Amy takes me for a ride

Amy and Jamie were two mules.

Here are the girls, in team mode.  Amy's on my left there and Jamie's on my right.  I'm about eleven, and my brother is guiding the team from the wagon.  The girls were fairly obnoxious when working together as well.  There are about a dozen things in this photo that proves my upbringing was a little different than the average child in late 20th century America.

Don't remember exactly when we acquired them, but for a couple years I rode Jamie and my older brother rode Amy.  Amy was a tad bit bigger than Jamie, but beyond that she was a fair sight less obedient.  And so being older and more capable of handling her obnoxious tendencies my brother rode her until the fun of riding wore out on him, about the time he was 15 or so.  At this point I had grown up a little and my younger brother was up for riding.  He took Jamie, since at the time he was 7 or 8 and she was far more docile (and quite frankly a lot less fun to ride).  And I moved up to the challenge of Amy.

Reckon I was 11, maybe 12 when this transition took place.  I was ready for Amy, and she was ready for me.  The incident, that is a favorite story in our family, took place the second time I rode her; or tried to.  The mules were kept at Grandma and Grandpa's house, which is right next door (at some point I'm gonna do a post on where my country family lives, we're all neighbors).  The first time I rode her I saddled her up with just Grandpa, and then I led her across the road to this pasture where I liked to ride.  That first time it was just a short little trip and then back across the road.  Amy performed very well that first time, and her and I got along great for years after, but the second time was a harrowing experience.

That second time my old man was over at the grandparents and think Jake (older brother) was as well.  And we got her saddled up and everything was fine.  Now to be honest I've always been a tad hazy on how it started out.  I think I led her across the road as I had done before and mounted the saddle.  But head strong as she was Amy wasn't inclined to take me out into the bottom pasture that day.  Instead she wanted to head back across the road to the shed where I'd pull her saddle off.  Well halfway across the road I was tugging on the reins trying to get her to turn around, and then she just snapped.  From here on I remember it vividly.

My grandparents' house is at the top of a steep hill, and Amy took out at a sprint down that hill.  The transition from stubborn mule to wild animal happened in a flash and I had no time to react.  I heard my dad yell at me to jump off as we were about halfway down the hill, but she was moving at speed and I was startled and half still wrestling with the reins.  Abandoning ship at that early stage wasn't an option.  At the bottom of the hill real fear set in.  There was a creek and a narrow bridge at the bottom of the hill and trusting Amy to smoothly cross said bridge was a dicey proposition.  It's about this time I released the reins, grabbed the saddle horn and held on for my life.  She blew over the bridge and kept on running.

From here it's a straight shot across a wide bottom, not quite a quarter mile across.  I was alternating screaming at Amy to stop and just screaming from the fear and adrenaline.  But she just kept running.  Unbeknownst to me Dad, Gramps and my brother had piled into a truck and were headed down the hill in pursuit.

A thing to note here is that a mule running is not the most graceful thing.  They don't move like a horse.  It's a choppy gate, and can provide a somewhat rough ride.  And that little journey Amy was carrying me on was about the roughest few minutes I've had.  Finally after we had been running across the flat for a stretch I gained some of my senses back and snatched up the reins.  On the other side of the bottom was another hill and I figured for sure I could get her stopped as we went up it, since she had to be about worn out by then.  But a secondary complication had arisen that caused concern.  The cinch on the saddle was coming loose, and the damn thing started to slip sideways off her.

Now I was wrestling to keep the saddle upright and holler'n at her to stop.  And if she wasn't tired yet I was about spent as we reached the hill and she determinedly trotted up the slope.  She did slow a bit as the incline increased, and veered toward the shoulder.  With the saddle slipping and a somewhat less dangerous speed I finally decided to bail.  There was a pretty deep ditch on the side of the road, but at that point jumping became my only thought.  My dismount was in no way, shape or form coordinated.  I just sort of slid off the side and flopped into the ditch, winding up in a heap.  Dad reached me about the time I was crawling out of the ditch.

And for that briefest of moments, before I was deemed no worse for wear, my dad and grandpa were utterly concerned with my intact health.  Once that moment past, and I was left with only a couple scratches and frayed nerves, the minor fiasco was a massive source of comedy.  And I'm the first to admit it is funny as hell; in that embarrassing, sort of frightful, yet ultimately harmless way.  Like I said earlier, it is a story that comes up often at family events.  There's always someone new to absorb our little family's country fried history, and we've all become decent story tellers.  That isn't exclusive to my family out in the sticks, it's a universal thing I reckon.  Every family has stories, and they share their tales amongst themselves the same as we do.

We might have a tendency to get together a little more than the average extended family.  Which I think will be my next redneck post.