Remember When - Jack and Gin

by FATHER MERLE KOLLASCH

My father farmed a quarter section of land 2 ½ miles west of Whittemore in Fern Valley Township, Palo Alto County.

 My father had a team of horses, Dolly and Daisy. Dolly started and ended each workday in the same power gear, she never sped up, she never slowed down. Daisy, in contrast, started fast, was pooped by midday and drug herself across the finish line at the end of each day.
Father also had a team of mules, Jack and Gin, who showed very human characteristics. They were friendly, they were kind, they were a great team - stride by working stride pulling the two-row planter. They seemed to even know the time – when it was noon, it was time for a break and a trip to the stock tank. When it was time to quit, they would not make another round but would turn their heads as if to say, “Let’s go home,” and my father obeyed.

The end of the day meant going up the trail to be freed from their harnesses, bit, bridle and all. Then they would take a good roll in the dust of the barn lot – down on their left side, flat on their backs with legs flailing in the evening air, then onto the right, followed by a great shake and a slow walk (which became a trot when it was hot), to the stock tank for a refreshing drink of cold water.   They drank like a princess would sip tea – with just the tip of their noses touching the surface. Not like horses, who submerged their mouth up to their nostrils and gulped like a commoner.

Then it was a trip to the straw stack for another body rub. All this was terminated by a side-to-side, back to front, gentle gnawing of shoulders, side and rump. This routine was invariably the same day after day. Then they would groom each other a bit more, take another trip to the tank and wait for the end of day.

One unhappy day in the middle of July, my dad found Jack on the ground. He had taken his last breath and was gone to mule heaven, leaving us for “a better place”- as we are wont to say of our own human kind. We disposed of the remains, but I can’t remember how we did it.
Maybe Jack shared Big Red’s fate and ended up in the hog lot where he became a side dish for the pigs who would eat anything, pulling, tearing, gnashing, taking delight in a special treat of mule steak. After some days, only a few bones remained. My dad (with a heavy heart) took these away to bury them in the grove.

Now, only Gin remained.

Gin became mean, intimidating the milk cows, pestering them, chasing them with her ears back, flat and menacing, always causing trouble. Only Henry, our old bull, was not victimized. He was still master of the herd and ruler of the yard.

After some weeks of observation, my dad decided that the time had come for Gin to go. He spoke with a few neighbors, and then called a number in Estherville, the answer came, “Yes, we’ll come tomorrow and give you $30 for her.”  

My dad agreed and the bargain was sealed. Gin was somewhat reluctant to enter the truck. But a few electrical prods helped her make up her mind. The truck exited our land and turning left, went to Simonson’s corner where it turned right and just as it was about to be beyond my dad’s tearful gaze, we heard her last, mournful whinny. Dad uttered, “She knew - she was so smart, she knew how to break my heart.”  

Turning aside, he cried a little. Then jack knife in hand, he picked an apple from a well-ladened tree, went to sit on the bumper of our 1939 Dodge, and cut the fruit into slides and ate them, Even though he had no passion for the snack. After some moments, he pulled out his spark plug.” cut off a piece and began chewing his tobacco. Then, he got up to do the chores.

Father Merle Kollasch is a retired priest of the diocese residing in Bode.

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