Oktibbeha County, Mississippi Genealogy Web Site

Well, (all great stories start with "Well"), I've already told you about Old Man Bevills at Sturgis and his tall tale telling in Fraser's Store, and about the time he was suppose to be sick. We did not live at the Bevill's house very long as the quarters were cramped and you can't afford to wear out your welcome. Anyway, my Dad took on a sharecropper job with Homer McMinn at Sturgis. So, we moved out to one of his places which was located on what is now State Highway 12, southwest of Sturgis when that road was unpaved and covered with gravel. I can't rightly say how far it was from Sturgis, but it was too far for me to walk it by myself. The house sat way back off the road a pretty good ways, so you could see anyone who turned off the main road and headed for the house.

Now, those of the readers who know about mules will quickly sympathize with my Dad (Old Sam) for the mule Mr. McMinn gave him to work the crops with was a blue nose mule. That's right, a blue nose mule; his entire muzzle was a light blue color and the hair around it was snowy white. Why, they are the most stubborn, cantankerous and ill-mannered four-legged beast the Lord ever put on the earth. I suppose Dad had encountered mules of this type before, but it was a sure-fire challenge to his talents, and constrained life style. My Dad was a big man, with biceps like a grown boy's thigh, big hand proven in many days of hard labor in the sawmills of Alabama and Mississippi.

I was just a lad and like others in those days I wanted to be everywhere my Daddy was. I followed him to the fields, walked beside him while he plowed, copied his every move and played like I was the one plowing Old Sid, the blue nose mule. We were poor folks and clothes, as well as other things, were hard to come by so my daily dress mode was a flour sack cut at the bottom to accommodate my little head, and holes cut out for my arms. In other words, I didn't have any britches to wear. That was no problem, we lived out in the country, had very few visitors, the weather was warm, and who could ask for anything more?

We had the pettiest dog any boy could ever want. Her name was Trixie and she was a solid white Eskimos Spitz with the happiest eyes on a dog anywhere. You could count on it, where ever I was there was Trixie, she was my guard dog, my protector, and it would be hard to say which one loved the other one the most.

On a certain Spring day in 1931 Dad was plowing, and there was barefooted, flour sacked little Jimmy marking step for step up and down the rows with Trixie following along behind for good measure. Old Sid was giving a lots of trouble that morning; just being his usual old hard-to-get-along-with self, I guess. Dad was not a man of violence, bad habits or foul language; his worst "swear" word was "you sap- sucker" and he had used that special swear words already several times that morning. Well, I guess he had all from Old Sid he could take; you know, every man has his breaking point, and he had reached his that morning right there in the field in front of his little boy, and Trixie too. He took the plow lines from around his neck, wrapped them around the plow handles, and saying something like, "Well, you sap sucker enough is enough." Old Sid turned his head back and took a sidelong glance at Old Sam (my Dad) and kinda snickered 'cause he knew he had got the best of the man behind the plow. But to his sad dismay the morning was not over, the day's work was not finished; Old Sam had enough for sure and Old Sid was about to get his comeuppance. Retribution was close by and would be most profound for Old Sam was just about to get Old Sid's attention.

Now, keep in mind, that I was just a boy - a lad of tender years - and had never seen Old Sam take such determined steps in all my life. Being free of the plow lines and making note that Old Sid had given him a look of complete satisfaction he stepped up beside that mule and with his big fist delivered one swift blow just under his big jaw below the very eye he had spied Old Sam with just moments before. I remember it like it was yesterday. Old Sid had the funniest look on his face; if he could've talked he'd said, "what just happened to me??" Then down on the ground he went with one great big thud that shook everything around there. Of course I was stunned myself, I thought Old Sid was dead. His eyes were rolling around in his head, white foam was coming out of his mouth, he was chomping on the bit, and every-once-in-a-while his legs would twitch, first one and then another. There he was flat on the ground on his side and the traces were just dangling about his withers.

Not knowing what to do next I started to the house running as hard as I could across the rows and hollering as loud as my little lungs would let, "Mama, Mama, Daddy killed Old Sid; Mama, Mama, Daddy killed Old Sid." Now, my Mama was a typical Irish woman (Hollingsworth was he maiden name), she had red hair, and there were freckles on her face and arms. She was in the kitchen working as usual, and hearing my excited calling from the field she opened the kitchen door. I kept on running, looking back now and then to see the mule still on the ground and Old Sam standing over him. "Mama, Mama, Daddy killed Old Sid." Nothing could hold or contain my excitement; I'd never seen anything like that. Mama, wiping her hands on her apron, took a good, long look at the scene out in the field, shook her head and said, "Well, I guess he did." And with that she closed the screen door and went back to her work.

I waited a moment or two and went back to the field to see about Old Sid. He was still on the ground and his legs were not twitching as much, but the foam was still coming outta his mouth. I guess Old Sam was wondering if he had really killed Sid, so he stood there a while considering the situation. What if he had killed him, would he have to pay Mr. McMinn, and how much would he cost? Where would he get the money? How could he work this situation out? Maybe all these things were going through his thoughts about then. While this was going on Old Sam took his Prince Albert tobacco can from his overall's pocket and proceeded to roll a cigarette. That must have been a good smoke, and while enjoying it he'd jab Old Sid every now and then with his foot to see if he'd move.

I can't recall just how long a time passed by, but it was some time later cause Dad had smoked three or four cigarettes by the time that Old Sid began to stir around and move some. He raised his head and looked around to see where Dad was, laid his head back on the ground, then looked around some more. I guess he thought it was safe to do more so he began to struggle a bit as if he was trying to stand up. Well, of course, anyone would know a mule in the harness who had suffered as he had couldn't muster enough strength to get up from his awkward position on the ground. I think Old Sam was really glad to see the mule moving around, maybe he wouldn't have to pay for him after all. And, with that Dad began pulling and tugging on the harness and Sid and finally got him on his feet after much encouragement. He stood there a while, chomping on the bits looking around, getting an idea where Old Sam was. Snorting and shaking himself a bit he seemed satisfied with his state in life. Dad took the plow lines, put them around his neck, slapped Old Sid a time or two on the rump with the plow lines and said, "Get-up" and off they went.

You know what? Old Sid plowed all day long with out another stutter or stumble. Why, he was the most perfect mule anyone could have wanted hooked to a plow in the field. For me, just a lad of a boy, it was a real lesson that sometimes in life you had to get the "mule's" attention before you got the job done. And that "mule" might not, necessarily, have four legs. Ain't it wonderful what you can learn just by watching what's going on around you? Just make sure you don't act like Old Sid when you are suppose to get the job done, or there just might be an "Old Sam" somewhere close by.

Well, Daddy (Old Sam) had a good crop that year; corn, peas, cotton, all real good. But that's another story to share with you later on.

One time publishing rights assigned to TomBigbee Country Magazine, Aberdeen, Miss. Soon to appear in "Tracks Along the Pathway, by Jim Allen." © 2007.

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