by Oris George
As we turned into the driveway, one of my brothers threw a handful of gravel at Jim’s feet. Blue shied away from the gravel intended for Jim. The gravel didn’t bother him. Dad was still setting the water on the hay, so I turned Blue and Jim loose in the corral.
Over an hour passed. Dad still hadn’t come to the house. Patience not being one of my virtues, I went back to the corral to issue to Jim his proper call as a beast of burden. With bridle in hand, I put my arm around his neck. He stood as calm and peaceful as apple pie on Sunday. I tried to put the bit in his mouth. He didn’t want any part of that foolishness. He clamped his teeth together like a four-inch vise. No amount of prying or forcing succeeded in getting the bit into his mouth. All at once he turned into a hurricane of hair, mouth, long ears and feet that twisted-turned-jumped and bucked, trying to dislodge me and the hated bridle.
He stopped, turned in a tight circle and whopped me in the chest with his head. The breath blew out of me. I lay on my back in the dust and looked up to see him coming at me with all the furor of an Arkansas tornado – his mouth wide open, lips drawn back, his ears laid back along his neck, and his eyes sparking fire. I rolled under the bottom pole of the corral as he came to a sliding, dusty halt. He stared at me through the poles of the corral with the most ‘un-adult-er-ated’ hatred I’d ever seen in any eye.
I was so mad I could ‘spit’ (and I did). I stood up, dusted off my shirt and Levis and crawled through the rails back into the corral. That durn donkey stood on the far side of the corral, head lowered, looking at some imaginary mouthful of grass. I approached him with caution. He raised his head. Faking innocence, he looked at me with big brown eyes as if to say, “Well, little boy, how are you this fine day?”
Jim surprised me. He lowered his head and took the bit like it was no big deal. The next step was to harness him. He followed like a lamb as I led him to the barn and tied him to the hitch ring by the door. I came out of the door with a harness over my right shoulder. He turned his rump to me and started kicking like all get-out. It was plain to see he didn’t want any part of that harness. To make matters worse, trying to get away from that durn kicking donkey, I tripped over my own feet ending up on the dusty ground tangled in the harness. Hearing a chuckle, I looked up from my undignified position to see Dad sitting on the top pole of the corral (and to see that durn donkey grinning from ear-to-ear).
“Well, boy, are ya gonna put the harness on that donkey or hav’ ya decide ta wear it yerself?” he asked.
That did it! Upon removing myself from the tangle of straps, I brushed the dust off my shirt, walked over to Jim, and kicked him a good one right in the ribs. He kicked at me! I kicked him again. He kicked at me. I kicked him. His next kick caught me right in the gut, sending me rolling into a corral post.
“Don’t let that donkey git the best of ya,” Dad said. “Keep away from his hind feet! Could be he don’t like the way you comb yer hair or somethin’.” These were words that drifted down to me as I lay in the dust gasping for air. In my awkward position, I didn’t appreciate the advice Dad was offering. My legs were shaking. I stood up and brushed the dust from my shirt and leaned against the post to catch my breath.
“Are ya OK?” Dad asked from his perch.
Of course, I was OK! After three more tries, Jim stopped bucking and kicking and let me put the harness on him. By then, I was one worn out thirteen-year-old boy.
Dad said, “Leave the harness on that rascal and tie him ta the hitch ring. That way he can contemplate the events o’ the mornin’ while we go up ta the house for a cold drink o’ water. It sure did make me tired and thirsty watchin’ you and that donkey jiggin’ around.”
Everyday for three days, Jim and I battled it out. No way did he want to be a self-respecting donkey and wear a harness. He didn’t like the bit. He didn’t like the collar. He darn sure didn’t like the harness.
Late Saturday afternoon, Dad stopped to check and see how things were going. He said, “Are ya spendin’ most o’ the time lyin’ in the dust? Yer mother tells me every time she looks out the kitchen window you’re lyin’ on the ground or brushin’ dust off yer shirt and jeans.”
One Friday morning, with bridle in hand, I approached Jim prepared to do battle. Something was wrong. He didn’t fight the bridle and stood calm as peaches and cream while I tied him to the hitch ring. With caution, I placed the harness on his back. No trouble here. He stood calm and quiet. At last, my persistence had paid off. I felt like a man full-grown. I’d stayed with it and hadn’t let that blue roan donkey bluff me like he had the Anderson kids. I patted him on the neck. I thought, ‘You ol’ rascal. You ain’t as tuff as you thought you were.’
Wanting to show off a little, I went looking for Dad. He was in the shop putting new sections in the mower knife. “Dad, that durn donkey isn’t so tuff after all. He’s standing at the hitch ring harnessed and ready to be hooked to the cart.” Dad laid the ball peen hammer on the work bench. As he turned to face me, I thought I saw the trace of a smile on his face. (It must have been my imagination.)
“Let’s go have a look at ’im, ” Dad said.
“Jim took the bit and stood still while I harnessed him. He finally decided he couldn’t get the best of me.” I said.
Dad stood by the gate and looked at Jim. “From the way he’s standin’ there, hip-shot, ears droopin’, and eyes half shut, he don’t seem much worried ’bout a thing,” Dad mumbled. “Well, son, you gonna stand there all day and admire that donkey instead o’ hitchin’ him ta that cart Should we take the harness off him and go fishin’?”
“Let’s go fishin’,” I said.
No argument there. I liked to fish as well as any boy in two counties. I’d been wanting to go fishing ever since school let out for the summer. However, Dad always found something that needed to be done. Every time I asked him if I could go fishing, he’d always say, “When we git work caught up.”
“Reckon we could ride them donkeys over ta the fishin’ hole?” Dad asked. He smiled and said, “You git Blue and I’ll git them poles. Days like this are made fer breathin’ God’s fresh air and fishin’.”
Grandad, with a shovel over his shoulder, stopped to see how things were going with Jim and me. “Seems like you and that donkey are no longer havin’ a permanent disagreement over what is expected of ‘im. Gittin’ that donkey ta do what ya wanted ‘im ta do seemed to be as hard as sneakin’ a sunrise past a rooster,” Grandad said. “But remember this, patience is the price of survival.”
Son. Will it be okay with you if I ride Jim and you ride Blue?” Dad asked.
“Fine with me.”
Dad went to the shop to get the fishing poles. I grabbed a shovel and headed for the garden to dig some worms.
By the time I got back to the barn with the worms, Dad had bridled Blue and Jim. “That donkey couldn’t ‘ave behaved any better,” he said. “He took the bit like it was the thing ta do, no fuss at all.”
After inspecting the worms and commenting on how any self-respecting fish couldn’t possibly pass up such a tasty morsel, he handed me my fishing pole and told me to go ahead on and open the gate.
I felt like giving Jim a whack with my pole. After all the trouble I’d been having with him, with Dad, he behaved as calm as Mom’s pet yellow cat. I was beginning to think that dumb donkey was just trying to make me look bad.
Aggravated as I was with Jim, I laughed when Dad came riding through the gate. I’d never seen him on a donkey. There he was, brown Stetson hat set firm and proper, long legs which took the soles of his scuffed black boots to within inches of the ground, holding a fishing pole in one hand, and guiding Jim with the other.
“Whatcha laughin’ at?” he quipped, as he rode through the gate with the exaggerated air of someone of great importance. “Leave the gate open. Yer Mom’ll be home soon. She won’t have ta git out of the car ta open the gate. Nothin’ makes a woman madder than having ta open a gate, ‘specially, if the menfolks have gone fishin’. I don’t know what it i
s women have against fishin’.”
“Hey, Men!” Grandad hailed. “How come I have ta tend this water while you two goof off?”
“Because we’re better lookin’.” Dad hollered back.
Grandad walked over to the fence.“Well, boy, how goes the donkey business?”
Okay. I said. “We’re goin’ fishin’.”
“I’m glad ya told me,” he said. “Otherwise, I’d o’ thought you was just takin’ them fishin’ poles fer a ride.”
Dad and Grandad discussed the hot weather, how it seemed early for it to be so hot and dry. They hoped there would be enough irrigation water for the rest of the summer. Grandad told us he and Elmer reached an agreement just a little while ago on who would use the water and when. If Elmer so much as tampered with the head gate while Grandad was using the water, he’d find his hair parted with Grandad’s #2 irrigating shovel. Dad thought that should be easy enough for Elmer to understand.
On arriving at the creek, Dad said, “Make sure Jim’s tied to where he can’t git loose. I darn sure don’t wanna walk home havin’ ta carry all them fish we’ll catch.” Past experience had proven to me he would catch the most fish, and I’d end up carrying them.
Dad had his special way of fishing. It was a ritual that had been handed down to him from his father. First thing, he would check to see at which angle the shadows of the trees were falling. Then, he would find a ‘magic’ spot on the bank to set the can of worms. Many times he had instructed me in the art of placing the worm can. If the can were too close to the bank, the fish would jump out of the water to get at the worms. (Of course, there would be no sport in that.) Next, he positioned his hat on the back of his head. It took several tries before the hat was just right. (Heaven forbid if the brim should shade his face!) Trout could see his eyes in the shade of his hat brim and then escape to the deep, black recesses of the fishin’ hole. He’d sit on the ground ‘just the right distance’ from the can of worms and roll a cigarette. The last, and final part of the time-honored ritual before putting the worm on the hook, was to place the freshly rolled cigarette in the left corner of his mouth. Holding the fish hook exactly six inches from his mouth, he’d spit on the hook and light the cigarette. All this preparation would be to no avail if the fat, red worm wasn’t placed on the hook head end first.
The long hot summer afternoon stretched out before us – a time of lazy, effortless fishing.
For the rest of my life, I would remember that gentle afternoon in the summer of 1946.
When Dad started to talk, even the rocks and trees stopped to listen. He referred to times like this as quality time. He talked to me about always being honest in everything I did during my life—look for an honest cause to champion and give it my best – let people know where I stand on every issue, be it good or bad—always be respectful and kind to older people and those younger than me (even my two brothers)—for an honest dollar, do an honest day’s work – believe in God and Country—realize every man can’t be a poet no more’n a sheep can be a donkey—always remember the only thing gossip can’t hurt is live sheep or dead people—pay attention to my own business—take care of my own problems—remember, all people, no matter the color of their skin or their station in life, are the same under the skin in every important way. They desire to eat, to sleep, to be dry and warm and safe against the coming day.
I caught a big fat trout. Dad caught a bigger one. I caught three medium-sized ones. His were always bigger than anything I could catch. My complaining brought a smile to his brown, wrinkled face. “Ya ain’t holdin’ yer mouth right or somethin’.” He said. “Takes time ta learn how to catch them r-e-a-l-l-y big ones.”
“I’m learning,” I said. My dog Ring gave me a warm, wet lick on the left side of my face.
“Well, son, it’s gittin’ late. It’ll soon be chore time. Let’s git on them donkeys and head fer home,” he said. “From the looks of the clouds playin’ ’round the tops of the mountain, we just might git a shower.”
Blue and Jim headed home, their hooves disturbing the dust on the quiet road. A soft breeze from the west carried a fragrance of dampened dust on rain-struck grass.
It was the smell of a country childhood.
A Naked Impression
Henry and I were twelve years old and the best of friends. We got along because we enjoyed the same ignorance on many subjects—one of which was girls. It was a hot June Saturday in the summer of 1945 when Henry had his first lesson about how not to impress a girl.
At twelve years of age, we had not yet discovered girls were anything other than a pain. They giggled and laughed and acted silly.
Two weeks before we were to be released for the summer from the ‘prison’ known as Lincoln Junior High School, Laura Cranfield moved to town. Her father was the new bank president. Mrs. Andres had just given us our math assignment when the door opened. Mr. Kirk, the principal, ushered a girl into the room. There she stood, a vision of loveliness like never before seen – hair the color of ground cinnamon, eyes as blue as the sea. Right then and there, Henry fell in love. (The first of many ‘true loves’ in the years to come.)
The last two weeks of school dragged on and on and on. At last, we were released from ‘prison’. The lazy days of summer awaited us.
We spent the first afternoon of our new-found freedom swimming and making plans for the summer while Blue, my donkey, stood tied to a fence post close to the creek. I lived on a working ranch. Henry lived in town. As often as his mother would allow, and when I didn’t have to work, he spent weekends at our place.
“Next Saturday, if Dad don’t have sumthin’ for me to do” I said, “let’s look for magpie nests.”
“I think Laura likes me,” Henry said
“How do you know she likes you?”
“I saw her and her mother in the drugstore last night.”
“You saw her in the drugstore and you think she l-i-k-e-s you? Man, you’re nuts! That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Yeh. I could tell by the way she looked at me that she likes me.”
“Fergit about that dumb girl,” I said. “Do you wanna look for magpie nests on Saturday or not?”
“Yer jist mad ’cause she don’t like you.”
“I’ve got better things to do than moon around about some dumb girl,” I said, and pushed his head under water.
We dived, swam, splashed, and ducked one another. We made plans to look for magpie nests, shoot prairie dogs, and ride donkeys, when I didn’t have to work.
“I’m hungry,” I said. “Let’s go home and eat lunch.”
“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said in a month.”
We climbed out of the water and up the bank. Did we ever get a shock! Sitting on a beautiful dappled-grey Arabian mare, Laura Cranfield was laughing and smiling.
“You boys sure are ugly without any clothes on.”
The earth wouldn’t swallow me, and Henry died in his wet tracks. With nothing available to cover our privates but our hands, we backed into the water. Henry, backing 500 miles per hour, tripped and fell backwards. While Henry splashed and choked, I tried to hide and keep from drowning. Laura sat her horse for a couple of minutes and continued to laugh. With a flip of her beautiful cinnamon-colored hair, she turned her horse and loped up the trail.
Henry was mad and embarrassed. He kicked a tree trunk. He didn’t hurt the tree, but his big toe was a different matter. (It was much bigger for a very long time.)
Two weeks later, Henry and I, riding double on my donkey, Blue, heard a horse coming up behind us at a lope. It was Laura, the new-found love of Henry’s life. “Hey guys, I see you have clothes on today,” Laura called as she rode alongside us.
True to form, Henry tried to act all suave and relaxed. “Hi, Laura. That’s a fine-looking horse. Sure is good to see you today.”
“What a cute donkey,” Laura said.
Nothing ticked me off more than someone calling Blue cute.
Trying to act all i
mportant, Henry asked, “You wanna ride her?”
“I like donkeys,” Laura said. “Yes, I’d like to ride her.”
We slid off Blue’s back. Laura handed me the bridle reins to hold her horse. Henry gave her a leg-up, and she rode down the road a ways and back. “This is really a good donkey,” she said.
We stood in the middle of the road and talked about the up-coming parade on Saturday. “I’d like to ride Blue in the parade and you could ride my mare,” Laura said.
Henry blushed a deep red and said, “I gotta white donkey you could ride if you want to. It’s a much better donkey than this one.” Henry had a talent for revising the truth. Before I could get a word out of my mouth, Laura agreed and rode off ‘into the sunset’. The truth of the matter was—the week before, I had traded Frankie Gadberry five red hens and a brown kid goat for a small white jenny donkey.
Saturday we met Laura at the Texaco service station. She traded her mare with Henry for my small white jenny donkey. Henry thought he had died and gone to heaven. He helped Laura up on the donkey before he stepped into the saddle on the Arabian mare. Down the street they rode, Henry trying to act like Gene Autry and Laura sitting tall and composed as a rodeo queen.
The nerve center of our small town was the intersection of Sixth and Main Street. Right in the middle of the intersection, that white jenny donkey had a change of personality. She stopped dead in her donkey-tracks, squatted, slobbered, raised her tail, and brayed. Then she bucked. Taken by surprise, Laura abruptly became airborne. She landed on her back on the pavement. From her undignified position, she looked at Henry and let out a screech that was heard twenty miles away. The terror on her face right then and there convinced me that crazy ol’ man Tillitson had sneaked up behind Henry with a hatchet.
So much for a young boy’s trying to impress a young girl with a donkey.
Faded Blue Bonnet
In the fall of 1945 when I turned twelve, draft horses and mules were being slaughtered by the thousands. Before World War II, a few farmers and ranchers in our county purchased tractors, but horses and mules were still the main source of power on many farms. When my father married in 1931, he made the decision to continue farming with mules for so long as he was able to work.