Another Ride

Not so long ago I wrote in this blog about driving a NASCAR race car and about what an exciting ride it was. That was an exciting ride, but perhaps a more excitng ride was the one I took in the 1950s. Of course then I was a farm boy living on a two mule farm. It was a small farm. My father told me stories of working on 12 mule farms when he was young.  The house we were living in was built by my great grandfather on my mother's side of the family.  He descended  from German immigrants who settled in South Carolina in 1762.

It was the summer of my twelveth year when I took my ride. My grandmother and grandfather
lived about a mile away down the red dirt road. They were old. Grandma was born in 1898 and grandpa was older, so I had volunteered to plow up their garden spot. It wasn't a big deal; I could handle driving or plowing one mule and could handle a team hooked up to a wagon. Sometimes I would get in trouble when I would get the mules to run. I reckon I was a pretty good plowboy.  I could handle a mule better than a tractor. At 4-H Club camp we would get a chance to drive the newest tractors. The 4-H was operated under the U. S.  Departmemt of Agriculture to help rural youth. But, I would not be driving a tractor on that day.  No, indeed.  That day I would be plowing a mule; a gray mule.

It was early morning, about half past daybreak, when I slipped into the mule's stable with the bridle in my hand. The air was cool on this April morning, and I had had a breakfast of biscuits and white sop and salt cured ham (I was a growing boy!) and I was ready to work. I was always a little skittish when putting the bit in the mule's mouth. They had big teeth. I could imagine losing a finger.  Because of my height I had to wait until the mule lowered his head. Then I would slip the bit in the mule's mouth while putting the bridle over his ears and head, all in one smooth motion. I would lead the animal from the barn lot to a small building right outside the gate to the lot. That was the gear house. We called harness for the draft animals gears.  I don't know why, and I never knew it was harness until reading Zane Grey novels. The collar was the first thing that was put on the mule, followed by the gears. Later in life I found out that the proper name for the gears were hames. The last thing added were the plow lines, ropes attached to each side of the bridle at the bit. With voice commands and the plow lines you controlled the mule.

The sun was making an appearance when we began walking to my grandma's house. I looked for maypops on the edges of the road to pop, but it would be later in the summer before they appeared. I'm pretty sure that was not the correct botanical name. They looked like a small  elongated lime and grew on a ground hugging vine. The flower was kinda purple and sorta pretty.
Sure wished there had''ve been some to pop.

The old gray mule and I got grandma's garden plowed, and it was time to go home. Gramdma gave me a tall glass of sweet milk and two big warm sugar cookies before I left.  I was tired. I was sun burned. I didn't want to walk home. Why should I have to walk home when the mule could carry me?  That's when I got the idea. I could ride back!  Yep, I could ride that gray mule back!  But I was too short to jump up on its back. I  tried three times and gave up. I was always big for my age. I wore Red Camel jeans, husky size.  There had to be another way to get on that mule's back.  I was thinking on it as I started walking down the road leading the mule. It was an old road and the border between Greenwood and McCormick counties. Only a few yards down the road I heard a car coming. The mule did not want to get out of the road, but with some persuasion it did get into the deep ditch.  Mules are strong and withstand the scorching summer heat well, but they are very stubborn. I think they get that from their daddies, the jackass. 

We, the mule and me, were covered with red dust after the car went by. It was the rural mail carrier. His nickname was Bones.  They say he was in a Japamese prison camp during WWII. I just wished he had slowed down a bit when passing us. My spit was red, and it took a few minutes to clean the dirt out of my mouth.  I got over it, and started to climb out of the ditch and back into the road, when an idea hit me. I could  let the mule stand in the ditch while I mounted it from the high ditch bank. Riding would sure beat walking all the way home!

With the mule in the ditch, I climbed the embankment. I grabbed the reins and jumped astride the mule.   My knuckles were white as I held on when the mule jumped up out of the ditch. Once the gray one was in the middle of the road it reared up on its hind legs. I tightened my grip and held on. Next the mule kicked its hind legs high and launched me. Yep, over the mule's head. For a few microseconds I was airborne.  And then I wasn't. I remember nothing of my slide on my side down the middle of the road. The sandy surface ripped the skin from my semi-naked body.  I felt nothing and had a vague memory of celestial constellationa floating through my mind upon awakening.  Struggling to my feet  and brushing myself off I noticed that the mule was nowhere to be seen. I was a wee bit stiff from the sudden impact with the earth and had stopped bleeding when I continued my journey home.

Upon my arrival home the mule was waiting for me at the gear house making that "hee-haw" sound that mules make.  As I removed the gears from the mule I mumbled some things under my breath, that if my mama had heard, would have surely resulted im punishment. I knew that I was already going to get a tongue lashing for being all bloody and all.  Later in life I did drive a NASCAR racecar  at over 130 mph and that was exciting. But that wasn't the same being launched from the rear end of a mule on a country road.That was  my first exciting ride.