Old Red

Letting go of things has never been easy for me.  For one, I did not grow up in a disposable environment.  Everything we owned had a second or third-order usefulness.  Clothes were worn until there were patches on patches, and then they were cut up and made into cleaning rags.    Paper products were saved and used to start fires on cold winter days.  Today, I  still live with that same mentality that if I bring something into my life, I will continue to find a way to make it useful. 

However, the exception on the farm was the animals.  My grandfather had to make many hard decisions about when to let go.  One of those times was with “Old Red.”  Old Red was not just a work mule; he was a companion to my grandfather.  They spent many hours together plowing row after row in the corn and tobacco fields.  Other farmers became industrialized and bought tractors, but my grandfather still walked his fields with Old Red.

My grandfather’s version of a man cave was the barn, where his non-plow time was spent in the company of the cows and Old Red.  We did not name our farm animals because that meant an emotional attachment to something which might later end up on the table, so when an animal did get named, like Old Red, we knew it was there to stay.

I’m not sure of the exact age of Old Red, but I recall that he was around the farm for at least 30 years.  During that time, many changes were taking place.  My grandfather was nearing 80, and Old Red was also in the latter stages of life.  The government paid farmers not to grow certain crops, so the plow time with Old Red was significantly reduced.  My grandfather never expressed his feelings, but I know he did not want the day to come when Old Red did not show up at the pasture gate for his usual feeding and their together time.

My grandfather found someone that would take Old Red.  The day the man came and took him away was worse than a funeral.  The truck Old Red was put in was like a hearse hauling away a body.  My grandfather retreated to the barn.  In his private way, he mourned the loss of his best work buddy.  It was also the loss of tradition and facing that life had also changed.

It’s been 50 years, and I’ve never forgotten Old Red, and  I don’t know how much longer he lived.  I know it is not easy to let go when we bring something into our lives, whether people or animals.

I don’t have a picture of Old Red, but this is how I still see him.