Published: September 02, 2008 01:48 pm         

One sure cure for a lazy mule

Doc’s dad walked into a bar and got shot. Just walked through the door and a guy shot him. He was a farmer, Doc’s dad, and the county constable, and he was going in to break up a fight. Instead, he ended up dead.

Doc was 10 years old when his father was killed, and it was the height — or the depth, if you will — of the Great Depression. His mother was left alone with seven kids and a scrubby southern Indiana farm. Doc took over the plowing the year his dad died. They had two mules: Jenny and Dave. Jenny didn’t mind working. Dave did. Dave would decide he had worked long enough and just plop down in the middle of the field.

It happened the day little Doc (who was called Gardner then) took over the plowing. Dave plopped down, mid-stride. Doc pushed and pulled and coaxed and kicked and cussed, but the mule wouldn’t get up. Finally, Doc unhooked the weed chain from the plow. He took Jenny out of her traces, looped the chain around lazy Dave’s neck, hooked it up to Jenny and started dragging. Doc says old Dave planted his front legs in the dirt and tried to hold tight, but Jenny just kept pulling. Dave finally decided he’d rather plow a field than be dragged across it, so he climbed to his feet.

Well, Doc hooked the weed chain back on the plow, hooked Jenny into her harness, and went back to plowing. Before long, Dave lay down again. So Doc pushed and pulled and kicked and coaxed and cussed and finally unhooked the weed chain again. He wrapped it around Dave’s neck, unharnessed Jenny, and hooked up the chain.

Now, let’s pause for a second to think about the kind of daylight this was burning. I can’t honestly say I’ve harnessed or unharnessed a mule from a plow, but I imagine it’s a pretty complicated procedure. Doc says it is, anyway. And in this case it was being done by a 10-year-old. Picture that. A fourth-grader.

Let’s pause again to realize that plowing a field by hand was extremely hard work. Dangerous, even. My great-grandfather was killed plowing a field. His blade hit a rock and he walked into the handle, rupturing something deep inside. It took him a week to die, but die he did.

So we have little fourth-grade Doc out there in the field, probably hungry, undoubtedly tired, and most likely swatting at deer flies on the back of his neck. He wasn’t in the mood. So when he started dragging that lazy mule, he decided it was going to be the last time he’d do it. Dave set his front feet. Doc dragged. Dave grudgingly decided he’d had enough and tried to get up. Doc dragged. Dave tried to scramble to his feet, tried to raise the white flag. Doc dragged. And dragged. And dragged.

Well, Dave learned something about Doc that day. He might be little, but he meant business. And Doc learned something about Dave. Doc learned that if old Dave ever lay down in the middle of the field, all he’d have to do was reach out to the weed chain and give it a jangling shake. Old Dave would snap his head around, spring to his feet, and go right back to plowing.

Little Doc and his fatherless family made it through the Great Depression.

Garry Williams is a columnist for the Pharos-Tribune. He can be reached through the newspaper at ptnews@pharostribune.com