It's Not's What's Over the Door
This week I went rambling in the Uwharrie Forest with Polly and Buddy, my mule companions. Just the three of us, 100 miles of road and a bit of gear: hammock, sleeping bag and string. No great mission. Just two mules and a man out clearing his head.
Days, we traveled the back roads. Nights we camped with friends new and old. The second night I slept in a hammock tied to Wayne Hussey’s corn crib.
Wayne lives and works the red clay land south of Erect, North Carolina. He still farms with mules – five of them. Plants corn. Cuts hay. Harvests the corn and stores it in his old timey corn crib. Weekends, if there’s a parade in nearby Robbins, he might hitch his mules and travel there by wagon. If there’s nothing special going on, there’s always cultivating, harvesting or plowing to be done – with mules of course.
I reached Wayne’s late in the afternoon. Unsaddled my mules. Picketed them out. Walked over to the old red barn to see how his mules were doing. Check if they were still listening to that church music.
I’ve known Wayne for years. Two things about him are always the same. His mules live in a red barn and they’re always listening to gospel music. It comes from the old radio parked high on a dusty shelf overlooking the mule drawn manure spreader. That radio’s played in the barn so long, I swear if you turned it off, the music would keep coming out of the beams and siding.
Just as I expected, as I neared the barn, I heard gospel music.
The music coming from the barn wasn’t the canvas shredding, raise the roof, tent revival, Come to Jesus, love offering kind. No, it was that swingy, catchy brand that, if old line Baptists didn’t think it was a sin, could result in a dance breaking out.
Playing was “It’s Not What’s Over the Door”.
The rhythm got in my dusty hair, wind burned eyes and dirty coveralls. It wafted all around me and made its way around the barn and washed over the collars, hames and bridles piled in the saddle room. The notes drifted up to the hay loft, way high up where the square bales rub against the rusty tin and mud bird nests. Pooled down low, too, around the mules’ feet and the new litter of barn cats. Made me want to wrap whatever I could find up in my arms and waltz across the dusty aisle.
Which if course I didn’t because I was alone and barn cats are never in the mood to dance.
Still, I liked the song and made a recording of it for you. You’ll hear part of it in a minute.
The song played itself out and I put my recorder away and went about my evening chores.
Central to Wayne’s farm yard is the corn crib. It’s just a square box of wood, wire and tin. Roof on top. Been added to over time. The type of building folks built when the plans were in their head, not on paper or a computer. They cut their boards by hand so the building wasn’t too big at first. Over time they added to it. Scabbed a lean-to to this side. Then another on that side. Over the years, what had been started as a crib to store corn morphed in to a barn full of dusty farm equipment – auger, combine, corn picker.
After leaving the barn, I grubbed some corn from Wayne’s crib. Fed it to my mules. Wayne said it would be okay. Then I filled up on well water, hung my hammock from the corner of the crib and crawled in for the night.
I lay there in my hammock waiting for night to come. Thinking of my guest status. What it was like to hang out there in the night sky surrounded by gospel music, corn and bats.
It got dark. My hammock world turned black and I could hear the gospel music coming from Wayne’s barn. Here’s what was running through my head. Yes, the music you’re about to hear is the tune I recorded in Wayne’s barn. Listen for the grasshopper.
Up next, more photos of Wayne’s corn crib and life on the road with mules.
Here’s a closer look at corn crib life.
Great story – wish I was on the road with you and your mules. I probably would prefer the company of the mules. No offense. 🙂
I happen to have a mule that Wayne Hussey broke to work. I ride him now and he has a great deal of manners on the ground. Wayne must be the real deal—I’ve never met him, but his talents with mules is legendary!
Great to hear you ended up with one of Wayne’s mules. They’re some kind of broke. I had the pleasure of driving one of his teams years back. If you’re ever in his part of the county, be sure to drop by. Better yet, saddle up your mule and pay him a visit that way. I’m sure he’d let you hang your hammock in “my” spot next to the corn crib! Cheers. Bernie