Apisa Hannali
"Lesson Six"Okpulot Taha
A couple kids are standing inside our corral rails, standing and watching. A cousin is hunkering down outside our rails, he is fearful of huge mules. I am the smarter of this bunch of us dumb kids, I am straddling and sitting atop a fence post, best view around. My pole is comfortable for my skinny little butt, I am barely belly high to an eighteen hand mule. Grandpa is having difficulty with our traces and chains, his green mule keeps stepping his traces, keeps kicking at his chains, "Momma, help me!" grandpa hollers towards our kitchen, grandma's keep. "Momma" is his term of endearment for his best friend in life, his wife, our grandma.
"Get in front of those mules, hold their bridals," grandpa advises grandma after she ducks between rails then walks over to lend her best friend a hand. She has a good hold on those mule's bridals, one bridal in each hand. Grandpa is struggling to have enough slack in a chain to hook up to our step-in plow. He gives this chain a good jerk and spooks his green mule.
Our young and feisty mule takes to starting and kicking making his older mate nervous, this snap of grandpa's chain against a flank gives him a scare. Moments later, both mules are fixing to bolt, are beginning to kick and bray. Grandma keeps her grip, she is more stubborn than our mules. Our old mule stands a good eighteen hands high, towers over grandma. Younger mule is not quite full grown but is at least twelve hands high, a tad bit taller than grandma. Between the two of those mules, they are just about lifting her clean off the ground, and she refuses to let go; she is a strong and good wife.
In a flash, both mules bolt, knock grandma down, trample over her, just about stomp her in two with those eight hooves stepping on her. This has us kids screaming and crying which frightens our mules even more.
Grandma survives just fine, mostly bruises, scrapes and a few cuts where mule hooves pinched through her skin. Mostly she is mad, mostly her pride is hurt.
Over a couple of years, grandpa with his best friend's help, along with some growing and maturing of a green mule, couple of years and we have a fine, very well trained team of mules to plow fields and tend to other heavy chores. Couple of years I am in charge of most plowing although our mules are twice as tall as my scrawny child self. Grandpa decides I have a way with mules, and I do.
I am out plowing, just one of our mules, cousins and others are working at knocking down weeds amongst our corn stalks. This is a very typical day, hot, humid, sticky and crawling with blood sucking ticks and chiggers. Grandpa is over at our milking shed, a small fragile slapped together lean-to affair. He has a young cow, fresh with a calf, is training her to be milked, her first time. I yell "haw" and my mule makes a turn, plods down two rows, then turns back into our field; plow one row, skip two, plow again. At field end, move over a row, do it all again until every row is plowed.
A commotion coming from our milking shed catches my attention. There is a lot of banging, our young mother cow is mooing and complaining, then planks begin bouncing around up on the roof sending up clouds of old dust, "Help me, momma!" grandpa is hollering. Younger kids simply stand and stare, I get out of my plow harness as fast as I can, take off running to help grandpa, but not fast enough to beat grandma to this ongoing disaster.
Grandma and I arrive, breathing hard and sweating more hard from all this heated humidity. Grandpa is having a terrible time in our milking shed, his cow is kicking out side boards and, somehow, is about knocking planks off the roof. Dust is flying and birds around take to flight to escape whatever is happening. Grandpa is hollering, "help me!" and our cow is mooing certain threats.
Taking hold of our milking shed door, grandma eases an opening. Inside I can see our cow has her short blunt young horns around his waist, has him pinned up against a back wall and is lifting grandpa up and down while madly mooing. Each up stroke, grandpa's head is slammed into roof planks like a sledgehammer. Bang! Boom! Pow! Boards fly up, dust flies and, "Help me, momma!"
Grandma, still holding open her door and peering inside watching these going-ons, backhand motions for us kids to get. My cousins take off running. I stay, I am thirteen years old, I am a grown woman, I do not have to get anymore.
To my surprise, grandma closes our milk shed door, leans her butt against the door, smiles at me then hollers to grandpa, "Now tell me to get in front of those mules again!"
Like grandma, our grandpa, her best friend, survives just fine. His ribs are sore, has plenty of bruises, a few knots on his head. Takes grandpa a few days of fixing to repair our milking shed, a few days and a lot of quiet cussing. Mostly he is mad, mostly his pride is hurt.
Two years, grandma patiently waited two years to have her just vengeance. This is the way of women, especially mule headed ornery Okie women.
