COX'S MULE BARN

The musky smell of harness leather and used
saddles filled the lifeless air around the old
livery stable.

Elderly men sat on wooden kegs that
displayed the faded words "Molasses", their
long vacant content's label.

Black mules with large, sad eyes peered over
the grayed boards, seeming content in their
corralled fate.

Loose hay was spread across the ground
serving to absorb most of the mud and dung
near the pen's gate.

The men, yellowed, like the pages of a
forgotten book, told how "It use to be"
When the Longs were in the news.

Old man Cox spoke of World War I and the
last mounted Calvary and all the mules he
had since sold to the local logging crews.

He had seen the majestic dark animals
in their past prime, hauling logs, pulling
wagons, riding them in another time.

"Why they could fetch a hundred dollars or
even more"......"providing they didn't have
rotten hooves" or suffer from an unsightly
harness sore " .

Mules were the dependable backbone of the
Louisiana timber trade, large and gentle
creatures, strong, never tiring, never
afraid.

The big beasts pulled the downed logs and
rarely had to be made to cross the swamp
creeks or the over-grown glade.

Across the way in another corral, the sleek
riding horses waited impatiently to be
bought, tossing their manes to dislodge the
large green flies, yet ridding their presence
naught.

Like bees to honey, the horseflies were
everywhere and occasionally rested on
human hair.

The old men swatted the pesky flies with
well-worn cowboy hats removed briefly from
their brow's rest.

Lazily engaged in spitting tobacco or snuff
in a straight line as though in serious
contest.

Old wagon wheels hung abandoned throughout
the rickety old barn.
Rusty nails protruded, offering immediate
harm.

Easter bunnies and chicks were housed out
back in coups of wire, while goats chewed
playfully on a discarded old tire.

The Blacksmith came once a week to shoe the
local riding horses, repair bridles or mend
broken harnesses.

Visiting the old mule barn was a favorite
weekend thing to do, as you may now guess,

Guided by my great uncle Louis's instruction
and hints from the mule barn's best, this
piney-woods country girl felt like an
equestrian success.

Only years later to recall with regrets, I
never rode a mule!

Poem by Reggie Anne Walker-Wyatt
Copyright 1998

A historical narrative poem about Winnfield Louisiana
and the early life of
writer, poet, photographer, Reggie Anne Walker-Wyatt