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“We cuss Congress, and we joke about ‘em, but they are all good fellows at heart. And if they wasn’t in Congress, why, they would be doing something else against us that might be even worse.”
— Will Rogers (18791935), vaudeville performer, actor, and humorous social commentator
Face the unexpected with humor and optimism, and you always come out on top.
That attitude works with politics and just about everything else in life. It’s one that served me well last week at the newspaper office, where unexpected changes last Monday pretty well derailed the rest of the week. Changes that cut into my column writing time.
So, this week, I relied on a tool often employed by those who have penned weekly pieces for as long as I have. Dust off one of your old columns that is still apropos. Update it a little, and hope the train is back on track next week.
Finding one I published several years ago following a week with an election day and a Veterans Day, I deemed it appropriate. Last week’s special election on constitutional amendments in Texas was tame compared to what we’ll be ramping up for nationally with next year’s presidential election. No doubt, another election that will remind us of the fate of a legendary mule. His name was Horace.
The story of Horace the mule is said to have originated in the small, north Georgia town of Greensboro at the local newspaper, the Herald-Journal. I first read it in the Naples Monitor when I worked there in the mid-1970s.
Fact or fiction, it’s a timeless election story. One that will likely be told as long as there are politicians to cuss about. Something I see no shortage of anytime soon.
That said, there’s no political intent beyond this old yarn other than some humor — something sadly lacking not only in politics today but also in everyday life.
Horace was a widow’s farm animal, and both were getting on in years. Just before an upcoming local election, Horace was feeling droopy, and the widow was worried about him. “Doc,” she pleaded on the phone, “Horace is sick. Can you come look at him?”
“It’s after six,” the doc retorted. “I’m settled in for the evening. It’s likely nothing that administering a dose of mineral oil won’t cure. Try that, and I’ll drop by tomorrow when I’m over that way.”
She inquired about how one gives a mule mineral oil, at which point the doc informed her on the technique of using a funnel.
“But, he might bite me,” she objected.
“You’re a farm woman,” he reasoned. “You know about these things — administer it through the other end.” She pondered this advice, then headed for the barn where poor Horace was in misery.
She searched for a funnel, but the closest thing she found was Uncle Jake’s old fox hunting horn hanging on the wall. A beautiful instrument with tattered gold tassels. Nervously, she took it down and cautiously attached it to Horace’s southernmost end as the mule lay nose pointing due north. Keeping her eyes on Horace, she reached behind her for the mineral oil but mistakenly picked up the turpentine bottle and dosed ol’ Horace liberally through the bugle.
Horace’s recovery was instantaneous. His head jerked upright, and his eyes widened as large tears developed in the corners. He screamed like a panther, kicked down the barn door, and galloped off down the road with Uncle Jake’s horn still attached. Pausing every so often to kick his hind legs in the air — an action that caused the horn to blow.
As Horace ran through the valley, hound’s ears perked up everywhere. The sound of Uncle Jake’s horn meant a hunt was on. Horace gained a following of baying hounds as he continued to kick and run.
Eyewitnesses said it was a sight to behold: ol’ Horace running, pausing to kick his heels, mellow notes issuing from the gold appendage, tassels flying in the breeze, and every foxhound within twenty miles barking joyously and giving chase.
Old man Johnson, who hadn’t drawn a sober breath in 20 years, was sitting on his porch when the spectacle passed him. The following week’s local newspaper reported that he gave up drinking that very same day and joined a temperance movement.
It was dark when Horace reached the river. The bridge tender, running for public office and considered an easy winner, heard the horn. Thinking it was a boat, he raised the drawbridge. Horace bounded up the bridge and off into the water with dogs still trailing. The hounds swam to safety, but poor old Horace drowned. And Uncle Jake’s fox horn was never recovered.
Come election day, the bridge tender lost, garnering only seven votes. His and six others from three close relatives. The assumption was that voters figured anyone who didn’t know the difference between a boat horn and a mule with a bugle in his behind wasn’t fit to hold public office.
So, regardless of what next year’s election brings, maintain your humor and your optimism. And remember Horace.
Above all, never cease expressing support for our veterans and members of the armed services on Veteran’s Day and every day for keeping us a strong and free nation … through our humorous history of election outcomes.
