He walked to school through fields. In his arms, he carried books and expectations.
He was the second-oldest boy. Unlike his father, he was tall and lean, more like his uncles, Cal and Monroe. He was unlike his older brother, Jesse. Less humble. He wanted more in life. He swore to his father that he’d never work with his hands. He graduated top of his class.
His grandmother thought him “busy.”
Neighbors called him high-strung.
Friends said he was fit to be tied.
His sister Minnie said he was her favorite brother.
The first suit he wore was new to him, but familiar to his family. He'd bought the tie with his own money. During the five-mile walk to the military academy, his hand would find it.
Tighten.
Loosen.
The knot never quite right.
He’d wear a tie for the rest of his life. He’d show up for get-togethers with one on. By then, he had a week's worth of suits. Paid for by the pharmacy job he got after graduating from Draughons' Business College.
He even wore a suit at home.
The ties lay on shirts as crisp as the dollar bills in his wallet. He married a woman, Frances, 19 years his junior. She gave him a boy. They called him Jamie.
On Saturdays, he would take Jamie to Greensboro Park to ride the paddle boats. Many times he’d take his niece, my mother, with them.
At a Sunday supper with family, I’m told he sat at the end of the table. His body coiled tight like a cushion spring. Before long, he seemed to hear his name in every conversation. Jokes were taken as jabs. Feelings got hurt. Something about a diploma hanging on the wall. He left the table, hungry for something that wasn't on his plate. The sweat of his palms left an imprint on Grandma Sara’s oil tablecloth. Aunt Emmie would say he got up and did the “St. Vitus Dance.” His body motion jerky and uncontrollable, he crashed out the door.
Watching him go, his father, Addison, shouted, “I’ve educated the biggest fool in the family!”
In his Buick Riviera, his hands would find the smooth jar of hootch he kept under the seat. He found its use while stationed in California during World War II. Between sips, he’d tap the beat of Bill Munroe’s “Blue Moon of Kentucky” on his tie. There, his nervousness finally came to a rest.
This scene, like his tie, was a constant.
His father would die at the county hospital in 1960
His mother would die at home in October of 61’.
They were buried in the family plot at the little Methodist Church.
James Bailey, known to his family as JB, would go and visit them once a week. Dressed in a fine suit and fedora hat, he would stand on their grave drinking, cussing, and looking for answers they could never give him.
He died in 1972 at the age of 55.
He was buried beside his parents. He was buried in his favorite suit and tie.
A neighbor named Pink Dwiggins said it was the prettiest casket he’d ever seen.
When people tell me I don't know how to relax, I think about him.
When I can’t sit down after coming home from work because I know the dishes need putting away, I think about him.
I think about that boy walking five miles to school, working on the knot in his tie.
A knot he never could get right.