An Ode To Being "Mule-Headed"

Sweet Annie Finnegan was the sole relative on my mother's side whose lips didn't purse when she visited our humble farm.

During our clan's frequent get-togethers at "Chez McClung," it was Annie who invited a cat on her lap, tucked sugar cubes in her pocket for the horses, and, on one memorable occasion, clad in lilac suede pants and a silk blouse, spent half an hour blissfully riding my eldest mare around the small paddock.

Although she made her request to mount up for her "adventure" after two cups of hard cider, Annie forever recalled, "It was the most exciting experience of my life."

Not only did she ride, but she also, immediately upon dismounting, picked up a broom and swept out the tack room.

"Not that it really needed a sweeping. It was so clean you could eat off the floor," Annie confided to her sisters, whose lips collectively disappeared.

"Unlike her kitchen, if you'd notice," my mother retorted, scooping a petrified chewy toy out of the refrigerator.

Annie, a kindred spirit in every way, vigorously defended my horse/dog/cat/deranged goat lifestyle to her citified sisters, extolling the virtues of rural living versus "the stifling boredom of suburbia."

Which is why I could hardly refuse the reciprocal "adventure" she'd arranged during my first visit to her southern home en route to visiting friends in a neighboring state.

"Oh, do plan to stay at least two days," Annie pleaded.

"My little place is in a pretty spot of country where you'll feel right at home. And haven't I found the perfect thing to repay you for that grand ride I'll cherish forever?" she added, pointing to an elaborate gilt-framed photo of her astride my ancient mare.

Quite A Reputation

Annie's return favor was arranging for me to go out with a local hunt club for a day's sport.

"I met the members a month ago, when they politely inquired if they could ride through my meadow, and now they stop to say hello every week. When I told them you were visiting, and how you loved to hunt, nothing would do but that you join them tomorrow morning," said Annie, her eyes shining with excitement.

"They're fine folk, but understand they don't have a fancy dress-up club like yours, just good friends who love the chase," she explained. "And I've been told they have quite a reputation in this part of the South."

Uh-oh.

"That's really lovely of you, and very tempting, Annie. But you see, I've only brought a pair of old boots and britches to go hacking with my friends next week, so I don't have anything appropriate for hunting, especially as a guest. And I wouldn't want to embarrass you," I responded.

"Ah! Don't you be worrying," Annie assured me in her soft Irish lilt. "It's not a'tal what you'd be calling formal. I've watched them coming through for a while now and have taken notice most of the riders wear some very plain kind of outfits. Truth be told, the woman on a kind of dotted horse just wears those little shoes where your toes show—flippity-flops I think they call them."

Uh-oh.

"And the leader is ever so accommodating. He said they never stand on ceremony. They just want guests to enjoy themselves. He also made it quite clear you were not to worry yourself about bringing lunch, because he always has an extra flask or two."

Double uh-oh.

"They'll be around tomorrow morning about 7, and they promised to bring a mount that's familiar with the countryside and will give you a lovely ride," Annie finished, with a smile.

Unable to formulate a reasonable excuse outside of insanity—which might have been considered an asset—I thanked Annie for arranging a payback "adventure" and prayed for predicted rain.

As if reading my mind, she added, "Don't worry yourself about bad weather either. Why, just last week they rode through in the midst of a genuine monsoon, so a wee bit of thunder and lightning wouldn't slow them down."

Oh, goody.

Immediately Apparent

My luck running true to form, morning dawned brilliant, with azure skies and a crisp hint of autumn. And, true to their word, the group trotted up Annie's lane on the dot of 7.

Several things became immediately apparent:

There were only six riders.

The hounds were (best guess) foxhound-bloodhound-lurcher-pedigree unknown.

The horse being ponied up to the porch had the biggest ears I'd ever seen.

I was grossly overdressed.

"Mornin', ma'am. We're just tickled pink you're going to come along with us this morning," boomed a very large man in bib overalls and monogrammed cowboy boots, a snake tattoo curling around the arm that reined in a probably 32-hand horse with one blue eye and no tail.

"Just call me Coots," he announced, politely tipping his John Deere cap. "And, this here's Thelma Jean," (Angora sweater, toreador pants, purple tennis shoes, riding an Appaloosa, i.e. dotted horse) "who helps me keep all these doggies on track.

"Back there is Buck," he added. (Think Willy Nelson meets Beetlejuice, wearing a turquoise flannel shirt, denim vest and camouflage pants, and riding a possible Paint-Percheron.)

"And yonder is Jimmy W. and Jimmy T.; they's twins." (Think matching green work pants, 'We Haul Y'All Moving and Storage' sweatshirts, and matching chestnut Tennessee Walking horses.)

"And, holdin' onto your ride there is Darlene." (Confetti t-shirt, stretch jeans and what could have been tap-dancing shoes, riding a Mustang that, if human, would have had a pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve.)