Bern Delivers!

He looked like John Brown 'hiving the bees'

Bern is
as much a 
mythical creature
as he was 
skin, muscle, 
blood and bones.

He only showed up once
at the farm,
that I remember,
but that 
was enough.

Moore farm house in Lockney, WVA, circa 1974.

He arrived one afternoon
driven by a team
of massive dark gray mules
pulling a heavy flat farm sled
that slid along on two thick wooden beams
covered on the bottom with steel plates.

Standing 
straight as a rod
on the deck of the sled,
Bern pulled back 
against the heft of his mules,
the lines of the harnesses 
of each animal 
tight in his fists.

“Whoa now!”

With that, 
he brought his team
to a stop at the end
of the long gravel driveway
that bisected the grassy yard, 
though the mules 
continued to snort and stamp their feet 
and yank their long-nosed heads 
up and down.

Team of draft mules.

Bern looked more 
like John Brown
heading out to ‘hive the bees’ 
than a farmer
delivering sweet potatoes and squash 
to his sister, Bessie. 

He was tall and lean
with fierce blue eyes
and big tan 
worn hands.

He spoke more
to his mules 
than to anyone.

Dust fell off him
like fleas 
with every move,
when he dropped the lines,
leaned over to grab 
the burlap sacks
of potatoes and squash,
when he stepped off the sled,
when he swatted 
the front and back 
of his overalls
and rubbed the back 
of his head. 

Everything about Bern
was swift and direct,
no wasted movements,
no small talk.

He walked 
with long strides,
hands and arms 
dangling down 
at his sides,
taking a straight line
to the screen door 
leading to the dark cellar
and up to the kitchen 
of the old tin-roofed 
farmhouse.

“Bess?” he asked,
stretching out the pronunciation 
in an elongated question,
as if wondering if
she were home, 
knowing well she was
as he saw her car 
in the garage 
as the mules
pulled him past it.

“In the kitchen, Bern.”
leaving it to him
to come in,
or not.

“Got some sweet potatoes
and squash for you,”
he replied, as matter-of-factly
as could be.

“Leav’em there 
inside the cellar door,
I’ll put'em up  
a bit later.”

Bern opened
the screen door, 
dropped the burlap sacks,
just inside,
and let the spring-loaded door 
slap shut.

He turned 
and surveyed 
his sister’s farm,
her substantial vegetable garden,
the old barn that housed 
two dairy cows,
the muddy pen with two hogs in it,
the chickens pecking at the edges
of the garden and beneath 
the hogs’ feed trough,
the small summer kitchen 
for when it’s too hot 
to fire up the oven in the house. 

He wiped his forehead 
with the back of his right hand
and strode back
to his team and sled. 

Farm sled illustration.

On his way 
he took a side glance
at the flock
of little kids huddled
by the front porch,
paralyzed by
the mere presence 
of the steely old man
and his mules
and their heavy breathing.

He gave the kids
a slight nod of his head,
eyes squinting from the sun,
physically acknowledging them
but not uttering a word
their way.

He stepped up on the sled,
picked up the lines,
two leather lead straps
in each hand,
and gave them a quick
snap that slapped
the hind quarters 
of each mule.

Simultaneously, he sucked air
in through his teeth,
sending a loud clicking sound
out to the mules
whose ears perked up.

“Get!”

The mules 
lurched violently forward,
straining against the collars 
around their shoulders 
and the tug lines 
tethering them to the sled 
and grinding their teeth on their bits,
hooves digging into the Earth,
dislodging dirt and gravel
and small chunks of grass
with each heavy step. 

Bern leaned back,
lines tight in his hands
and pulled hard with his right hand,
turning the team 
and the sled in a big arc 
and headed out of the yard 
the same way 
that he came.

Sparks jumped from under
the steel plates on the sled
as it scraped across the gravel.

About every 20 yards
Bern would snap the lines
and give the mules
another dose
of encouragement.

“Get!”

Right before 
he guided the mules
through the trickle of a creek
that cut across the farm,
he turned his head,
his sharp jaw jutting high, 
his eyes wild and wide,
nodded to the kids
and raised his right hand 
with this thumb straight up
while still gripping the lines,
a final acknowledgment 
that the kids existed.

As he turned back around
the mules pulled the sled
through the shallow creek
and across to the other side,
then he snapped the lines 
and the mules 
quickened their pace.

Just as the old man
and the mules and the sled
slid around a far turn 
in the long gravel drive
and into the deep shadow 
of a massive river oak
and out of sight, 
you could hear Bern,
faintly,  
encouraging his mules.

“Get!”

And with that,
his delivery complete, 
Bern disappeared.