GOOD MULES.
“I figure we’ll just split it up load fer load.”
Mike knew that arrangement wasn’t really fair, but he was fifteen and his uncle, who pronounced the terms of the split was a generation older, a big, raw-boned man, with work-worn hands like a “ham of meat,” a man Mike respected not just because he was his uncle. Even though Mike was doing a man’s work, he instinctively knew it was his place to defer to his elder, so glancing at his team of big, red mules, he said, “I reckon that’ll do.”
The red, Tennessee dirt not knowing there was a Depression had brought forth an abundant harvest of corn. When it was planted the agreement was made that the two families would split the labor and share the bounty. The plowing, planting, and cultivating, were past. Though just a boy in years, Mike had done his part of the labor. “Mor’n his part. Truth be told.” The big ripe ears needed to be “got in,” otherwise, weather, varmints, and birds would spoil the generous increase from the land.
The soil may have been ignorant of current economics, but Mike wasn’t. He barely remembered his dad, who had died before he was in school. His death left a widow and three boys, to make their way. Others had helped, but especially since the boys “got 'bout grown” they were expected to earn their own bread. Today, both literally and figuratively the bread Mike’s family needed was being loaded onto two wagons; half would become cornmeal and feed for Uncle Rick’s family and his stock, half, if he could keep up, would supply Mike’s family and farm until the next harvest.
We’ll leave motives and intentions for another day. Two facts were of supreme importance: Mike’s wagon was the older, iron-rimmed variety, whereas Uncle Rick’s was a rubber-tired rig, and between the field and the road there was a low place. The ground there was still soft from a thunder shower a few days ago.
Mike took a little longer than usual caring for Jess and Pete that evening. He never ignored his stock and he was especially careful about the team of mules that he had worked since they were barely grown. Folk in the little community often spoke of how good Mike was, especially for a boy, with horses and mules. Though Mike admired these animals and would have fought anyone who attempted to treat them badly, Jess and Pete weren’t pets. They earned their keep. When they could no longer do what was required of them, they’d be split up and sold cheap to some mostly retired farmer or guy on the edge of town with a little patch. They’d be garden mules for a few years. After that or if noboy wanted a mostly worn out mule they’d become sold for hides, dog-food, and part of the mix at the glue factory. That’s just the way it was. Times were hard and sentimentalism was expensive. That’s why Mike spent some extra time brushing out the long-eared beasts’ coats, checking their hooves and running his hand over their shoulders where they had strained against their collars. After he was sure they were all right, and, after making sure no one was around, he told them, as he poured out an extra measure of oats for each, “You boys sure earned your keep today.”
One of Uncle Rick’s boys took care of his mules. The weathered farmer had just settled his six-foot-plus frame into a chair on the porch to read the paper and get some rest before supper, when A. J. Johnson, a retired neighbor stopped by with a bag of late season tomatoes. “We got more’n we can use. I thought I’d bring ya a mess.”
“Thank ya kindly. My wife’s garden dried up ‘fore that storm came a few days ago.”
“Yep, I reckon my patch was just a mite damper’n yours. That rain came just ‘bout right to make ours last a while. Say, speakin’ a that rain. I figger it made it right rough gittin’ that corn outa that bottom field. Ain’t there a wet-weather spring in the lane?”
“Yep. I’z awful glad I bought that wagon with the rubber tah-res. If it hadn’ a been fer that, that nephew a mine da beat me.”
“Huh,” the old man said after waiting for an explanation.
“We’d planted that field together. We’z s’possed to split it fifty-fifty. So I told the boy he’d take a load and I’d take a load.”
A suspicion hung in the air, but the old neighbor knew it wasn’t his place to bring it up, so he just asked, “Mike get a new wagon?”
“Nope. It’s that same iron-rimmed rig thats older’n him.”
The old neighbor had worked enough stock and hauled enough loads to know what all this meant.
“Well, I reckon that low place must’a dried up quicker’n I thought.”
“Nah,” Rick said thoughtfully, it’s a pure dee lob-lolly.”
“I never seen anything like it.” Rick continued after handing the tomatoes to one of the boys who was headed in for supper. “We got about two-thirds full on the first load ‘n’ I told Mike we could quit whenever he figured it was enough. ‘Nah,’ he said, ‘I don’t ‘spec ya to do me no favors.’ I told ‘m I’d go on out first & come back to help him. When I left he was strokin’ one of them big mules a his and talkin’ low. When I come back Mike was out beside the wagon with long reins, not takin’ no nonsense from Jess n Pete. Them mules was comin’ up the far side of low spot with fire in their eyes. That mud was suckin’ them wagon wheels right in. If they’d a stopped fer a second I knew thered be nuthin to do but fer me to go get my team & try to pull’m out. Them mules ud slip n go down on their knees but they never quit pullin’. It was the beat-n-est thing I ever seen.
That’s the way It went all day. He matched me load fer load n ear fer ear.”
A. J. waited for more, but that was all Rick had to say. Out loud anyhow. Rick’s look was something between amazement and adoration. Finally A. J. broke the silence. “That boy always was a good hand with stock. I reckon I better be getting’ home r the missus’ll send the hounds after me.”
“I reckon your ‘bout half right,” Rick said.
The look in A. J.’s eyes was all it took to communicate the question.
“He’s a good hand with stock. ‘bout as good as I ever saw, but he ain’t no boy.”
It was next week that A. J. run into Mike down at the mill. Mike was hauling some corn down to have it ground. “Ya uncle told me ‘bout how much trouble it was gittin’ that corn out.”
“I reckon plenty a other folks has it a whole lot worse.”
“Anyhow, Rick gave ya a good word.”
Mike just nodded as he went into the mill office. As He walked past A. J. and the other old men sitting on nail kegs and sacks of feed, he looked over his shoulder and said, “Them’s good mules.”
A note by the Author:
This little story is still a work in progress. Actually, I'm hoping that some of you who may have some information about the incident on which it is based, or some more accurate knowledge about mules, their ways, and traditional farming would give me the benefit of your knowledge.
The incident on which the story is based is something that was told to me for the truth. The basic outline of the story, shared with me thirty years or so after it happened, and at least that long ago, was that there was a field of corn that was to be split fifty-fifty. A young man--my rude calculation would place him in his teens--and his uncle were doing the split. The arrangement announced by the older was that they would split it by the load. The younger man had an old style wagon with steel rimmed wheels. The older man had a new wagon with pneumatic tires. I'm fairly sure mud was involved. When the story was told to me I don't recall that the teller indicated any intention of the older man trying to take advantage of his nephew, but the implication is clearly there.
The thing I remember most about the story was that the man who told it was some what awed that the younger man had kept up with his uncle even using inferior equipment.
Since I started with such a tiny scrap of information, no doubt eroded and embellished by my faulty memory, I present this story as a piece of fiction. For a number of you it took about half a second to identify who Mike and Rick really are, but I feel better throwing a veil of anonymity over the principals, even if it is a very thin one.
I tell the story not only to preserve some of the lore of my family, but because it captures a pride in work and connection with the real world that many today totally miss. We miss it to our own detriment.
I hope you enjoy it.
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