Mule Man

I have been informed many times in my life I’m as stubborn as a mule.  Thank you.  I take that as a complement.

I like mules.  They are extremely intelligent, strong, protective, and gentle.  It’s much easier to ride a mule than a horse, and the mule is always looking to make that ride as enjoyable as possible.  A horse will try to scrape off a rider with a low hanging tree branch, while a mule will make room for you.  A pig or a snake can easily spook a horse, whereas a mule will just acknowledge its presence and continue about its business.

I grew up with mules, and I even rode one to school for most of the third grade.  I was about six or seven years old when I was braiding a bridle for the owner of the farm next to ours, and Curly came into the barn to watch me for a while.  Curly was the smallest of our four plow mules, but at over seventeen hands high, he wasn’t exactly small.  He, and Moe, Larry, and Shemp, were bred from a Mammoth Jack and Percheron crossing, so small is a bit relative.  But Curly was always the most curious of the four.

After looking over my shoulder for a few minutes, Curly walked over to the wall where an ancient McClellan saddle was hanging on a peg, grabbed it with his teeth, and dropped it beside me.  Then he knelt down and nudged the saddle a little closer to me.  I couldn’t believe it.  He was telling me he wanted to go for a ride.  He was a plow mule and had never been ridden in his life. I had him stand back up while I went in search of a saddle blanket, bridle, and anything else I might need to make this work. 

I couldn’t find much of anything I needed to take Curly out for a ride, but I did find an old piece of rug that would serve as a saddle blanket.  Trial and error finally succeeded in saddling Curly, and he knelt back down so I could climb on.  I didn’t have a bridle and reins, but I could grab onto his mane, and he knew all the plowing commands for right, left, go, and stop (Gee, Haw, Giddup, Whoa), so I thought I could make this work.

There was a learning curve for both of us.  The first time I said “Giddup,” Curly lurched forward like he was in the plow harness, and I discovered the barn floor wasn’t very soft.  But we tried again and again until we understood how the process would work for us.  It was a great summer riding Curly around whenever he wasn’t pulling the plow, but when school started, our fun was quickly curtailed and confined to the weekends. 

It took a while for me to find out just how Curly got the idea of being ridden.  After I completed the bridle for farm owner next to ours, Levi (the owner) told me Curly had spent a lot of time watching him ride his horses.  Each time he would saddle up, Curly would come over to the fence to study the process. 

School was a few miles away, and usually I walked both directions, although on occasion someone would take pity on the little kid walking along the dirt road and give him a ride.  But it was a long walk (10 miles uphill both directions and always snowing).  I left home about 5:30 each morning and usually returned about 5:30 in the evening.  Then there was the homework.

I don’t know why I didn’t notice the hitchin’ rails in front of the school until the year was almost over, but the next year, I decided to ride Curly to school one morning.  Curly wasn’t really needed until spring plowing began again, so, Why Not?  When I arrived, I tied him to the rail and went into the classroom. 

My school was a 4-room building.  Grades 1 and 2 were together.  3 and 4, 5 and 6, 7 and 8.  Two grades per room.  This was my first time in the 3^rd and 4^th grade room, and my first time with this teacher.  About two hours into the morning, she called me aside to ask about my mule.  “Does he have food and water?”  I hadn’t thought about these things.

Mrs. Stephenson (I don’t remember her name, but this one works) brought me out to her truck where she peeled a flake from a bail of hay she had.  We brought it along with Curly to the old barn in back of the school where she placed him in a stall, gave him the hay, and filled a bucket with water for his thirst.

“David, every two hours I want you to check on him.  It doesn’t matter what we are doing in class, just make sure your mule is happy.  I’ll bring a couple of hay bails tomorrow, but after that, you will need to provide something for him to eat.”

Wow.  I thought I was going to be in trouble for riding my mule to school, but it turned out everyone was jealous of me, including the teacher.  I never did need to bring food for him to eat.  Someone, and I never found out who it was, always brought hay and feed for Curly.

When my third grade ended, so did my time with Curly.  We sold the mules and bought a tractor.  My parents moved into the city and I changed schools.  My grandfather still had the farm, and I would visit on weekends and summers, but it was never the same after the mules were sold.