Dear Deb Oct 31, 09
Jimmy Smith
McIntosh, Ga.
Debra Peace
Statesboro, Ga.
In your recent email you mentioned the story about the mule, which Mama shot accidentally. That was one of many misadventures we have had during my lifetime. Let me tell you the whole story.
The time must have been around 1984. I as you know have never been a horse person but for some crazy damn reason I bought a young unbroken mule, which had been born on Mr. Futch’s farm near the Hinesville Cemetery on South Main Ext. Seems like I had recently been informed that mules didn’t actually reproduce but were the product of cross breeding between horses and jackasses or something like that. Probably the element of jackass got my attention as they have so many times during my journey through this life*. Seems like I’m drawn to them like a magnet. Or is it the other way around. I don’t know but it is whatever it is.
Anyway I had heard that Knot Futch had a newborn baby mule. At that time Cousin Phil and his wife of the era Pam whom I called strawberry (because of the color of her hair and now I suspect the content of her head) were big in the horse business. Phil and I went to the Futch farm to see the little thing and I ended up owning her and I honestly don’t know why. Must have been feeling no pain at the time, which is quite likely when cousin Phil and I go cruising. At any rate Knot and I struck a deal and I think it was for $150.
I went to Mama’s and built a small pen about 16 by 16 with boards from ground up to about four feet. I thought that would be adequate to hold her until she got larger by which time I planned to build her a larger pen. Bad assumption on my part. Not trusting Knot I had not paid him but promised him I would come back soon. Strawberry was the expert horse person and she assured us that we could tranquilize the little thing and transport her in the open bed of Phil’s pickup truck therefore we would avoid having to hook up their horse trailer. Although I was skeptical we loaded up and headed out to pick her up and bring her home. Second bad assumption. Turned out to be quite exciting as we passed your Daddy’s place on McLarry’s curve.
Phil Strawberry and I got geared up and went cruising out to the Futch farm enjoying the ride if you know what I mean. Knot met us at the barn where he had the little darling in a small corral that we could back the truck into. Knot had a rope around her neck and I think she had a halter thing on her head but I’m not certain about that. Along with Knot we cruised the pasture before loading up. I think Phil might have been looking for mushrooms or something but there were no cows there.
By this time nobody was feeling any pain except the mule and that would be altered shortly. Knot held the rope as we opened the gate and backed the truck into the pen and up to the livestock chute. As he led the little (about three and a half feet tall at the shoulders) girl up and into the back of Phil’s truck Strawberry pulled out a syringe with a needle that looked like a sixteen penny finishing nail and started drawing some solution into the syringe. The needle found it’s mark and slowly like a balloon being deflated the mule collapsed onto the bed of the truck. I handed over the money and we all said goodbye and got into the truck.
Now the mule was feeling less pain than any of the rest of us. As a matter of fact the fog must have lifted a little bit because as we pulled up to enter the highway it dawned on me that I might ought to get in the back of the truck with her just in case she woke up. Good assumption on my part. Notice how assumptions and jackasses or their offspring all seem to wind up in the company of one another. Phil stopped the truck and I got into the back with the mule. I sat there beside her (she looked very dead) and wondered how long it might take for her to awaken. I was soon to learn that as about the time we entered McLarry’s curve we met a convoy of westbound transfer trucks roaring past in the opposite direction. The wind and the noise awoke the little darling and she decided she would stand up and for the rest of the ride it was two jackasses wrestling in the bed of a Ford pickup. That is something I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Talk about “kicking” and with four feet it was exciting to say the least. It was a hell of a scuffle but with the Grace of God I managed to prevail. I was top jackass.
That brings up another memory. Instead of drag racing back in the day when we were teenagers we would get into someone’s car and see how fast the driver could go around the curve at McLarry’s. Allegedly Pete Clark held the record in a 1957 Ford Station wagon. Recently Jackie Floyd reminded me of us doing that in my 1956 Dodge. I had many exciting trips around that curve until one day your Daddy took me aside in your back yard and said “Son you’re just about to overdo it coming around this curve”. Homer only called me son when he was very serious and the tone of his voice that day was, well you kids know what I mean and the look in his eyes you also know. That day ended my exciting trips around the curve and some had been indeed thrilling.
I never had a thrill on that curve from speed that could hold a candle to wrestling with a mule facing you with it’s head thrashing about and kicking with all four feet. I did the only thing I could do. I put my arms around her neck and hugged her like I’ve never hugged any other creature on this earth. About the time we pulled into Mama’s me and the mule both were exhausted. I think she must have made a vow then and there that I would never get another hug from her. She was stubborn as a mule is supposed to be because although I was her daily caregiver I would not touch her again until two years later when I buried her. We unloaded her into the little pen and that would turn out to be the last time she tolerated a hand on her. I learned that a few days later when I assumed (#3) she might be comfortable in her new home and I entered her pen to begin the process of training her. As I entered the pen and closed the gate she took one look at me and flatfootedly jumped out of the pen and must have cleared the fence by two feet or more. Man what a steeple chaser she would have made.
Fortunately she did not run off and Mama and I were able to gently herd her into Mama’s back yard and then into the chicken pen where I could lock her up for the time being. She remained in the chicken yard a couple of days while I was constructing a larger pen with field fence wire about four feet tall. I configured the pen so it would extend from her other small pen and connect to the rear of the chicken yard. The chickens were nervous and the egg count dropped off and the Irene watch intensified regarding the construction of the new fence. I enlisted some help from cousin Phil and put a rush job on that fence. When it was completed I just cut the chicken yard fence and drove Ramona into the new home where she would remain the rest of her days. Leslie had given her the name and it stuck.
As humorous as this story is it was truly a sad situation for Ramona because she never got to do anything but eat drink and walk about her pen. I had a huge yellow umbrella and I erected it in the corner of her yard and she spent many hours standing under it watching the world go by. I attended to her needs as best I could under the circumstance but I never would again attempt to do anything with her because I had accepted the fact that she was a lot like Elliott Ness. Besides that I was also very much aware that she could leave anytime she wanted to.
I think she did become comfortable with the chickens and Mama, as she would observe Mama’s presence daily in the chicken yard. I think she assumed she had no threat from them. Bad assumption on her part. It proved to bring about her demise. To my knowledge she never found her voice because she never made a sound.
Then one weekend when Leslie and I were out on the boat for a trip to St. Catherine’s Island there was a terrible accident at the mule farm. Upon returning to Half Moon marina there was a note on the windshield of the truck advising that I must call home immediately. When Mama answered the phone she was squalling like a baby and was barely able to tell me what the problem was. Gasping she blurted out “Son I killed Ramona”. It seems that Mama had discovered a big ole garter snake curled up in a chicken nest while he digested a couple of eggs. Mama hurried to the house to fetch the 410 while Ramona observed the excitement. Ramona was leaning across the fence peeping into the back of the structure with the row of nest in it. Mama blew the snake into a couple of pieces and in the process a good portion of the load hit Ramona square in one eye. Phil was summoned and later told me that the only thing he could do was end her misery with another shot to “put her down”. I spent the next day pondering how I would get her body to a place where I could dig a grave with the least difficulty. The following morning Mama’s grief had subsided to some extent and the Irene watch started to intensify regarding burial. I’ll tell you this much the only thing worse than possessing a two-year-old unbroken mule was having a two-day-old unburied dead mule. And that’s pretty much the whole story.
Love
Uncle Jimmy
*My book will be entitled CROSSING FOOLS HILL
❤️
