My mother came of age during the era of Elvis, bobby socks and poodle skirts. But her reality was much different than what is often portrayed in the media.
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She was a farm girl. Her family had a mule for plowing the field. Their old truck had to be cranked by hand in order to get it to start. It often didn’t. They had no indoor plumbing.
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She began working as soon as she was old enough to pick cotton or crop tobacco. In her world, if you were old enough to carry a burlap sack, you were old enough to work.
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When her mother died, she also became the “woman” of the house. Survival for the family meant that there was little sympathy for kids.
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Despite all the physical labor, my mother went on to get her degree. She also values education for her own children.
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My mother’s strength is amazing. She doesn’t sit back and moan about what she didn’t have. Many of her memories are good ones. I love her stories.
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She also doesn’t dwell on SELF. When I was a child, she often took me with her to visit strangers in nursing homes and at a mental institution. It was a big lesson in compassion and understanding for me. But that’s not why she did it. She genuinely cared about the people.
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She laughs a lot. She sings beautifully.
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I’ve heard her say many times that she has never done anything great. I respectfully disagree. She has done far greater things than I will ever do. I am very blessed to have her. I am so proud of my mother.
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This poem was inspired by her story.
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The Mule Sat Down
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
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Mama died last night
on a cotton planting moon.
Eighth grade has to wait
for the pale thin girl,
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the oldest daughter
in overalls and braids–
now graduated to
hard-booted woman.
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She plows behind
a huge brown mule.
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There’s a wake to plan,
chickens to kill, pluck, fry,
biscuits to roll, seven
little brothers and sisters
with knotty hair to comb.
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But the mule just sat down
in the middle of the row.
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She tries to coax him
with sugar lumps,
pretty honey words.
That fool won’t budge.
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He smacks his lips, sits
under a noon-white sky,
breathing slow, as if
all the time in eternity
just rolls down those
hot, gritty rows.
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There’s Mama’s body
washed, waiting, laid
out in her Sunday best.
Thirty eight relatives
will arrive by nightfall.
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Little blue butterflies
swirl like demons
in front of a
young girl’s face.
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But the mule still sits
in the middle of the day.
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She kicks that mule,
but all he’ll do is make
an indignant UMPH.
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She sits on his back, bites
his long ear hard, gets
stinking, nasty, no good
mule fur between her teeth.
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His big brown eyeball rolls
toward the dust-red barn.
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There’s a broke down truck,
potatoes to wash, floors to mop.
Good Baptist girls don’t cuss,
but if she had a firecracker, she’d
shove it up that mule’s fat ass.
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She feels like crying, laying down
on the sand, turning to root,
sprouting cotton from her hands.
Instead, she knows she must
hitch up a woman’s heavy load.
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Now folks riding down
her long hard road
slow down to watch
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the skinny little girl
pull a plow
like her life is on fire
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while a big brown mule
sits and watches and waits
for another day to die.
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This poem was originally posted at The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature (March 2009). Be sure to check out their latest issue.
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My mother’s story is good now. She gave birth to a beautiful, brilliant, talented daughter who never gave her any problems and is always quiet and respectful. My sister.
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