Across The Fence: Grandpa's Grays

"I appreciate fine horseflesh as much as the next fellow," Grandpa reflected as he reached into his shirt pocket, extracted a plug of "Tinsley" and cut off a chunk with his ever-ready Case pocketknife. We were leaning against the top rail of the fence, staring across the pasture and had been talking about horses.

"But," he continued as he pointed the pocketknife and plug in my direction, "When it comes to all out brute work, nothing beats a good pair of mules."

"Now don't get me wrong," Grandpa continued. "I've worked some fine teams, and for hitching a buggy for a showy Sunday drive I'd pull a matched pair of high-stepping sorrels out of the pasture and put on a parade that'd turn every head in town. I've been pleased to own some of the finest horseflesh around these parts. Of course I wouldn't be caught – drunk or sober – putting a saddle on a mule. But like I said, for all out work, give me a stout span of long legged Missouri mules."

I knew that this was just the beginning of a story, because Grandpa never told me anything without backing it up with some recollection. So I waited, as Grandpa slipped the cut of tobacco off the blade, into his mouth and worked it around until it had formed a visible lump in his cheek.

"I remember the best pair of mules I ever saw around here," Grandpa began as he stuffed the plug back into his pocket. "But they didn't belong to me, yet. Belonged to Charlie McCoy, you know his boy Doug, your grandma Zeeks' cousin."

It wasn't a question, it was a statement of assumed knowledge and even if I had been unable to make the connection Grandpa figured that introductions had been made and it was time to commence with telling the story.

"Well, Charlie had this matched pair of big, stout, gray mules. They were so perfectly matched that you couldn't tell one from the other. Rumor had it that Charlie had paid a pretty penny for the pair. Probably too much."

A slick stream of tobacco juice squirted from between Grandpa's lips, then the story continued.

"I was in town and just coming out of the hardware store when I saw Charlie and his mules heading up the street. Charlie had a wagonload of grain he was hauling and it wasn't any light load either. Those mules were fighting the lines and Charlie was hollering, 'Get up there mules!' It was plain to see that Charlie had his hands full. The mules were working, only problem was they weren't working together. They were fighting the lines, the bits and each other while Charlie and the wagon jerked up the street in a uncollected clatter of hooves, harness, tugging chains and doubletrees."

Grandpa chuckled as he thought of the sight that Charlie and the mules had made as he struggled to get everything headed in the same direction at the same time.

"You should have heard the ribbing Charlie got from the folks that had gathered on the walkway." Grandpa mimicked the hecklers:

"Hey Charlie, you didn't have to pay for them mules did you?"

"You know Charlie, they may not work very well but they sure do look good!"

"By the time Charlie got to the front of the hardware store, where I was standing, those mules were so worked up that Charlie had his hands full trying to handle them. It looked to me as though we were about to have a runaway on our hands right quick," Grandpa said. "So I just stepped down off the walkway to the front of those mules, grabbed one halter in each hand and talked them down to a quiet."

"By this time," Grandpa casually continued, "Charlie was so danged mad at those mules and embarrassed, I think, at all the good natured ribbing that was being thrown at him, that he threw the lines down and in exasperation announced that if anybody wanted those mule-headed jackasses he'd sell them for twenty dollars apiece."

"You know what was wrong with those mules?" Grandpa asked me.

"Well, no Grandpa. I guess not. I suppose Charlie just couldn't handle them is all," I answered, knowing that I was most likely about to learn something.

"Naw!" Grandpa growled. "Charlie was a pretty good mule-man. But those mules had no whoa! First thing you've got to teach a mule, or a horse for that matter, is to whoa. Without them knowing what whoa means there's no way you can ever get them to work for you. Never could figure why Charlie hadn't figured that out."

"I was just a young feller at the time," Grandpa went on, " but I knew I could put a whoa on those mules and they we're sure a fine looking pair. So, I looked up at Charlie standing there in the wagon and said, 'sold!' "

"With all them people watching, Charlie couldn't back down, so he said; 'Young feller if you've got forty dollars their yours, but I'm not selling them on a note.' Course he figured I didn't have forty dollars, but I did. I started digging in my pocket as Charlie climbed down off the wagon. He sure looked mighty sheepish when I handed him four brand new ten-dollar bills. I told Charlie I'd return his halters next day and I unhitched those mules, tied a rope from one to the other and ponied them home."

"Now there was a harness maker in Cummings, who had always made my dad's harness, so I went to see him and ordered up a set of harness with lines for those mules that were double-thick."

Grandpa's eyes fairly sparkled as he was remembering the clever way he'd put the whoa on those mules. But, it was obvious to me that this story was going to take awhile longer.

I reached in my shirt pocket for a smoke, lit it up and took a long draw.

"Those things will kill you," Grandpa advised.

"Yeah, I know," I confessed as I watched the bulge in Grandpa's cheek move from one side to the other.

"Anyhow," Grandpa began again, "When that harness with those double-thick lines was ready, I hitched those mules to a plow and headed them out to the field. When we got there, I moved that team up close to the fence, hooked the lines over my shoulder, set the plow and clucked them out easy."

"You know how I set hedge posts don't you?" Grandpa asked.

I was used to these sudden side trails that Grandpa took when telling a story. But, I also knew, all too well, how Grandpa set posts. I have tamped in posts for miles of fence-line and just like Grandpa had taught Dad, Dad had taught me, that every bit of dirt that came out of the hole has to go back in. That's a lot of backbreaking tamping when you're setting a six- or eight-inch post. One thing was certain though, once a post was set that tight, it was never going to come loose in the freeze and thaw of Kansas weather.

"You bet I do!" I exclaimed, " and if I'd be lucky enough to never have to set another post for either you or Dad, it'd be just fine with me."

Grandpa laughed, "I suppose you'll teach your boy the same," he predicted.

"Suppose so," I replied.

"So," Grandpa boomed with a fresh start, "when we reached that first fence post I took the lines, dropped them over the top of the post and hollered, 'whoa'! Why that post held that team so tight they couldn't move forward another inch and after they'd quit fighting it, I picked up the lines, clucked them up and did the same thing at the next post. By Jove, I'm telling' you, by the time we reached the end of that fence line they dang sure knew what whoa meant!"

I had to laugh as I imagined those mules leaning into the harness and trying to uproot one of Grandpa's fence posts. I could see Grandpa standing' behind the plow, arms folded across his chest with that smug German look of satisfaction.

"A couple weeks later," Grandpa continued as he shifted his chew back to the other side, "I hitched those mules to a wagonload of grain and headed to town. As I was driving those mules down the street at a fast walk, and they were prancing in a perfectly matched gait, there sat Charlie in front of the hardware store. Tell the truth, I was sure hoping he was going to be there. Well, when I got dead square in front of him, I just dropped the lines and said 'whoa', real soft like. Those mules stopped dead in their tracks and never so much as swished their tails to flick a fly."

"I thought Charlie was going to lose his teeth as he stammered around and finally busted out with, 'I'll be go ta .... I can't believe it. Tell you what Fred, I'll give you a $100 for the pair'."

"Well, I just smiled, picked up the lines, clucked them up an' said, "No thank you, sir, they're not for sale."

M. Timothy Nolting is an award-winning Nebraska columnist and freelance writer. Contact him at [email protected]