Reminiscing

November 1, 2007
By: Dick Hinson

One day back in the late 1930s, my father was having a conversation with an elderly friend in front of his business location on Jackson Street. A farmer drove by on a wagon pulled by a pair of extremely small mules. The old man smiled and said, "I haven’t seen a team that size in over thirty years. A pale, skinny kid drove them to Collin’s Grist Mill in Graceville one morning. The mules, wagon, and corn all ended up in the millpond!" "What happened?" my dad asked. "I never knew," his friend answered, "We were all talking inside the mill house, but I sure felt sorry for the kid, whoever he was." "Well, my father said, "I can answer that question. You’re standing here talking to that boy!"

It’s doubtful that anyone will ever forget the first time they were turned loose to make a solo drive in a motor vehicle. No matter how short the distance, the sensation of control and power was a rite of passage toward adulthood. In the era prior to use of cars and trucks, a similar test of growing maturity was to be allowed to take a buggy for a date, or a wagon on a farm errand. Totally unlike our times, adolescence was considered to be a demeaning disability to be cast aside as soon as possible.

Actually, not many options awaited our new local "grownups" other than the challenges of making a living on their own small farms. Unless you lived within walking distance of the schools in Marianna or Graceville, your formal public education usually ended with the ninth grade. It should be noted that many curriculums included both Latin and mathematics during this truncated period. Augmented by further self-education, some motivated young people developed advanced skills and vocabularies, even with the absence of the added formal education.

Meanwhile, young boys noticed that long pants and shoes were being worn more often by their peers. These were sure signs that boyhood was being left behind. The "holy grail" of maturity was within reach. . .

My father went on to tell his friend that at the time of the millpond accident, he was living with his grandfather on a few acres west of Campbellton. Each crop year, a portion of the harvested corn was taken to the grist mill near Holmes Creek to be ground into meal. This was a full day’s journey in the wagon. For the first time, the trip was going to be entrusted to the youngster. On the appointed day, my father arrived at the mill and drove his team of mules to take their position in line. A narrow road ran along the top of the dam to the mill house. As the wagon ahead was being unloaded, my dad tied his bridal lines to a spoke in his wagon wheel and walked to the mill house to mingle with the "other men." This proved to be a bad mistake.

More time had passed than he realized. Back on the dam, the little unsupervised mules were growing restless, stepping back and forth. With a long surge forward, the wheel spokes rotated to sharply pull back on the reins. The confused animals bolted in panic, tumbling down the steep incline with the bouncing wagon and the load of grain. As the mules surfaced from the water and struggled to swim downstream, men from the mill house ran along the shore to intercept them. The soaked and shivering animals were not injured. Both the wagon and harness required some emergency repairs. The corn was gone, along with the driver’s self-confidence.

Back at the farm, it doesn’t require much imagination to envision grandfather slowly walking over, expecting to inspect sacks of freshly ground meal. The old man’s reaction to the empty wagon bed is also predictable. My father’s first solo flight into adulthood had ended in failure. I suspect that he was stripped of his hat, long pants, and shoes.