SEAGRAVES: Clyde, the Death of a Mule (A Love Story)

Published 9:32 am Wednesday, February 5, 2025

Some who grew up in the same era as me may remember the morning bus No. 12 pulled on to Jefferson Street from Valley Road and was confronted with a big, dead mule in front of where Williams Funeral Home currently sits. This is my effort to paint the story in a positive light.

The big, yellow school bus, belching black smoke, struggled up the hill like an overloaded wagon causing its precious cargo to feel just a little bit queasy, if not nauseous … what a great way to start the day.

Little did the boys and girls on good ole bus No. 12 realize that their queasiness was about to be exacerbated. Most had eaten a hearty breakfast as this was the 1970s and moms weren’t rushing out the door to get themselves to work. Those hearty breakfasts, intended to fortify them against the day and provide the fuel necessary to learn the Three R’s, would not serve their purpose this morning.

Mordecai Smith was 85 years old and could remember when all the streets in Milledgeville were clay and dirt, and none of the homes had indoor plumbing and only a few had electricity. Mordecai had seen many things in his life, some he spoke about and some he chose not to. He was a man of depth and substance who spoke little but thought much. He had lived in poverty and had seen injustice, but he remained at heart an optimist who thought the best in people and often brought it to the surface.

Mordecai didn’t own much, but then again he didn’t need much. His wife of 60 years had died two years earlier, and their children lived in distant cities with strange sounding names that were distinctly not Southern.

Quite simply, Mordecai was alone but he was not lonely. He had his memories and he looked forward to the day he would join Clara and once again be able to hold her hand and stroke her hair. He also had a mule. The mule’s name was Clyde and he was nearly as old as Mordecai (or so it seemed to all who saw them plowing the little plot of land that Mordecai owned).

On the morning it happened and all the happy boys and girls on good ole bus No. 12 had their breakfasts ruined, Mordecai slept soundly and thankfully didn’t hear or see what happened. Clyde was like most mules, too smart for his own good. He didn’t like being penned at night and he often used his tongue to open the latch and his head to push open the gate that held him in. Normally, he would graze in the small yard and search for wild onions and berries. Perhaps that is what led him to wander out into North Jefferson Street into the path of the brand new Ford F-100 being driven to work by James “Bubba” Williams. The truck struck Clyde just above the right forelock. Bubba would report later that he could hear the bone snap and he would forever be haunted by the look in Clyde’s eye just before he went down.

Rutherford T. Hanson was a brand new graduate of mandate school and as such was assigned the graveyard shift with the Baldwin County Sheriff’s Department. When he arrived on the scene, Bubba was in tears and Clyde was bellowing in pain and fear. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rutherford drew his service revolver, a brand new .357 magnum, and ushered Clyde into the presence of his Maker. Had he known who the mule belonged to he probably would have knocked on the door and allowed Mordecai to say goodbye. He didn’t know, and so he acted in the only way he knew to alleviate the pain and suffering of one of God’s creatures. Rutherford was an animal lover and there were tears in his eyes as he radioed dispatch to tell them to send a truck for Clyde’s remains.

Effie Mae Simpson was on the radio that morning and upon hearing the news she instantly knew that it was Mordecai’s mule.

Effie Mae called the Sheriff, Homer Wilson, and reported what had been radioed in. Sheriff Wilson was just finishing breakfast with his wife, Sarah, and remarked he would be on the scene as quickly as possible. He grabbed Sarah’s hand, prayed for the soul of Clyde (if mules have souls) and that Mordecai would take the news well.

It was Sheriff Wilson who broke the news to Mordecai. He loved the old man and had known him all of his life. As a child he used to drop by and “help” Mr. Mordecai with whatever chore he happened to be engaged in. While away at the University of Georgia, Mordecai’s house was the first place he would stop on his way home. He wanted to talk to the Smiths but more than that he wanted some of Clara’s iced tea and cookies.

As an adult, Homer Wilson became the caregiver that Mordecai and Clara didn’t have. He and Sarah would bring dinner round and sit and talk until it was time for bed and then they would make sure all was secure for the night. Sheriff Wilson was a good man. He was a better man because he knew and loved Mordecai Smith.

Homer Wilson found Mordecai sitting at this breakfast table eating a simple meal of scrambled eggs, sausage, and coffee. Homer helped himself to a cup of coffee and told his friend the terrible news. Mordecai took the news of Clyde’s death slightly better than he took his Clara’s death…he shed tears at both.

The tears he shed for Clara were the tears that a man, a true man, sheds for the love of his life. The tears were for the memories they would no longer make…for the passion they shared…the life they had made and shared with one another. His tears for Clyde were for a different reason. You see Mordecai knew that the only thing holding him to this life was that someone had to take care of Clyde. His tears were not because he knew his own death was imminent and he was scared or frightened, rather they were because he knew his own death was imminent and he knew he would be reunited with his Clara. He had no regrets about the life he lived for he had lived long and he had lived well. He was not only ready for death, he welcomed it.

That night as he readied himself for bed, Mordecai heard a sound he had never heard before. He was washing his face when he first heard it, and he was pulling back the covers on his bed when he heard it again, and just before he dropped off into slumber he heard it again.

Mordecai didn’t know, but what he was hearing were the sounds of the heavenly chorus tuning up to welcome him home.

—Scott Seagraves is a retired GMC Prep educator. His column appears occasionally in The Union-Recorder.