Southern Legitimacy Statement: I grew up in Kentucky, Southern Indiana and Southern California. My family is from Grayson County, Kentucky which is the setting for most of my stories.
The Dead Mule
Charlie Drucker stood at the edge of the sinkhole looking down at Nell. She lay motionless at the bottom. The sinkhole was next to his barn. It was thirty feet across and fifteen feet deep. Charlie’s mare, Come Along, had sense enough to avoid it, but Nell had taken a liking to the blackberries that grew around the perimeter.
Nell was a good, strong molly. Charlie bought her as a ten year old at auction in Litchfield. That was nearly fifteen years ago. She had plowed plenty rows since then, first with the gelding, Bob, and after Bob died, with Come Along.
Charlie got his gun and crawled down in the hole to put her out of her misery, but it was unnecessary. She was dead. Charlie figured her heart must have just give out. He climbed back to the rim, sat on the edge, and watched Nell sink deeper into the earth. After a few minutes, she stopped sinking.
Charlie got a shovel from the barn and climbed down in the hole, careful to maintain his footing on the brush growing from the sides. He scraped dirt down on the old mule until she was completely covered. It was hard work and he was sweating and near worn out, but he wanted her buried deep enough so the possums could not get at her.
Charlie stowed the shovel in the barn, took up his gun and walked to the house. He would have to get another animal before next spring. Come Along would need help to pull a plow through the Kentucky clay.
Charlie’s farm was two miles above Grayson Falls. His land extended from the meadow behind G.W. Carter’s Cheap Cash Emporium to the summit of Buckler Hill. Charlie grew tobacco and corn and had a small apple orchard. Tobacco was his main money crop, but he also made moonshine from his corn and applejack from his apples that he sold to the locals. Folks said Charlie made the best spirits in Grayson County.
Grayson was a dry county. Making and selling spirits was illegal. That never troubled Charlie. The local politicians, all church going prohibitionists, were some of his best customers. His second cousin was the county sheriff. Charlie kept him well supplied. Even the preacher at Grayson Falls Church kept a jug of Charlie’s spirits under the pulpit to keep his throat lubricated for his lengthy sermons on the evils of drink.
The secret to Charlie’s spirits was the water. He collected it from an underground spring that emerged from a limestone cave about half way down Buckler Hill. The water was the clearest and tastiest in the county. Charlie had a well back of his house, but the well water was scarcely drinkable. Charlie’s wife called it egg water.
On Saturday afternoon, Charlie walked down the hill to GW’s store. The local farmers gathered at GWs on Saturdays to talk hunting, fishing, and politics, whichever was in season. On this particular afternoon, John Henry Willerby, Grizzly John Beauchamp, his brother, Partridge Bill, and Beau Bratcher were resting their backsides against over-stuffed feed sacks. Elzie Hall and Arlie Esteridge sat leaning against the wall in split bottom chairs, the latter armed with his usual fly swatter. GW was behind the counter.
Charlie pushed through the screen door, letting it slam behind him. “Howdy folks,” he said as he entered the store.
“Hello there,” said GW.
The others nodded their welcome. They were always glad to see Charlie. He usually brought a jug of his latest product for them to sample.
Never one to stand on ceremony, Beau Bratcher ask Charlie if he had any squeezings ready.
“I’ve got some cookin’, but it ain’t ready for consumption. It’d eat a hole in your belly if you tried to drink it now.”
“When do you expect it will be ready?” asked Grizzly John.
“A couple of weeks. It’s got to age a bit.”
“How much you reckon on puttin’ up this time?” asked GW.
“Oh, twenty or thirty jugs. I may have to lug them down the hill two at time. My old mule fell in that big sinkhole next to my barn. All I got is Come Along. She don’t mind pulling a wagon down Buckler Hill, but she’d be hard put pulling it back up.”
“How did your mule fall in a sinkhole?” asked John Henry Willerby.
“I reckon she had a heart attack.”
“Them sinkholes are a problem in these parts,” said Beau Bratcher. “Seems the government would filled them in.”
“The government!” said John Henry. “The government ain’t nothing, but a bunch of useless politicians. The only thing they know how to do is make speeches and pass the plate. They are worse than a passel of Baptist preachers.”
“GW, you should still have some ‘shine from my last batch?” said Charlie. “As I recall, you bought a dozen jugs.”
GW searched under his counter and came up with one jug. “That’s all I got left.” He passed the jug to John Henry, who took a sip and passed it to Grizzly John. Grizzly John did the same and passed it to his brother, Partridge Bill.
“That’s a lot of shine to use up in a couple of months,” said Partridge Bill as he handed the jug to Beau. “You didn’t drink it all yourself, did you?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t be standing here. If the ‘shine didn’t kill me, my old woman surely would have. No, I sold a jug or two to the preacher and most of the rest to Doc Ellis. He said he needed it for his operations.”
“The only operations Doc Ellis does is separating dogs and cats from their male parts,” said John Henry.
“Well he operated on me,” said Grizzly John. “And I was sure glad of that drop of ‘shine he gave me to quiet my nerves.”
“He gave you more than a drop of ‘shine,” said Partridge Bill, “And he didn’t operate. He just sewed you back together after that raccoon took such a likin’ to you.”
“That weren’t no raccoon,” said Grizzly John. “I done told you that was a wolverine. Raccoons ain’t that big.”
“Well it sure tasted like raccoon when we ate it,” said Partridge Bill.
“That ‘shine he gave you was so you wouldn’t disrespect his artwork,” said John Henry. “It certainly was museum quality.” They all laughed.
“Beau, pass that jug down this way,” said Arlie. He took a long drink and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “I fell in one of them sinkholes once,” he said. “I was out squirrel hunting. I stepped on some brush, and next think I knowed, I was on my back in the bottom of a cave. I tried to climb out, but the dirt kept fallin’ in on me. I wandered around down there trying to find a way out. I could hear my dog barking at something. I just followed the sound of his bark and came out down by the creek. Bugger had treed a big fox squirrel.”
“Did you get the squirrel?” asked GW.
‘No, I was so mixed up from the fall and gettin’ out of that cave, I missed him by a mile.”
“Fellows,” said Charlie, “this is a most interesting, but I’m gonna need another animal to plow my fields come spring. Do any of you have a horse or mule you could part with?”
“I’ve got my old mule Methuselah,” said Arlie.
“That’s an odd name for a mule,” said John Henry.
“Well she’s old, ain’t she. She’s got a lot of work left in her yet. I can let you have her for twenty dollar.”
“That mule must be forty year old,” said Elzie Hall. “She was thirty when I sold her to you. And that was near ten year ago.”
“She can still pull a plow,” said Arlie, “and she’s got a good temperament. She’s only kicked me twice.”
“Did she kick you into that sinkhole?” said John Henry.
“I told you I fell in that sinkhole. I don’t take my mule squirrel hunting.”
“If that mule even looked at a plow,” said Elzie, “she’d fall over dead.”
John Henry scratched his head and thought for a minute. “I got a five year old mare. I reckon I can let her go for sixty dollars.”
“That sounds reasonable,” said Charlie. “I can give you fifty dollars now, and a couple jugs of spirits when it’s ready.”
“I’ll bring her over to your farm after church tomorrow,” said John Henry. “Her name’s Sadie. She’s a bit high strung, but she can pull a plow as good as any mule, once you get her settled.”
A few days later, Charlie was down at the spring filling his water buckets. He noticed an unusual odor coming off the water. He sniffed it and tasted it. It was sweeter than usual and had a slight odor of k’yarn. The smell was strongest where the water came out of the cave. Charlie emptied the water buckets, climbed on his wagon and headed back up the hill.
“Where’s my bucket of fresh water?” asked his wife.
“There’s something wrong with the spring. We’ll have to use well water until I can figure it out.
Later, after a supper of beans and biscuits, Charlie sat on the porch smoking his pipe and thinking. He felt bad about Old Nell. She was a darn good mule. She might have had some age on her, but she could pull a plow as good as any mule in Kentucky. He should never have let her play around near that sinkhole. He took the pipe out of his mouth and knocked the ashes out of the bowl on the porch railing. “By cracky, I’ve got it!” he said to himself. “That spring must run under that sinkhole. Old Nell done fouled the water.”
Later that evening, he was working at his still. He added well water to the mix. After it cooked for a while, he drew some off and tasted it. He spit it out. It tasted like rotten eggs.
The next day he hitched up his horses, tossed his buckets in his wagon and headed down to the spring. He dipped some water in a bucket and sniffed it. It smelled a little off, but it was not as bad as that well water. He filled his buckets and hauled them up to his still.
A few weeks later, he loaded a dozen jugs of his latest product in his wagon, hitched up his horses, and headed down Buckler Hill to GW’s. He took one jug into the store for the boys to sample. Grizzly John, Partridge Bill, Elsie Hall, Arlie Esteridge, Beau Bratcher and John Henry Willerby where in their usual places. Arlie was spinning some yarn about seeing a coffin float down the creek and tumble over the falls.
“I was coming back from a prayer meeting at the church. I was about halfway ‘cross the bridge when I saw it come down the creek and go over the falls. I lit out like the devil was chasing me.”
“I would like to have seen that,” said John Henry.
“Are you sure it wasn’t a bad dream?” asked Grizzly John. “The last time I attended one of them prayer meetin’s, I had an awful nightmare. I thought the angel of death was hovering over my bed. I grabbed Old Carty, and before I knowed I was awake, I shot a hole clean through the ceiling.”
“I went to one of them prayer meetings once,” said John Henry. “After the preacher sent the plate around twice, that was enough for me.”
“Well, pass this around,” said Charlie, handing GW a jug of his latest product. “This will sweeten your dreams.”
GW took a drink, rolled it around in his mouth, and took another. “That’s a mite sweeter than the last batch.” He passed the jug to Grizzly John.
Grizzly John took a drink, gasp, took another drink and passed the jug to Partridge Bill.
Bill took a long pull on the jug. He said it tasted like apples, gooseberries and persimmons, mostly persimmons. Kind of bitter sweet with a bite. He handed the jug to Beau Bratcher.
Beau tried to copy Partridge Bill by taking a big swig. He commenced to coughing so hard John Henry had to slap him on the back several times. Finally, when he could catch his breath, he said, “That tastes like apple cobbler mixed with hot red peppers. It nearly killed me.”
“You’re supposed to sip it,” said John Henry, “not gulp it.”
Arlie Esteridge grabbed the jug from Beau, and took a quick drink. “By the angels in heaven, that’s mighty powerful stuff. What recipe did you use?” He asked Charlie.
“I don’t follow any particular recipe except a general one. I just work at it ‘til it’s right.”
When the jug got around to John Henry, he sniffed it, took a drink, rolled it around in his mouth, and took another drink. “That’s a very unusual taste. Kind of like ‘shine and ‘jack mixed. What do you call it?”
“Old Nell,” said Charlie.
