Mr. Write's Page

When I went off to college at the University of Georgia, Mom and Dad had just built a new house in Suwanee, Georgia.

They purchased eight acres not far from town on a bluff above the Chattahoochee River. Half of the acreage was wooded, and they built a pleasant little ranch home there under the pine trees.

The remaining acreage was pasture. Dad fenced it, and for the next 10 years, did his level best to become a farmer for income tax purposes.

He built a barn. He bought a couple of cows. He raised a pen full of hogs. He planted giant fields of corn and industrial-size vegetable gardens.

As far as I know, he never convinced the IRS that the Smith place was a farm. But he enjoyed the adventure.

Dad bought a tractor after a few years, but in the beginning, he rented a mule to do the plowing. The first time he rented one, he sent me to fetch it.

The mule was Old Tobey. His owner, Mr. Burgess, lived about  a mile away in Shakerag, a tiny community across the river in Forsyth County.

One Saturday morning late in 1962, when I was home from Athens for the weekend, Dad drove me to Shakerag and dropped me off, my task being to lead Old Tobey back to the Smith homestead.

This was standard procedure. Tobey was rented out regularly to local folks, and he never gave anyone any trouble.

Tobey was a perfect gentleman for me, too. I led the way holding the reins, and he plodded along obediently behind me, stopping occasionally to munch on the greenery.

Before long, we arrived at Little’s Ferry Bridge, which crosses the Chattahoochee River into Gwinnett County. We were almost there. The Smith place was just beyond the bridge.

These days, Little’s Ferry Bridge is a wide and handsome concrete structure worthy of the heavy traffic it endures. But in the 1960s, it was a narrow, ancient steel truss bridge with a flooring of equally ancient wood planks..

Looking up, you saw the sky through a latticework of girders. Looking down, you saw the restless current of the Chattahoochee River through the numerous gaps between the planks.

The setting was almost idyllic on a beautiful sunny day like that one. I tugged on the reins, and Tobey and I ventured out onto the bridge.

When Tobey looked down and saw the river far below, he jammed on the brakes and brayed in alarm. He reared up on his hind legs, snatching the reins from my hand.

Quickly, he retreated to solid ground. Once there, he stopped and relaxed. In his mind, the threat had gone away.

Several times, I tried to get Tobey to suck it up and cross the bridge. I sweet-talked him. I swatted him across the rump. I shouted and pulled on the reins with all my might. It was hopeless. No force on earth could convince Tobey to walk out onto that bridge.

I was in a pickle. Not a single car had come down the road to Shakerag all morning. I couldn’t abandon Tobey and run home to get Dad. Cell phones hadn’t been invented yet. So I sat down at the edge of the bridge to wait.

Before long, Dad arrived driving Old Shakey, his official farm truck. The look on his face was not pleasant.

“Rocky, what’s taking you so long?” he barked. “Why the hell are you sitting there?” I explained the situation.

Dad took his turn at trying to coax Tobey across the bridge. He tried the same tactics I did, with the same results. Tobey was one stubborn mule.

Finally, Dad gave up. He climbed into Old Shakey, gave me a shrug and a smile, and drove off in the direction of Shakerag to get Mr. Burgess.

When they returned a few minutes later, Mr. Burgess was smiling wryly, too.

He walked over to Old Tobey, rubbed the mule’s nose, and spoke soothingly to him. Then he reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a bandana, and covered Tobey’s eyes.

Holding the bandana in place, Mr. Burgess stepped out onto the bridge, leading the old mule behind him. Tobey crossed the dreaded bridge calmly and without complaint.

On the other bank, I took the reins, and Tobey and I continued on to the house. Dad drove the chuckling Mr. Burgess back to Shakerag, then returned and proceeded with his plowing.

Dad rented Old Tobey several times after that, and, of course, getting him to cross the bridge was never again a problem.

It’s amazing what city folks learn when they move to the country.

Lee and me on Little’s Ferry Bridge, September 1962.

View of the Smiths’ eight acres (left of center), the Hooch, and Little’s Ferry Bridge. Photo taken in 1965.

Same view on Google Earth, 2008. The Smith acreage became pricey homes and a shopping center.

Giving my brother Danny a ride on Old Tobey before hooking up the plow.