Writings

I was talking to my Dad today, and, as usual, the conversation led him into a story, this one from his childhood:

In the flint-lined creeks and woods of Arkansas, the extended Nutt family lived in land owned and worked and loved by generations. Most of your family lived within a short ride away from each other.

Dad's great Uncle Fred owned a car, but he never drove it. He always drove his team across the creek near Dad's house when heading into town. Dad said you could hear the rattle and jangle of the wagon and harness a long way off.

Being a little boy, not even old enough for school, he especially loved on going on a ride into town. At the first jangle of the traces he would run inside to ask permission to ride into town with Uncle Fred.

Once getting into town, Uncle Fred would stop at the store or the smithy, whever he needed to conduct business that day. Most places had a wagon yard where you could rest your team in the shade while in town.

Now, Uncle Fred had a team made up of a tall thin mule and a big white mare. It was well known that the mule would kick, with little or no provocation. It was just a given.

Once they had pulled into the wagon yard and stopped, the first thing that mule would do is take his left hind foot and step outside the trace chain, giving him unrestricted access to kick at anyone coming up on his left side.

Coming back to the wagon, Fred would take the trace chain and whack the mule on the hock to make him put his foot back where it should be.

One day, Dad told him, "Uncle Fred, you're going to reach down there one day and that mule is gonna kick you in the head and kill you."

Uncle Fred chewed on his tobacco a couple of times, spit, and said, "He knows better than to kick me...."