An Old Man, His Horse, and a Boy
By Bill Shepard
It has been many years since I sat beside the old man in the creaky old wagon. Holding tightly the reins that guided the big red horse, as he pulled the wagon along he narrow dirt streets, the three of us must have made an interesting picture. The threesome could be seen quite often making their way along the narrow streets of the village; never in a hurry, just content to let the old horse set the gait.
Bill Shepard
I still carry a picture of the old man fixed forever in my mind. I recall his crusty brown face, made that way from spending long hours in the open sunlight, where the wind and sunshine took their toll. He was tall and slightly bent at the shoulders and wore a short-cropped mustache. I don’t think I ever saw him dressed in any other way than a pair of faded overalls and a blue chambray shirt and heavy brogran shoes. He made me feel like I was someone special, especially when I would climb up beside him and he would hand me the reins to the old horse and say, “Billy, you drive!
The old horse really did not need to be guided. He had been over he same route so many times that he seemed to know where he was headed each time he started out. Of course, it always made me feel sort of “grown-up” when I would take the lines and cluck at the old horse now and then and yell, “Git up!” I learned that from the old man.
I often wondered how the two had come to be such close partners, the old man and the horse – and which was the oldest. They were an inseparable pair, and always when you saw one, you saw the other.
In the springtime, the pair could be found somewhere in the village everyday. That was the time that the villagers planted their small gardens. The old man would hitch the big red horse to a plow and break up the ground in preparation for the spring planting. He charged a small fee for doing this service for the villagers. It was those times that I looked forward to most of all. He would allow me to take hold of the plow-stock and with him trailing behind; I would guide the old horse around and around until all the garden spots had been plowed.
The late summer months and early fall, the old man and his horse would visit these same places again. This time they would come to cut the dried corn stalks, pea vines, and tall grass that had taken over the garden since the last vegetables had been gathered. This residue would be used for food for the old horse during the cold winter months ahead.
The old man used a scythe to cut the vines and tall grass. I was amusing for me to watch him use the scythe, as not many people were skilled in the use of this instrument. After raking the grass, vines, and stalks into a pile, he would use a pitchfork to load it onto the wagon. I would sit on the wagon and guide the old horse from pile to pile. When the wagon was loaded, we would head for home and the barn. It was my perfect delight to sit high upon the loaded wagon, often partially buried in the forage that had been gathered, and guide the old horse through the village streets.
Seated by the old man with the reins held tightly in my hands I felt that I was the envy of every boy we passed. I would cluck at the old horse, more to get the attention of those we were passing, than that of the horse. The old man, tired from his long hours of hard work would just sit quietly as the old wagon and its load lumbered in the direction of home. Once at the barn, the load of winters food for the old horse would be stored in the part of barn that we called the “hayloft.” There it would stay dry until it was used in the weeks and months ahead.
As summer ended and the cool days of autumn approached, the old man could again be seen plowing in his own field preparing it for his winter garden. He always had a large field of collards, turnips, and mustard greens. These he would sell to villagers who did not care to have a winter garden. For them, it was easier and cheaper to purchase a mess of greens or a head of collards from the old man. It was pure delight when my Mom would place a nickel in my hand and send me to the old man’s house for a head of collards. On such occasions, I would not stop running until I had reached my old friend’s house. Sometimes I would find him already in the field.
On announcing my reason for being there, the old man would hand me a large butcher knife that he always kept with him when in the field, and say, “Now, Bill, you choose any collard you wish and cut it!” I would look around for the largest one I could find while the old man watched in amusement. With his help, I would cut it, being pleased at my selection. Sometimes he would gather a bunch of turnips and throw them in for free. I did not care for the turnips, but I knew my Mom would be pleased to get them. “Now, you be careful on your way home,” he would caution and I would be on my way.
During the winter months when there was nothing to do in the fields, the old man would haul loads of pine slabs from the sawmill for the villagers. Most of the villagers used wood for fuel in their large wood burning stoves. The slabs would be split and stacked to dry. The old man charged a small fee off fifty-cent for the hauling. This was the way he earned his living. If he ever worked in the big cotton mill, I never knew. He seemed content to just piddle around, he and his big red horse.
The winters seemed so long and passed so slowly when I was a boy. The old man and his horse have been gone for a very long time. The boy is now an old man, and spends much of his time remembering and writing about that time long ago; a time when he was a boy and an old man and his horse were his friends.
I wonder if there are any still around that remember the old man and his horse in this story. The man’s name was “El Odom.” I am not sure of the spelling of the first name. I always called him, “Mr. Odom.” He lived at the edge of the mill village, on the “Old Hartsville Road.” The part of the village was referred to as, “Over the creek,” and that was where I lived.
Note: I visit the old man often. He and the big red horse are always together. Mostly I find him somewhere along “memory lane,” and he pulls the old horse to a stop and calls out for me to climb up and sit beside him. Most of the time he hands me the reins to the old horse and says, “You can drive, Billy!” I say to the old horse, “Git up!” and we are off, the old man, his horse, and the little boy…a beautiful memory!
Mr. Shepard is a native of Darlington, S.C., and a current resident of Piedmont, S.C. He is the author of “Mill Town Boy” and “Bruised”. He has been sharing his tales of growing up in Darlington for decades, and we are delighted to share them each week.
His mailing address for cards and letters is: Bill Shepard 324 Sunny Lane, Piedmont, S.C., 29673
