Along the Back Roads of Yesterday Page 5
Mom was convinced Bert owned only one pair of bib overalls, and she knew they had never seen the inside of a washing machine. Tobacco juice stained his thick, greying beard. A greasy baseball cap crowned a head of long, wild, unruly grey hair. He lived down under the hill behind the feed store on a straggly little two-acre farm surrounded on all four sides by cottonwood trees and tall brush. The small dilapidated barn and the one-room cabin reminded me of Snuffy Smith’s place in the Sunday funny papers.
I crossed the empty lot behind the feed store and climbed a giant, gnarled cottonwood tree overlooking Bert’s place. From there, I could see the mule tied to a post in the center of the corral. Toots stood at the watering trough treating herself to a refreshing drink. (To me, it was amazing that she could lift her big, ugly head high enough to get her nose over the edge of the trough.)
Bert came out of the barn and shuffled over to the post. He reached for the rope to untie the mule. She went crazy. She snorted and reared. With her ears laid back flat along her neck, she opened her mouth and snapped at Bert. From my perch in the old tree, I saw her mouth open wider than a crocodile’s mouth in a Tarzan movie. Bert stepped back, stuffed his hands in his baggy, dirty, frayed bib overalls pockets and watched the mule trying to pull loose from the post. After a minute or two, he moseyed over to the woodpile and selected a length of firewood. He walked back to the mule and reached for the halter rope. She did a repeat performance and opened her mouth to bite his head off. A split second before her mouth snapped shut Bert shoved the wood in front of her. She got a mouthful of apple wood. She backed off. Madder than a badger in a barrel with a bulldog and with her mouth wide open, she came at him again. He gave her another mouthful of apple wood. The third time she came at him, he smacked her right between the eyes with the stick of wood. She dropped to the ground and lay like a dead cottonwood log.
Ordinarily, Bert never got in a hurry about anything. But, when that mule dropped to the ground, he moved like lightning (all 145 pounds of him), and untied the rope. He pulled her head around and sat on her neck. She tried to get up. With Bert parked on her neck, all she could do was kick, grunt, switch her tail, and raise a cloud of dust. He sat there and let her kick, grunt, and wring her tail until she wore herself out. Then he let her up. She shook her head and stood like a good mule. Bert patted her on the neck and turned her loose. I knew I had witnessed something that warm spring day which none of the neighbors would believe.
That evening I went with Grandad to feed the calves. “Grandad,” I asked. “Where’d Bert come from?”
Grandad set the feed bucket on the ground and leaned against the gate. “Well, son,” he said. “Nigh onta twenty year ago Bert’s neighbors woke one mornin’ and found ’im established in that old shack. No one knew anything ’bout ’im or where he come from, and he never volunteered no information. Ta this very day he ain’t said nary a word ’bout hisself.”
“Grandpa, where’d he get ol’ Toots?”
“Well, son, that ugly jenny come with ’im. She was most as ugly twenty years ago as she is taday.”
“She sure is ugly,” I said.
Grandpa chuckled, scratched his nose and said, “There’s a destiny that finds a home for ugly jennies.”
After chores and supper, Mom, Dad, Grandpa, Grandma, and I sat on the porch and listened to the war news on the radio while Dad smoked his last cigarette of the day. I had been thinking about Bert and wanted to ask Dad about him. (I’d learned the hard way not to interrupt the news.) It was dark by the time the news was over. Dad’s cigarette glowed red. Grandma went inside and lit the kerosene lamp in the front room. We sat on the porch in the soft glow from the lamp.
“Dad,” I asked. “How old is Bert?”
“I don’t know, son. Don’t know much about him. I do know he’s a very private person, a hard worker and he keeps busy.”
“That he does,” Grandad said. “He trades for donkeys, goats, chickens, rabbits, mules, and does anything else he can do ta make a dime.”
“There is a hint of the old south in that gentle drawl of his. I tell you, there is more to Bert than meets the eye,” Grandma said.
Mom wasn’t fond of Bert. She said, “He needs to wash his shirt and overalls, take a bath and comb his hair. And, besides that, he has a personality like Attila the Hun.”
Dad said, “I’m sure the mule Bert and Toots were dragging down the street is the Dunfee mule.”
I asked him, “Who’s the Dunfee mule?”
Grandad answered. “In the ’20’s and the early ’30’s, Ray Dunfee lived over ta the east of us on the old Morgan place. He hadda small herd of top-quality mares. Some of ’em had some Tennessee Walker blood. One of his better mares produced a filly that was a cut above the rest. Ray named ’er Abby.”
Dad said, “Three years later, your grandad and I were helpin’ the Dunfees build a new barn. We were there the morning Abby came in with a palomino mule foal at her side.”
Grandad laughed so hard he could hardly talk and then said, “Ray Dunfee couldn’t believe his eyes. Right there on the spot exactly, a whole new vocabulary of colorful words was invented.”
Dad continued, “Mr. Dunfee hated mules more than he hated cat manure. When the mule was a yearling, he sold her to Cap Wilson. Cap kept her until she was a three-year old. He couldn’t do a thing with her so she went through the auction. She ended up in a rodeo bucking string. That mule Toots dragged down the street today has gotta be that Dunfee mule.”
From then on, when we went to town, every chance I got, I’d ‘lite out’ for the cottonwood tree. At times, I thought the mule would stomp Bert into the ground. Slowly but surely, she calmed down. By late summer, Bert tied the mule to one of Toots’ hames, and she went everywhere Bert went. He plowed and cultivated gardens and hauled trash. Folks got used to seeing the three of them going about their business. By this time, Dad was sure she was the Dunfee mule.
Bert worked with the mule all winter long. Spring arrived with a flourish. Folks thought Bert would sell his mule or trade her off. Summer came. When asked what he was going to do with the mule, Bert’s reply was always the same—“I’ll feed her.”
One afternoon, Bert caught me in the tree and motioned for me to come down. I climbed out of the tree and crossed through the hedge. Bert, standing in the barn door chewing on a straw, looked at me and asked, “Does your pop pay you tah spy on honest folks?”
“No sir,” I said. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”
“You Charlie’s boy, Oris. Right?”
Before I could answer, he continued. “If you’ll keep this mule a secret, I’ll let you help when you come to town.”
Fall passed and winter came again. Bert worked with his mule several hours a day. On Saturdays, I begged Mom to let me go to town with her and Dad so I could visit Bert. She didn’t think I should spend so much time with Bert. She’d say, “He doesn’t bathe, shave or change clothes and isn’t the right example for a growing boy.”
“Aah, Mom,” I’d whine. And she’d let me go.
Bert was fun to be around, and he treated me like a man-full-grown.
Under Bert’s gentle hand and talented training, the mule became a willing, gentle creature. When I rode her, Bert no longer kept a rope on her. I rode her all over his little place. March presented a mild and pleasant month for a change, perfect weather for training a mule. I arrived at Bert’s one Saturday morning to find Stella (that’s what Bert called her) tied in front of the barn sporting an English saddle. “Well kid, today we start getting serious with this little girl.”
The arrival of spring gave new life to all God’s creatures, even Bert. He smiled a lot—even whistled some of the time. To this day, I don’t know if Bert trained Stella or Stella influenced Bert.
Mom came home from town late one Tuesday and said, “Bert must be sick. I met the rascal on the street and he said ‘hello’ and tipped his hat.”
Dad’s blue eyes smiled and he asked Mom, “Have you had a sunstroke?”
Spring work was in full swing at home. It was the middle of May before I saw Bert and Stella again. Bert still needed to comb his hair, his overalls would still stand alone when he took them off at night, he was happy and smiling. Stella was as gentle as a little girl’s calico kitten.
One bright Saturday morning, Bert saddled Stella. While I sat on the top rail of the corral he made two trips around the field at a walk. He rode up to the corral and said, “Watch this.” Stella moved out in a gait which was called a ‘Fox Trot’. Twice around the field, Stella performed perfectly. As young as I was, I realized a perfect understanding existed between the man and the mule. Bert (I would later learn) rode in perfect dressage form.
The cottonwood leaves whispered their secrets around the little farm.
I was sitting on the top rail of the corral. Bert rode up and started telling me about his life before he came to our county. He was born and raised on a horse-breeding farm in Warren, Tennessee. He was forty years old when his father died. He had a falling out with his sister over the estate, left Tennessee, and never returned. A lonely, bitter man, his life turned for the better on the day he took a donkey to the auction. He found a seat on the top row in the sale barn and settled in to watch and see how much his donkey would bring.
Bert said, “A group of five horses and one palomino mule slated for the killers trotted into the ring. I watched as they trotted by, the mule going at a slight gait. After a few minutes, I was convinced she was gaited. My bid was $35, and I came away owning an outlaw mule.”
Bert chuckled and continued, “It took five men tah get a halter on that mule. I drove Toots and the wagon into the pen, and it took all five men tah get her tied to the wagon. She was a mule with a ‘definite opinion’. She fought all the way home, and Toots was worn to a frazzle.
“Kid,” he said. “I’m taking Stella to the county fair this fall.”
‘Yeah right,’ I thought.
“Sounds good,” I said. “I promise I won’t tell a living soul about Stella or what you’ve told me.”
Bert and Toots didn’t do much garden work that summer. Bert spent most of everyday working with Stella.
The first of September rolled around. Fall was thick in the air. The fair opened on September 3rd. Saturday was the big day—it was Rodeo Day. Farm and ranch folk put work aside. Stores in town closed. The grandstand filled with smiling, laughing, happy people. The high school band struck up the National Anthem. The crowd in the grandstand stood. Men and boys removed their hats, and hands were placed over hearts. The outgoing rodeo queen, Mary Alice Carter, astride a glistening black horse, carried the flag. She entered the arena at a canter and circled, followed by a small army of men, women and kids riding their horses. Twice around the arena they rode and then exited.
The crowd, in a festive mood, cheered bronc riders, bull riders, ropers, barrel racers, chuck wagon races, harness races, and horse races. Old records were broken, new records set to the sound of honking horns, whistling, cheering and firecrackers. The clown was the hit of the day. People from miles around had trucked their saddle horses and ponies to the fairgrounds to be a part of the mass ride after the final event.
The new rodeo queen, Joylyn Webster, carrying the stars and stripes rode into the arena. The crowd went wild—cheering, whistling, and stomping their feet. She was followed by a wave of horsemen who lined up two-deep and faced the grandstand. The flag unfurled to begin the final pass.
The crowd fell silent as a golden palomino mule entered the arena at a Fox Trot. Her rider, a man in a black derby hat, black swallow-tailed coat, and shiny black riding boots, rode in perfect form—a sight never before seen in this community. Mule and rider took their place at the end of the line. The mule stood perfectly still, with her long, slender ears pointed straight ahead, chin tucked under, and an arch in her neck.
The flag started its pass in front of the massed riders. The riders removed their hats. A murmur rippled through the grandstand when the Mystery Man on the golden palomino mule removed his derby and the crowd recognized the eccentric Bert. The riders followed the flag out of the arena. Bert and his mule brought up the end of the procession.
The loudspeaker crackled and popped. The announcer said, “Will the gentleman on the mule please come to the stand?” Bert turned the mule and rode at a canter to the stand. The announcer leaned over the rail and talked with Bert for a few minutes.
The crowd was silent.
The loudspeaker crackled and the announcer said, “Our own Albert Montague, formerly of Warren, Tennessee, has agreed to give us a demonstration ride on Stella, his gaited mule.”
Bert rode to the front of the grandstand, tipped his derby to the crowd, and Stella bowed. Turning Stella to the left, they moved out at a Fox Trot. The crowd was silent. Halfway around the arena, Stella changed to another gait. The crowd went wild! Whistling and shouting, the spectators poured out of the bleachers like a giant wave and surrounded Bert and Stella. Hands were extended to Bert.
A new Bert, and Stella, no longer the Dunfee mule, exited the arena that day in 1945.
Ol’ Blue and Charlie
“Oris, for once in your life, will you sit down to eat your breakfast? For heaven’s sake, chew your food and drink your milk.” Mom was winding up for a nagging speech. (I couldn’t wait to get out of the house before she got started.) “Furthermore, you have no business going up on the mountain by yourself today – or any day, so far as that goes.”
“But M-a-a-w-m, Dad said I could go.”
“I don’t care what your Dad said. You have no business up there alone.”
What did she know about anything, anyway? I had my donkey, ol’ Blue, and Ring, my long-haired black dog, going with me. I was eleven years old and didn’t need anyone telling me what I could or couldn’t do.
“Where on that mountain are you going?” She asked. “Every time I ask you a question, you say you don’t know. Well, young man, you tell me where you’re going and when you’ll be back, or by thunder, you won’t go! Do you hear me?”
Past experience had taught me when she said, “Do you hear me?” I’d better turn on the innocent look I had developed into an art for just such occasions, and give her the answer she wanted.
“I’m going up the old clay road to the west side of the rockslide.” Wearing my much practiced ‘innocent look’ that usually got me out of trouble, I looked her straight in the eye and said, “Gee, Mom, I’m sorry about last Saturday. I won’t let it happen again.”
At the time, I didn’t think much about it. Now, that I am older and wiser (my wife, Pat, will debate my being ‘wiser’), I often think about what could have happened that September day in 1945. It’s a wonder, in my youthful ignorance, ol’ Blue and I didn’t do more harm than good.
That September morning started like any other Saturday morning. I was out of bed by 5:00 a.m. Mom snapped from her bedroom, “Quit clattering around and let the rest of us sleep.”
Living on a ranch meant extra chores each Saturday. This morning, I was going up on the mountain to gather pine cones. Mr. Kissinger, the owner of the local hardware store, paid me two cents a dozen for all the big pine cones I could bring to his store.
Ol’ Blue, Ring and I had spent the last three weekends up on the mountain gathering cones. Last Saturday, Ring had run two different rabbits into their holes at two different times. I wondered if that crazy dog knew he’d never catch a rabbit. The first rabbit scampered into the safety of its hole behind a Yucca plant. Ring looked at me with a look that said, “Ain’t you gonna get outta that cart and help me dig this here rabbit outta it’s hole?” Naturally, an effort had to be made to help Ring flush the rabbit. Pine-cone picking came to a halt. Ring wouldn’t give up. He was sure he could dig a rabbit out of its hole. The crazy dog didn’t know the rabbit had a back door he used to escape from pesky dogs. It was the rabbit’s fault we were late getting to the pine cones. (Sometimes rabbits will interfere to keep young boys from executing their well-laid plans.)
Time slipped away and darkness came creeping down the side of the mountain before the cart was filled with cones. It was deep-down ‘coal dark’ by the time we descended onto the county road. In my mind, I saw all kinds of scary evil shapes floating across the road in front of us as ol’ Blue pulled the cart over the road toward home. She never flicked an ear. I wasn’t that brave. Today, I wanted to get an early start so I could be home before dark.
Chores were finished in record time and breakfast downed in a few gulps. I fed, curried, brushed, harnessed and hooked ol’ Blue to the cart before she knew what had happened. At last, we were on our way.
“Don’t be in such a ram-roddin’ rush,” Mom called as we drove past the porch. She handed me a jug of water and a Karo syrup bucket containing lunch. “Mind you don’t drink out of the creek. There’s no telling what germs are swimming around in that water. Young man, you make sure you’re home by chore time. You hear me?”
Brutus, Mom’s big Rhode Island Red rooster, crowed as we drove past the chicken coop. He was saying, “I hope you’re late gettin’ home and get in big trouble.” (Roosters like to see young boys get in trouble.)
“Thanks for the lunch, Mom. You make the best lunches.” I figured it wouldn’t cause me pain to elaborate on the lunch. (Moms like to hear those kinda things.) “Don’t worry. I’ll be home in time to do chores.”
When we reached the county road, Ring jumped into the cart and sat on the seat beside me. The cooing of a mourning dove broke the early morning silence. The trace chains on the harness jingled a cheerful tune as we made our way along the road. What else did I need? I owned the best donkey in the county. My faithful dog was by my side. I planned to make a small fortune gathering cones. Best of all, I managed to keep Mom from thinking I should take my bothersome little brother with me. I felt like a man-full-grown.
The county road ended about two miles from our house. From the end of the road, we followed a trail to the creek. When we got to the creek, ol’ Blue didn’t want to get her feet wet. She was determined that no amount of urging would coax her into the water. Slapping her rump with the lines didn’t work. Using my Scout knife, I cut a switch off a tree (with which an effort was made to encourage her). Still, she refused to budge. Trying to lead her into the water failed. The harder I pulled on the bit ring, the longer her neck stretched (at least to a length of five or six feet).