The Mule, The Stud & The Queen

The Mule, The Stud & The Queen

What a weekend.
Right on the heels of my bad work news Friday, I went on to My Fella’s house for the weekend. It’s an easy enough drive, right at 100 miles, state highway the whole way. I’ve found that right at halfway, I like to stop and go in the store there and have a pee, get a Coke, and move on. I’m not sure why, it’s only an hour to there, and an hour on. But I usually travel with a drink in hand, so it’s not uncommon to need to pull over.

The weather was overcast, but I hoped for no rain, since we wanted to ride horses. It would be my third ride, and still a little cool, but an extra layer of Old Navy fleece would help with it. Just about the time I pulled up, the overcast turned to a drizzly rain, cold and icky. So we nixed the idea of a ride.

My Fella’s brother walked up. We’ll call him Jamie. Jamie deserves his own area in the blog to be introduced, he’s such a special person. But here he comes, always anxious to see whose around and what’s going on. We decided to sit on the porch for a while and watch the drizzle come down. Just talking and catching up. Jamie must have decided it wasn’t for him, so he walked back towards his parents. About ten minutes later, he returns, and I pulled a chair closer over to us for him. Why he couldn’t do that himself, I don’t know. Jamie likes to be taken care of just a little bit, but don’t we all?

It got so cool out there, My Fella got us all three blankets and we sat like old women on the porch until we were all chilled to the bone.

Darkness comes out in the country, and comes in a complete, velvet like cover. My Fella wonders why I fall completely asleep on the couch at 7p.m. At some point, Jamie’s wandered home and gotten himself mad about something and wanders back, muttering and stuttering to no end. He finally mutters himself to sleep, and My Fella is pecking away at his p.c., trying to work out a good senior photo for his nephew.

By the time Jamie and I are both awake again, we’re hungry-hungry, and eventually off to Pizza Hut. Not the cleanest joint to which I’ve been, Pizza Hut’s always have that “a horde of kids just rushed out of here” look and vibe to me, but the waitress was very friendly, the tea was good, and the pizza was piping hot. There was a storm of rain coming down outside by the time we left, but Jamie and I convinced My Fella to pull through the Dairy Queen for a little something sweet. Though he told Jamie that we didn’t get him anything, we always do.

Early to bed, early to rise, and with three men in the house, there’s a lot of peeing going on starting around 5:30 in the morning. But the rain is pouring down on the roof, and we all stay in bed.

After a hearty breakfast, we decided that we had planned to go Mule Day, and even though it’s been raining, and we’re late leaving, we’ll do just that. It’s probably 10:30 before we get away, well after the 6:30 or 7a.m. leave time we had planned, but it’s our day together. So the three of us pile in the truck and head . . . . . in some direction . . . .. “Go West, young man.” Even had Mule Days not been in action, it was a very nice drive through that part of the state. But Mule Day delivered on all it promised.

Breakfast
His parents culinary skills deserve mentioning. These people make good homemade biscuits. White flour and buttermilk, and worth every calorie and carb. A mason jar of homemade apple jelly (do not use a fork, the tines tear the jelly) and a jar of molasses from the farmers co-op, and thin cut country ham. Here’s a tip for you – when the butcher’s saw cuts through to slice the ham, it dusts bone meal onto the slices. When frying country ham, consider whether or not you want to rinse off the bone meal. The taste difference is slight, but noticeable if you know it’s there.

Mules, Mules, Everywhere Mules
Mules drawing carts, mules ridden like horses, mules in competitions for appearance, mules in pulling contests. More mules than you can shake a stick at – mules as big as horses, bigger than horses, smaller than goats, mules, mules, mules.

I know this now about mules: Mules are their own thing. They’re not a donkey. A donkey is a donkey. A horse is a horse. A mule is a cross breed between a horse and a donkey. Bred by man to be beasts of burden (I suppose), the Amish, so I am told, will not use a mule on their farms, because it is not a creation of The Big Guy. They’ll use horses, and they’ll use donkeys, both of which should have been on Noah’s Ark. But not a mule, because it’s a man made animal. Who knew?

This is what I think – 50 or 150 years ago, Mule Days was probably a live stock farmers exchange, a yearly time to meet and buy and sell these beast of burdens. Their website backs up this theory of mine, with the local lore and legend. But sometime a few decades ago, somebody realized that you can turn most anything into a good festival if you give it a try. You know every good Southern town likes to have it’s own festival, sort of a birthday party for the folks. Mule Day delivers it’s promise – if you’re looking for mules, you can find them here.

A mule pull is a contest with mules pulling sleds of weight. To the untrained eye (mine), the sled looks like a wooden flat, and the weight is stacks of cinder blocks. Three gentlemen in southern black and white (county jail stripes) get the day out of the pokey for volunteering to stack and unstack the blocks. I swear, it looked so . . . . rural . . . that I thought they were costumes. I don’t know why I was so surprised, about 300 miles in another direction, my father spent a career’s lifetime with a badge on, and I’ve known many a “trustee” to mow a yard. Still, to see the black and white stripes surrounded by teams of mules, it just looked so . . . . picturesque. Shame I didn’t take a picture.

I always like a good row of booths, and after an hour’s worth or more of mule watching, well, there’s just so much mule any one needs. Jamie has told us both he’s hungry, My Fella is getting close to wanting to leave, and I’m wanting to look at every single booth they have – I mean, that’s the whole reason it’s a festival, right? I buy a $3 miniature basket, handwoven, from some Amish girl with missing teeth. (I just have to think The Big Guy wants you to have good teeth. It should be ok with him to have that fixed.) I tell her I couldn’t make the big one, I sure couldn’t make the small one. But on my limited income, the $3 is all I’m willing to spend. Besides, all I would do with a large handwoven basket is eventually sell it in a yard sale or take it to Goodwill, with the recipient never knowing it’s handmade Amish. My fella gets annoyed at “all the plastic crap” in the booths and wants to leave, and poor Jamie’s starving and getting tired. So we drive into town to see . .. . .

My Cousin
Working as a restaurant manager, newly relocated to town, is a cousin of mine. In the same generation as my father, younger than him and older than me, we did not know each other until coincidence took us to both working at the same business. She ran a restaurant and I worked in the marketing department. Her parents, the same generation as my grandfather, were childhood favorites of mine. Fun, exciting, and loving, they would come to town. They even rode cross country on motorcycles. Her mother was very pretty, in a way reminiscent of a 70’s country singer like Dottie West. She was pretty, but it was a “real” pretty, not a story book pretty.

Anyway, she and I are friendly, but not really friends. We didn’t really know each other until the last 5 years or so, she’s two grown kids and lived a full life before I ever met her. So we’re really more like friends from work. I often forget that my aunt and uncle were her parents, because we know each other independent of any blood relationship.

But we knew she had moved there, and My Fella knew where in town the restaurant was located, so with Jamie in tow, we headed there for a meal. She was working but didn’t see me come in, so I stepped behind My Fella, called the restaurant and asked for her, and told her to turn around. She was certainly surprised, and it was good to see her. My Fella thought she should have been able to spend more time with us, but I understood she is the manager, not a manager, and it was a busy afternoon. You still have to let your employees take their breaks, etc. So she sat with us when she could and kept an eye on the restaurant, leaving when she had to. The food was good, typical fare for a mid level, family oriented, chain restaurant. We all ate from the buffet. I told Jamie “No” when he wanted spaghetti. It may be the first time I’ve ever told him no. But I just wasn’t gonna do pasta and sauce with him. But he got plenty, we got plenty, and we hit the road on an overcast afternoon wondering if we would beat the rain home.

Amish
My Fella takes his horses on an Amish ferrier about halfway to his home, and just to show me the country side, he pulls off the road. A mile or two down the way, he says, “That’s an Amish house.” I say, “How can you tell?” He says, “There’s no power.” I say, “How can you tell?” . . . . . . . wait for it . . . . . . he says, “There’s no power lines.” Duh. No power lines, no power poles, no power. The houses all look similar, sort of white color with dust on it, and on this overcast day, the land looks especially dreary. I hope during a pretty day, it offers more to them. All pitched roofs, two story buildings, sometimes with a sort of annex on the back, and sometimes a causeway between two houses. My Fella speculates that’s an extension to a now grown member of the family – perhaps a son who grew up and built his own house within spitting distance of his parents.

From the road, I can see the Amish children, dressed just like in the movies. The boys in suspenders and straw hats, the girls with bonnets. It looks very much like “For Richer or Poorer” except not quite as picturesque today. Muddy and wet. But I would like to think that a warmer week of Spring, and then Summer, will bring their land to a full green.

My Fella shows me the house where his ferrier lives, and points to the building where the horses get shoed. As we drive through, most every house has a sign on a wood board, plain white in black lettering, telling what is sold or serviced at the house. Home made breads, homemade jellys, candies, saddles, furniture, etc. My Fella says he thinks the rules are pretty simple, if it’s Sunday, there’s no sale. If the door is open during the week, they will sell. If it’s closed, they won’t. Word is the jellys are the best you can find, My Fella tells me not to buy homemade butter because it turns rotten quickly. I tell him that as soon as I find a job, I want to come back and buy one of everything, including two rockers sold at a store on the highway. She had beautiful quilts, hand stitched, all the colors in dark shades of blue. The largest one could have carpeted my living room and was over $800. But there was no doubting it was hand stitched. The thick batting of yesteryear has been replaced with fiber fill, since our homes all now have central heat and air. But they are beautiful pieces of stitching and quilting. And it’s a very nice afternoon ride with My Fella and his brother.

The Dairy Queen & The Story
My Fella has a nephew with a wildly inappropriate nickname. About 15 years old, he exhibits every movie stereotype of an effeminate sissy you could want – if there’s a checklist, he’s got all checks. Swish when he walks? Check. Wings out? Check. Multi-tasking with hair & cell phone? Check. Hair did? Check. The list goes on.

When I met this young fella, he was dressed in a camouflage, down quilted hunters coat. The irony of being gay, is how many different facets of your life fit. It’s a cold night, you have a very warm camouflage goose down coat. All the while clicking on his cell phone and talking about tanning with lotion. That same night, he just about climbed into his uncle’s lap, leaving me with one raised eye brow and about half a minute from telling him to get the helloffa my boyfriend. But then, one remembers when one was young.

So back to our night, an hour or two after we get home, when My Fella’s mom comes flying through the door, ostensibly to get Jamie, but beating 90 to nothing to tell us all about this fight at the local restaurant. Seems some 70 year old lady and some waitress had it out, and his Mom & Dad, along with a restaurant full of locals, was there to witness it. While it really was a funny story, I don’t know any of the participants, so I’m not retelling it here.

Off to the Dairy Queen for a late snack, we pull up and My Fella says, “You’re in luck” because there’s Stud, the mis-nick named nephew, with his father (My Fella’s brother), and step mother. I had not yet met this brother or his wife, but Stud and I have met. Stud’s not his real nick name, but let me assure you, it is as equally inappropriate as his real nickname.

My Fella asks his brother if they’ve talked to the Mom & Dad, and what ensues is a hollerin’ back and forth retelling of the Restaurant Story, which by now most everyone in town has no doubt heard about, but this brother did not know his Mom & Dad were eye witnesses. My Fella knew details with names, where the brother only knew vague details. I decided that I knew as much as anyone there, having heard it just as My Fella did, so I told what I knew, with a generous emphasis on their Mother’s excitement about the whole thing.

So we’re the only people in a Dairy Queen probably not 20 feet wide, and hollerin’ like we’re two football fields from each other. Then Stud and his StepMother tell us how Stud picked out her whole outfit – shoes, pants, shirt, and did her hair. Seems Stud has a flat iron, and isn’t afraid to use it. StepMother, my age, picked out her own panties, which Stud said were “ugly with smiley faces.” The brother is over there, country boy to the hilt, studying intently on his French fries. I’m a wonderin’ to myself, how do you get to be close to 40, and have your teenage son picking out panties and doing hair for your wife? Could be worse, I suppose. Stud could have bad taste.

So the brother, in what I am sure is an attempt to gross out the city slicker (me), starts telling us work related stories about men with split open heads and brain matter you can see (can you believe he’s back home and it’s only been a week?) and catheter insertions gone wrong (as if there’s a good one.) He used, and I promise this is not a lie, the phrase “Choke it like a chicken and pull it up towards his head.”

Stud is much put out over a much publicized murder trial, and we all take to hollerin’ at each other about whether she’ll get off or not, and if she does, how she’ll do it, and whether it’s an iron clad fact that she did the killin’, just that she’ll probly get off. (I know, I misspelled “probably.”) Stud’s just all worked up over it, with some of us tellin’ him to go to church and pray for her, and I’m just as loud as the rest of the bunch. Now, keep in mind, we’re sitting in booths next to each other, and the entire restaurant probably isn’t 20 feet across, not the two football fields apart you’d think, the way we’re carryin’ on. My Fella takes to drivin’ his diabetes into over drive with an ice cream concoction that would make emperors jealous of the gluttony, and after a while we all leave, with brother driving a crew cab diesel truck. Why do diesel’s always sound like they’re about to shake apart? Surely that can be fixed.

This whole day and night has just wore me out, and I am secretly glad that brother Jamie is staying at his parents house this night. He tends to wake up pretty early, and walk around waiting for everyone else to wake up, including trips to your room, just to see if you are or are not awake. I’m happy to know we’ll be able to sleep in.

So Sunday Comes
So Sunday comes, as it always does. And finds us sleeping in and stretching and yawning. About 9, I suppose, I yawn and stretch and try to come to life. And guess where My Fella wants to go eat breakfast? You guessed it – the scene of last night’s altercation. He just can’t resist the pull of the small town excitement, and apparently neither can anyone else in there. You see the waitresses being waived over, the owner leaning down at tables and grinnin’, and even I couldn’t resist saying, “This tastes old. I’m not paying for it.”

Sitting at the table waiting for breakfast, My Fella has the nerve to say to me, about the crafts yesterday, “Did you see that lady making the real big shawl?” Uh – No. Mr. “It’sallplasticcrap” made us leave before I saw everything, and now wants to ask me if I saw the lady hand making a really big shawl. Ugh!

Strange Times Indeed
It was a sometimes funny, sometimes cold and rainy, sometimes warm weekend. This weekend is not indicative of my time spent with him. Usually we’re much more subdued, much more relaxed, without near so much excitement. It was a fun diversion.

A year ago, to think I would be in love, driving down a gravel driveway, going to Mule Day, and just carrying on so for a weekend, . . . . . . . . but every single minute of it was spent with My Fella. All the hoopla, all the rain, the 75 cent bag of peanuts at the festival, to that last kiss before I drove home. Strange Times Indeed. But better ones, I’m not sure I’ve had.