Maybe it was the staccato chant of
auctioneer Donald Bennett. Maybe it was the commotion and excitement of animals
parading, as if it was a 1950s Noah’s Ark re-enactment. Whatever it was, I
wanted to spend my summer Thursdays at Wayne County Stockyard. I was hooked on
critters.
My buddy, Steve Strickland, and I
had the run of the sprawling complex on the Waycross Highway. His granddaddy, Ira,
and Steve’s daddy, “Strick,” owned the place. Besides hanging on the railing of
the sales ring, our favorite place was scampering around the elevated catwalks overlooking
the maze of pens. With all the mooing, bleating, squealing and oinking, we had
to holler back and forth to talk to each other.
I loved overhearing the men—especially
Allie Edenfield and Elton Tillman—swap stories. In 1956, a pop-up toaster was
the fanciest gadget in our house. So, when Elton said he wore his magical overalls,
gullible Steve and I believed him. He said that, when he put on his special
overalls, music started playing. Sure enough, we heard tunes coming from the
bib pocket on his chest. Elton almost pulled off the prank, until we overheard him
telling a buddy about his tiny, battery-operated transistor radio.
As 8-year-olds, Steve and I earned
our first paychecks at Wayne County Stockyard. With oak sticks, we poked and
unloaded livestock off trucks. But when wild cows—trapped on Sapelo Island—were
brought to the barn’s chutes, we were warned to stay back. One day, a delirious
cow jumped out of the sales ring, bolted up the wooden bleachers and sailed through
a two-story window. Steve and I didn’t have to be told twice.
I wish that I had framed my $2 check. Instead,
Steve and I pooled our earnings to buy a $4 goat. I don’t remember what
happened to our investment, but I had to choke back tears the morning Daddy
told me, “The stockyard burned last night.”
About 20 years ago, our neighbor
pointed to the pasture and asked, “Do you know you have 100 animals—with
names—that expect to be fed every day?”
I didn’t tell Pete Craft how my Wayne
County Stockyard experience got it all started. I just laughed and said, “Yep,
and I appreciate your help in watching after them.”
The beginning of the Lake Hartwell menagerie
was two strawberry draft mules, Ruby and Rose, purchased from Randy Leggett. Then
we bought four goats. Those three nannies and a billy begat more goats until we
had 75. Our backyard “stockyard” soon added miniature donkeys, llamas, bantam
chickens, Royal Palm turkeys, Belted Galloway cows and Great Pyrenees guard dogs.
That was then.
Today, we’re down to a mule, four
llamas and six miniature donkeys.
But I can feel the goat itch coming
back. For now, I’m corralling that notion with another barnyard ambition. Larry
Walker and I share the dream of owning miniature mules. My lawyer buddy and I each
have half of the equation.
Mules are the byproduct of crossing
a female horse with a male donkey. Larry has a striking spotted (paint)
miniature pony—Kickapoo—named for the Native American tribe. The sire of my
miniature donkey herd is a handsome spotted jack, Otis, who is named for the
late rhythm and blues legend Otis Redding. Sometimes when my donkey brays, I
think I can hear a faint touch of “Try a Little Tenderness,” just as his
namesake sang.
Kickapoo has come a-courtin’.
She’ll be hanging around our barn
for a while.
Larry gets the first mini-mule.
I get the second one.
Hee-haw!
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
