Write about our family; something funny from the past, your favorite Gold family story, or what's going on with your branch of the family tree. Remember that this is a family website, so keep it clean! Now, PJ Jackson, your webmaster, will kick this off. Here's a story about my granddad, Herman Jackson, who grew up in Stone County, MO.
Herman was about twenty years old when he went to work for his uncle, E.J. “Josh” Maples, who had a large farm near Elsey. This suited Herman; he had been raised a farmer’s son, and he would spend most of his time working with a cousin who was and would always be his best friend — Maundril B. “Mun” Maples, Josh’s son. Herman and Mun courted (and married) sisters Annie and Ethel Dunton, who lived near Brown’s Spring.
Herman and Mun were given the task of plowing and planting a field north of Elsey (Josh Maples had quite a large farming operation in those days, and worked his seven sons — and Herman — very hard). With nothing more than a few hand tools, a turning plow and one mule, the boys were expected to raise and harvest a crop.
They were used to hard work, so getting up early and working until sundown wasn’t too hard to demand of themselves. The problem was, no one had told the mule about this necessary ethic. As the spring ran close to summer, Herman and Mun had plowing still to be done as they spent hours, every day, trying to coax the mule to “get up ‘n’ pull the **&^%! plow!”
One afternoon, having returned to the field with a wagon-load of manure to spread, the mule predictably laid down for one of its daily siestas. Herman and Mun had enough. Weeks and weeks of yelling, cussing and threatening hadn’t changed the mule’s work habits, and this time, Herman and Mun were ready for him.
Still hitched to the wagonload of smelly bovine by-product, the mule had conveniently reclined over a low spot near the edge of the fencerow. The boys could easily reach under the side of the beast and lay-in a small pile of twigs and sticks. So they carried on this plan; a true stroke of genius: “We’ll build a fire underneath this here mule, and boy, will he ever learn a lesson about layin’ down on the job!”.
Equating a mule’s skin sensitivity with that of a human’s is not an idea that carries much sapience. The fire got good and hot before the resting creature noticed an unusually warm sensation on his ground-side. But, as the boys predicted, the beast finally rose to his feet, to theirs jeers and gleeful cheers. For a moment, it seemed that man had conquered the savage beast and Herman and Mun just might get enough work done to get home, clean up and take the Dunton sisters to the pie supper up at Union Ridge Church, near Possum Trot.
But the mule hadn’t finished his side of the story. He walked, slowly, just far enough to position the wagon directly over the now-leaping flames. The mule, once again, laid down. The wagon — and its load of cattle dung — burned to ashes.
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