The Mule Ride
Chapter 17 from Bill Owens' upcoming book "Chicken Heads"
One day, I went to a neighbor’s and asked if I could ride their long-legged, one-eyed mule. An hour later, I was riding it on Larkspur Lane when a neighbor girl riding her bicycle started to pass the mule on its blind side. The noise created by the bike’s loose fenders spooked the mule, and it bucked me high into the air. I landed headfirst on the gravel road, and the mule ran off. When I stood up, there was blood running down the side of my head. I ran home crying. Mom used soapy water and a washcloth to clean me up. She did notice that my ear was torn and used two Band-Aids to keep it in place. One held my ear up, and the other held it back. You can still see the scar.
In the 1950s, you didn’t go to the hospital unless you were nearly dead.
Growing up, the only time I saw a doctor was when I was fifteen years old. I complained to my mother that my breasts were sore. She took me to the doctor, who looked at me for five minutes and gave me a prescription. When we got home, Dad wouldn’t go to a pharmacy and spend money on a prescription.
Later that summer, I was up in a fig tree at Keith’s house when the girl who had spooked the mule came and stood under the fig tree. I picked a gooey fig, got into position, shouted down to her, and released the fig. It hit her directly in the face. I knew she hadn’t spooked the mule on purpose, but I dropped the fig anyway. She ran home crying.
My experiences with the pony and the one-eyed mule taught me a lesson: not to ride farm animals. We raised animals to eat. Our dogs and cats slept outside. They ate household scraps.
In those days, there was no such thing as dog food.
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