay seemed right.
Later that morning as we walked down to the beach, just a block away, the smell of salt mist on the air, the far off cries of a couple of seagulls, and the distinctive crackle of live oak leaves underfoot began to awaken some well-worn memories of mine.
It wasn’t long before I was a barefoot boy down in Panama City again listening to the blue jays up in the chinaberry trees and seeking out the perfect stone for the sling shot in my hand.
My Granny Tharpe was a lover of all living things. I suppose it was the Creek Indian in her, but other than any eating size fish, she tended to live and let live. The one exception to the rule was blue jays. I don’t know how it happened; but apparently in her youth a blue jay had really hurt her feelings, and being well practiced in the art of revenge, she had been on a seek and destroy mission ever since. My brother Mike and I had been recruited into her private army and given permission to harass the blue jay population by any and all means possible.
On this particular summer afternoon my weapon of choice, well actually the only weapon Granny would let a six year old have, was an old hand made slingshot. With a properly forked branch, a couple of strips of inner tube and a piece of old shoe leather, I had fashioned what I fancied to be a precision instrument of destruction.
So I listened carefully to determine the location of my quarry, and to my delight, just ten feet above me and a little to the left sat a big fat blue jay on one of the lower limbs of the catawba tree in Granny’s backyard.
I had the perfect stone. Not too big, not too little; as smooth as can be. Just the right weight you know, with enough heft to do the job and yet light enough to maintain its speed and trajectory once released.
As the sun began to set in the west, I licked my right index finger, lifted it into the air and determined wind speed and direction. I adjusted for humidity and distance. When all was set I squinted against the setting sun’s glare, sighted in on my target and let fly.
Upon my release, sensing the danger, the jay leapt into the air and in so doing relieved the branch of its burden. In response the branch rose up, only an inch or so, but just enough to redirect my projectile. In disbelief and rising horror I watched, as if in slow motion, as the stone headed for and crashed through the only window available for miles, it seemed.
Upon entering Granny’s utility room, the stone ricocheted about; and in so doing, found its true calling. It dented Granny’s brand new washer door, played havoc with several fishing rods and reels, took out a couple of jars of home canned tomatoes, and finally came to rest inside an old cricket box.
I have to give her this much. Granny was fast. Before the echo faded, Granny was advancing on me at a rapid pace with something akin to hellfire in her eyes with her own precision instrument of destruction held fast in her right hand.
I think it was the combination of disappointment, utter astonishment, and sheer terror in my eyes that stopped her progress. It didn’t take her long to assess the situation; and as the grin swept across her face, followed by her signature cackle, I knew I would survive to fight another day.
She looked down at me and asked if I had gotten him, but there was no need to answer, for that blue jay was sitting on an upper limb looking down and laughing for all he was worth.
Late in the afternoon all those years ago, I learned a couple of things that have held me in good stead over the years. First and foremost, mercy is a wonderful thing to receive, and in turn, I have tried to be as merciful over the years as my Granny was on that summer’s evening. Secondly, I learned that all things must be considered before I let anything fly.
I have to admit that it is that last lesson that I tend to forget, especially when it comes to my words. How about you?
Tony Rowell
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