by Wendy Dudley
The day I dropped by to check out Lyle's mules, I found a pretty little red baby peeking at me from behind
the rump of her horse mother. Coy but curious, she was absolutely gorgeous, a genuine heart-stopper.
"Her mother's for sale too," Lyle said. "If you're interested, that is."
The mule's mother was a ten-year-old liver-chestnut Morgan mare. She had small, perky ears, a white blaze running down her nose, and a sweeping mane and tail. Under the sun, her dark coat shone like polished jet. Her name was Crocus, as she was born in early spring, when fields are dotted with those wonderful harbingers of warm days to come.
The other mule was small and wispy, the offspring of Ebony, Crocus's mother. Both mule foals were sired by Cisco, the donkey jack now living in my fields —I nicknamed them the Cisco Kids.
With a sea of equine faces studying me, I stared back, wondering whom to choose. Should I take home one mule, two mules, or a mare and her baby mule? If I lived in Kentucky or Tennessee, mule advice would be as close as my next-door neighbour. Down there, longears outnumber horses. Their hardiness first attracted the attention of American President George Washington, who requested that donkeys be brought over from Spain so that mules could be bred to haul goods and work the land. To this day, the southern states are flush with mules, but up here, too many people view them as mongrel jokes: clowns, troublemakers, a stubborn beast that would sooner kill you than look you in the eye.
Ignoring the guffaws, I resorted to books and magazines, reading numerous articles about who should and shouldn't buy a mule. Never owned a horse before? Then a mule is not for you! Short on patience? Then walk away fast! Everything I read advised an inexperienced
rider to stick with a bomb-proof horse that's been around the corral several times, a horse that has seen it all and done it all, and thus won't bat an eyelash at a hulking grizzly bear, a dropped rein, noisy trucks, flying plastic bags, or flapping raincoats.
Mules, the articles said, are blessed with more brainpower than they deserve. They love mental games, deciding on their own what to do and when to do it. If you ever punish a mule, it will harbour ill feelings until the day it kicks back. Determined to do things their way, mules even live to the ripe old age of forty, just to saddle you with years of grief. Yes, indeed, a calculating and conniving animal!
Hogwash, I thought. I'm sticking to my guns. Deep down inside I believe few animals are born bad. If handled confidently and with respect, and if not forced into uncomfortable situations, most are willing to please. Somewhere along the way you strike a deal; you become part animal, and they become part human. You start speaking each other's language and you learn to respect each other's space.
If I brought home a young mule, why would it grow up wanting to kick me between the eyes? If I treated it right, why would it carry a grudge and strike me dead years later? It just didn't make sense, so I forged ahead, my will as granite-hard as that of the animals I was about to welcome into my barn.
In the end, I went for the package deal, choosing Crocus and her red-headed mule foal. I figured I could ride the mare while training her baby. I was bringing home a horse and half-a-horse, or as I began to say, "a horse and a half." It wasn't quite a mule train, but it was a good beginning.
Chapter Ten
Roping Lucy
Lucy and the donkeys have a special greeting for new visitors. They tug their clothing, demanding a scratch between the ears. Brats!
My decision to buy Crocus and her mule colt was the easy part. Now came the hard work. The mare had had some professional training, but the mule had yet to feel the touch of a human hand. Born beneath a star-speckled sky and on a bed of cool grass, she was a wild thing. During the day, she raced with the herd, a small string of four dark horses moving like a train across the vast meadowland. One moment the horses would be grazing like contented cows, only to freeze a second later when the leader, a coal-black gelding, tossed his head, his ears perked forward and his nostrils open to the wind. He would spin, breaking into a choppy gallop, then extend his legs to swallow more ground. The rest of the horses followed, racing across the flats, up into the bush and circling back through the scrub willow. Who knows what set them off maybe a scent in the air, a snapping branch in the bush, or just an ancient desire to race the wind.
Shadowing her mother, my molly mule ran on spindly but strong legs, her four hooves a blur in the long grass. The horses whinnied and snorted, speaking to one another while throwing their heads and wind-braided manes. Such freedom: no bridles, saddles, or riders, just horses moving together like a finely tuned orchestra. Their gaits were rhythmic, in two-beat trots, three-beat canters, and four-beat gallops. No wonder the horse has such a history with military bands. If I closed my eyes, I could hear the music written to match the different strides, the tempo intended to quicken or slow the band's march.
The gelding led his herd in one more circle, then eased into a trot. Breathing hard, the horses returned to eating, a chorus line of lowered heads. The mule never strayed far from the mare, still playing hide-and-seek behind her mother's rump if she thought I was watching too closely. If we were to become friends, our work had to begin soon.
Having read about imprint training, where owners handle newborn foals within hours of birth, I knew I was three weeks too late, but it was still worth a try. If I could rub and stroke the foal, just like Crocus did, she would learn that fingers poking in her mouth, tickling her nose, or running down her legs were not a thing to fear.
So over the next few days, my little molly mule named Lucy after that special northern Ontario lake where I bonded with so many wild and wonderful creatures trembled her way into the world of humans.
Ideally, she would have been penned with Crocus, so I could earn her trust without forcing her to come to me. Like most young animals, she would have been curious: tentative, yet eager to investigate my baggy shirt sleeves, my shoelaces, and my loose hair. It would be a poke-and-prod game.
Unfortunately, that isn't how things happened. Lucy was roped, learning a harsh lesson in forced constraint. While Lyle let her race around the rail corral, I stood and watched, my anxiety shared by a worried Crocus, who eyed the action from outside the pen.
I was amazed at the strength and determination in one so young. Panicked, Lucy circled the pen faster and faster and then scrambled up the rail sides, her tiny hoofs digging in like a veteran rock climber. Before Lyle had time to gather the slack on his rope, she crested the top, her belly now teetering on the creaking rail. In one mighty leap, she tumbled to the ground. I held my breath, fearing one of her slender legs was broken, but in seconds she was on her feet, her eyes wide with terror. Her world was crashing, changing into a world where humans did bad things.
Back in the pen, Lucy began to sweat heavily, her fuzzy coat wet with nerves. The horses were now standing next to the corral, sniffing the air and smelling her fear, their nostrils flared like an open flower. I called time out and put Lucy back with her mother for a well-deserved suckle and tender nuzzle. I wanted to call it a day, but I knew if this session did not end on a positive note, Lucy would become impossible to catch.
While Lyle left to do chores, I returned to the corral, where Lucy now stood dry and relaxed. When I kneeled down low, Crocus wandered over for a good sniff. We chatted quietly, and I purposely ignored Lucy, rubbing the mare's neck and scratching those itchy spots under the jaw. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the mule stretch her neck towards me. Again, I ignored her, giving all the attention to the mare. Lucy's ears tilted forward, her nostrils twitching. She was now stretched like a giraffe, her neck straining forward with her front legs not budging an inch. I wanted to reach out to her, but I knew better. This had to be on her terms, and I was delighted to see she was trying to trust after such a terrifying start. On this high note, I called it quits.
The following day, I repeated my slow approach. Again, the mule sniffed, her nose only inches from my body. She then stood sideways, so I brushed my arm again
st her shoulder, like the mare would to reassure her. She tensed, then relaxed. I repeated this several times until she accepted my physical contact without a twinge. Within an hour, I was wrapping my arms around her, massaging every part of her body, except for her ears and legs. I didn't want to rush into handling those long ears until I had her full trust. Handle the head wrong and you risk an ear-shy mule jerking its head high at the sight of a bridle. Those sapling legs also require special care. Like horses, mules bolt from danger, so they don't take kindly to someone grasping their leg.
I ended the day with Lucy's head cradled against my stomach. The sun dipped below the spruce; the day's heat turned quickly to an evening chill. I began to hum a Stan Rogers sea shanty, rocking back and forth from one foot to the other to keep my toes warm. The mare's head dropped, her eyes half shut. The mule, her red head still buried in my sweater, breathed deeply. She was sleeping. This is exactly how I wanted her. Trusting, relaxed, her breathing slow. Her body swayed with mine, back and forth, back and forth, like a tiny boat bobbing on water.
The following weekend, Lyle moved the mare and mule to my place, their new home. They travelled in the back of his pickup truck, the mare's ears almost touching the top of the stock racks, with Lucy leaning against her mother's shoulder.
"Are you ready for this?" Lyle asked, smiling, as we unloaded the two down the cattle chute.
"Guess I better be. There's no turning back now."
I began to whistle another Stan Rogers ballad, only this time it was to calm my nerves. Lucy and I were about to begin our dance, our waltz on water.
Chapter Eleven
Country Fairs
The one bad thing about country fairs is that none of the home baking is for sale. All those prize-winning goodies, and not a free sample to be had.
Fair day is full of excitement, like a swarm of honey bees hovering over a clump of fragrant clover. Animals are meticulously groomed, their coats silky sleek and their hooves glossy black. Young riders, some of them so small they could walk under their horse's belly, are braiding manes and tails with red ribbons, and polishing silver bridles until they shine like moonlight on water. Inside the barn, there's a cacophony of crowing roosters and bleating sheep, and rows of lop-eared rabbits and spotted guinea pigs huddled in their cages.
There's a spicy sweetness to the air, a blend of frying bacon, fat sausages cooking on a grill, fresh bread, and robust coffee. Weaving through the crowds are bright-faced children, screaming that they just won a ribbon in the drawing competition, and that their mom's chutney was named the best. And did you know that Jim's photo of his Red Angus bull just took first prize? And poor Jenny, her pickles didn't win again this year. Oh well, there's always next year and the year after that.
I love a good country fair; they are as much a part of the landscape as a good hip-roofed barn. Everyone young, middle-aged, and old comes out to celebrate their neighbours' accomplishments and to cheer or the friendly competition. City folk in search of simple pleasures also flock to the fair, perhaps remembering their trips to Grandma's farm for Sunday supper.
I may no longer be able to buy unpasteurized cream in a glass bottle, but a fair still paints numerous scenes from the rural handmade life: hardworking farm wives selling fresh eggs, jars of saskatoon-berry jam, stacks of blueberry pies, bags of potatoes, bundles of onions and carrots, knitted woollen socks, gay quilts and floral arrangements, and pastoral paintings of life outside the farm kitchen window. Husbands parade cattle in front of scrutinizing black jacketed judges, who size up bovine udders, testicles, hooves, and backbones. In the next field, sons and daughters prod and poke their calves, tugging on the leads as their animals shuffle around the 4-H ring. There are always a few tears shed when a champion steer or lamb is sold for slaughter in some cases, a soft-hearted neighbour buys the animal so the youngster knows it will continue life in the pasture down the road.
Around the cattle pens, the men jaw away the day, talking about their latest calamities, the weather that is always too dry or too wet or too cold, and cattle prices that are never high enough. One old-timer, his hands thick as bear paws and his legs as lean as matchsticks, is bemoaning the cost of pickup trucks. "Was a time when you could buy a nice new one for two bulls," he muses. "Now, you'd have to sell ten of your best." His gripe is met by a chorus of nodding heads, as boot toes scuff the ground, sending puffs of dust over the worn leather.
Fancy machinery may have replaced horse-drawn ploughs, but at our local Millarville fair, which has logged almost one hundred years, the horse pull remains king. A salute to a time when horses tirelessly worked the fields, the competition packs the bleachers with fans waiting to cheer on their favourite gentle giants. The teamsters, holding smooth leather lines, cluck to their horses, setting in motion a mass of muscle. Leaning into their harnesses, the animals drop their heads and drive forward, their back haunches rock-hard as their hooves dig into the ground. Onlookers shout and hoot, as the driver cracks the air with a "Git up there, Jim and Bob." Just as the teams are matched in size, so are their names, with pairs like Belle and Bess, Mitch and Mike, and Hank and Henry. Old farmers leaning on canes, their shoulders slightly rounded, begin to hear voices from their past, the grunts from the horses and the sighs from children who used to walk behind the teams, heaving rocks and boulders onto the stone boat. They love to tell their stories, and I am always eager to hear them.
Throughout the summer, I attend different country markets, selling my art and photography. Men with russet faces, their brows shadowed by farm caps, wander over and study the mule pictures, smiling at the ones where the manes consist of real strands of hair that I have pulled from Lucy's tail. Their lined faces grow soft as they tell their tales of harness heroics: horses that worked faithfully from dawn until dusk; teams that braved blizzards to find their way home; mules that stopped pulling on the dot of noon because they knew it was quitting time; a team that went out of its way to sidestep around a fallen child; and a pair of Roman-nosed molly mules that craved watermelon.
If Grant McEwan were still with us, he would be cheering the loudest and telling some of the best stories. A huge fan of the horse pulls, he grew up when horsepower came in a harness, not in a motor. Born on a Manitoba farm, he went on to become dean of agriculture at the
University of Manitoba. He was also a politician, serving as Calgary's mayor and Alberta's lieutenant-governor, but his passion was the western farming heritage, honoured in the numerous books he wrote.
I recall an interview I did with Grant after the publication of his book Heavy Horses. He spoke of the horses like a father would of his son with deep respect, admiration, and love.
Grant cherished the bustle of the Millarville fair, and I can still see him standing there, his smile stretching as wide as the sky when he visited the heavy-horse judging ring or took in the "Sheep to Shawl" contest, an event that evoked memories of a bygone age. After the sheep were shorn on the back of a wagon, teams of weavers competed to see who was the best at carding, spinning, and weaving the wool into a shawl, with points awarded for speed and workmanship.
Much as country fairs conjure up yesterdays, they also open a window on tomorrow, with young farmers taking the reins from their parents. Let us hope that the family farm survives so that we may all share in the excitement of fair day, watching another generation of 4-H'ers primp and preen their charges, their fingers crossed for a blue ribbon. They deserve our applause, since they are the ones who will be growing the food that our grandchildren put on our great-grandchildren's table.
Chapter Twelve
Flies in the Soup
I have yet to read a book about rural living that does not mention a war with flies. I heave yet to read one in which flies surrender.
Living in the country means living with flies here, there, and everywhere. In the house, in the barn, in your eyes, up your nose, in your mouth, in your butter, and in your tea.
Our windows are often a maze of bumbling flies; butting their tiny h
eads against the panes, trying to escape into the outside world where they belong. Some years are worse than others, the black mass on the window so thick it threatens to block out the sun like a midday dust storm, Turn on a bedside lamp and they knock around inside the shade, ricocheting off the sides like a crashing race car careening off concrete guardrails.
After several buggy summers, we no longer pa) much attention to the pests, waving them aside without missing a word of conversation. But it wasn't always that way. At first, we blamed the bloated fly population or our log home, a natural haven for spiders, wasps, moths and various winged and crawling insects, but then we visited the neighbours' homes, where half-dead flies wen casually brushed from the table moments before dinner was served. Satisfied our own invasion was not personal, I began doing housework while casually humming that old traditional folk tune, "The Blue Tail Fly."
It's not that we didn't try to terminate the bugs, but after a while we too felt like bottled flies, butting our
heads against the impossible. We hung yellow sticky strips, but what's a few dozen stuck flies when you're battling hundreds? Anyway, the buzz of them fighting to unglue their legs is unnerving. Same thing for the electric zappers: there's no such thing as a peaceful evening if you're sitting ringside at a fly electrocution. Next came the hanging bag of liquid fly bait, a fatal attraction that smells of rotting fish. After a month, when we counted only two drowned flies, we disposed of the floating nooses. We could have used infrared cameras to detect gaps and cracks used by the flies, then held an open-house caulking party, or hosed the place down with an insecticide, fumigating ourselves in the process. But why bother? It's much easier to accept the wee beasts.