Ol’ Jude the mule and Gran’Paw Sasser had everything in common. You could hear ’em down in the cornfield, both of ’em passing vociferous gas and exchanging insults.
“Damn you to hell, Jude! When I says haw I means haw!”
Paw, which is what I called him—he called me boy—spent most of his life looking at the behinds of mules in a freshly-plowed or planted furrow in the hot Oklahoma sun. Tough, ornery, as stubborn as the mules whose behinds he followed.
I envied the way he drank fresh well water from the quart fruit jars Maw and Mom brought down to us from the old house on the hill. Water overran his mouth and washed the dust off his chin before it made wet spots in the tilled soil and on his clodhopper shoes. He ripped off his old sweat-stained hat and poured what was left over his thick iron-gray hair and shuddered with delight.
When the sun turned red in the afternoon, Paw turned Jude toward the barn. He picked me up—I was about six—and set me astride Ol’ Jude and we trudged home, the three of us with our weary heads hanging, not speaking.
“Noisy creeks,” Paw always said, “run shallow. Deep water don’t a’ways hafta be a’bubblin’ an’ a’goin’ on.”
Paw never asked anything from anybody or anything. Not from any man, not from government, not from life.
Once, a “guv’ment man” came out to the farm to try to tell Paw how to run his business. Paw got his shotgun and chased him off. Ol’ Jude added insult to injury by braying the mule equivalent of a horse laugh.
The only time I ever saw Paw cry was when Ol’ Jude died. Paw stood there with a single tear carving a streak through the dust on his thorny cheek.
“What the hell you lookin’ at, boy?”
“The masculine heart needs a place where nothing is prefabricated, modular, nonfat, ziplock, franchised, on-line, microwavable. Where there are not deadlines, cell phones, or committee meetings…”
From Devoted to Fishing, by Charles W. Sasser. Available in paperback from Amazon and Barnes & Noble, or in Kindle.
Oh! I love your Paw!
My old trail riding buddy had a wonderful Appaloosa Mare that he rode for over 20 years. When Cocoa died some idiot suggested that Len call the rendering truck to pick her up. He got a baleful look and was immediately ignored as Len called a buddy with a backhoe and front end loader. Cocoa was buried with honors and big tears in the pasture just behind her barn stall in clear view of the back porch swing.
3258 Highway 289 North
I never had a horse, but I have buried more than my fair share of dogs. It’s difficult for most men cry nevertheless, there are times when it’s more than warranted. I had a difficult time recently explaining to my three-year-old granddaughter what death was. She wanted to know after we buried our dog Molly if she would be coming back. She had a difficult time getting her mind wrapped around the idea of death, as most of us do. It’s not an experienced I’m looking forward to.
I know what you mean. I’ve been at the same address for over 36 years and have always had a pack of great dogs. Two hundred years from now, if an archaeologist digs in my backyard , he will swear he has found a canine cemetery. We all plan to hunt together again in the afterlife.