The Mule That Went to Church

A short story that's mostly fiction...by Matt Jolley

GEORGIA FOLK AND FARM LIFE - The summer before my son was born, I found myself stuck on a friend’s ranch outside Jackson Hole, Wyoming, waiting on the old airplane I was flying across the country to be repaired. The deHavilland was laid up after the mechanic accidentally tore the fabric-covered elevator during an engine run-up. He had pulled the wrong handle—the emergency canopy release—and that one mistake turned what should’ve been five minutes into five weeks.

Such is life. I was just thankful for Dick’s hospitality out there on the Sundance Ranch. It was named after his late dog Sundance—half coyote, half heeler, but full-blooded guardian of the place. The ranch was perched along the base of the Grand Tetons, literally on “State Line Road.” From there it looked down over the village of Tetonia and the town of Driggs in the Snake River Valley.

What a spot! The summer mountain air was sweetened by the blossoms carried down from snowmelt streams. Bears, moose, and elk wandered the background like extras in a western movie, and bright red raspberries glowed on the vine like neon signs, every bit as tasty as they looked. I stayed in an old chicken coop turned one-room log cabin. No running water, but it had electricity. No screens on the windows either—so you just slept under the covers in that cool mountain air. It was the life.

My wife was back east, holding down our little apartment outside Washington, D.C.—not much of a fort to worry about. We knew this was the last short season before everything changed. I’d always dreamed of flying an old airplane across the country, and that summer I did it. I traced the northern route into Canada, visiting places like Lethbridge, Medicine Hat, and Regina, before dipping back down into Minot, North Dakota. Later, I cut across the great Southwest, as far west as Los Angeles, then up the California coast. It was a grand adventure.

But while the airplane was stuck in pieces, I was stuck with a mule. The ranch foreman, Larry Crawford, tended him. Larry was in his late seventies, tipping eighty, but tough as boot leather. His mama was over a hundred, still living alone on her Montana ranch with nothing but a woodstove for heat and to cook on. Larry said, “The less I speak to her, the better we get along.” Now, Larry himself was mean as a two-headed rattlesnake, but fair. He didn’t suffer fools or lazy men. I made sure to keep busy, because if you fell short in front of Larry, he’d let you know it.

The mule’s name was Claude. Ol’ Claude loved Larry just fine, but he hated me with a passion. From the first second he laid eyes on me, he regarded me like a hornet’s nest in midsummer—something to stomp, swat, and grind into the earth. Larry just shook his head. “Strange. Ol’ Claude usually likes everybody. Must remind him of somebody from his past. And whoever it was, they must’ve been a real sour cuss, ’cause he’s a right nice mule.”

“Nice” wasn’t the word I would’ve used. One Sunday morning, after finishing chores, I decided to drive the old AMC Eagle wagon into town for church. As I rolled down the lane, Larry waved from the barnyard. I thought it was just a rare goodbye, since Larry wasn’t much for pleasantries. Down in town, I parked alongside the other farm trucks. I don’t think there was a two-wheel drive vehicle in the whole county. That Eagle wagon looked downright refined sitting among its mud-splattered cousins.

Service was good. I lingered afterward to pray, thanking the Lord for the mountain air, the adventure, and the quiet before fatherhood. Folks were filing out, when I started hearing chuckles near the back. Then a holler: “Hey, that’s Ol’ Claude!”

My eyes shot open. I leaned out just enough to peek toward the door, and there they were—those mule ears, twitching like radar dishes, and locked square on me.

My stomach sank. He’s seen me.

Claude came trotting up, snorting and scraping the ground like a bull about to charge. His ears pinned back, tail whipping side to side. The sound of his hooves on the gravel bounced off the clapboard church, making the stained glass rattle. The deacon slammed the front door shut with a bang. “Son, you better stay in here!”

Inside, children clutched at their mothers’ skirts, peeking wide-eyed. Old farmers chuckled, some shaking their heads like they’d just been handed the best Sunday entertainment in years. Claude circled the building, huffing clouds of steam into the cool mountain air. He lowered his muzzle to the nativity window, nudging, licking, flicking his tongue at the latch like he’d done it before. For a second, I thought he might actually nose it open.

I crouched low in the pew, peering through the colored glass, praying he’d lose interest. But then his nostrils flared, and his eyes—mean, steady, and knowing—met mine through the window. A chill ran down my spine. Claude knew. He knew exactly where I was.

A kindly old lady, still lingering, shook her head. “Well honey, you might have some trouble getting out.” Then she dug in her purse and grinned. “Oh look… I’ve got my emergency rain coat. I always carry one of the big trash bags, ’cause you just never know when yer’ gonna need one. Put this over your head. Maybe he won’t recognize you.”

So that was my disguise—a trash bag. I pulled it over, then high-fived the pastor as I bolted through the front door.

Claude spotted me anyway. By the time I hit the Eagle wagon, he was trotting fast, ears pinned back, scraping the ground with every stride. I cranked the ignition, heart pounding, and roared out of the lot. The gravel spit from the tires as Claude gave chase.

I laid on the horn, praying Larry would hear me coming. That mule followed a mile, then another, keeping pace, tail whipping, snorting like it was his life’s mission to stomp me.

As I wheeled into the ranch, Larry was standing by the gate, swinging it wide open. I barreled inside. Claude barreled in behind me. Larry slammed the gate shut behind him trapping him in his pen, grinning like he’d seen this play out before.

“Didn’t you see me waving this morning?” he asked.

“I thought you were just telling me goodbye.”

Larry chuckled. “Goodbye? I was trying to warn you. Ol’ Claude had already jumped the fence and was running after you!”

“I think you left your Bible in the car,” he added with a smirk.

“That’s alright,” I told him, still trying to catch my breath. “Maybe Claude’ll read the part about forgiveness.”

He didn’t. Larry fetched the wagon out later, and we laughed about it for years.

When Larry passed, I took my family back to Jackson. We ducked into the candy shop downtown, buying a lollipop for my boy. Out the window, a mule-drawn wagon passed by with tourists.

I’ll admit it—I flinched. Because one of those mules turned his head, and looked straight at me. I swear it was Ol’ Claude. Looking back, I guess even a mule can find his way to the Lord’s house when he’s determined enough. Maybe there’s a lesson in that—that God’s grace doesn’t always come wrapped in choir robes or Sunday sermons. Sometimes it comes stomping up the gravel road, ears twitching, reminding us we’re not nearly as in control as we like to think.

To this day, I don’t care much for mules. And I sure don’t care for the one that followed me to church.

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