Papa had a pair of mules......

Papa wuz a big man,6ft 4in tall weighed bout 300 pounds...He could tote a 200 pound sack of fertilizer fer a mile and a half..Papa wuz a man you didnt want to cross, he wuz de boss....Papa' mules,"ole Jake and Dan", them wuz the finnest mules in the land.....He could plow a row straight and deep....I'd follof along, bustin' up clods with my dirty little feet, course i couldnt keep up with Papa and them mules.....Sometimes Papa would pick me up on his way back and set me up on one of dem mules and I'd promptly fall asleep......Never seen Papa wear nuttin but overalls and a grey cotton shirt, it never got dirty but it sure got wet....He'd eat 4 eggs and a big helpin' of grits and fatback for breakfast....Cholestoral hadnt been invented yet so it wasnt something to worry bout,,,,Something bout an ole mule pootin in your face all day took care of that.....

This post brings back memories of my chilhood. Growing up, I had two Uncles that still plowed mules, the rest having gone over to Ford tractors years before. My father felt we should all experience the way things were done in the past so I had to learn how to plow behind a mule at an early age. It's hard work, sweaty and dusty but rewarding to see the furrows deep and straight. I can sympathise with your Papa over the "mule poots". While using the south end of a north bound mule as a stand by compass, you watch his tail swish with boring monotony, ever maintaining a constant rythem. When the tail breaks that rythem, you "slip the traces" over you shoulder and step out of the furrow, hopefully walking past the cloud of mule farts. Step back in the furrow, shoulder the traces and just keep on going.

I've never met your Papa but I know him. Men like him raised me.

Alonzo Tubbs, writing for Lem Foutes

My grandpa farmed with mules most of his life. I learned to drive team from him. Even after he got tractors we still used mules for dragging logs and cutting hay. Some of the best times of my life.