My Daddy, George W. O’Shields, was a farmer, but he missed his calling. He should have been an explosives expert … read on.

Being raised on a farm, one often has to come up with, should I say, unique or unusual ways to solve a particular task or problem. As an example, my Daddy always kept a mule on the farm.

The mule was used mainly for plowing crops and was kept in the same pasture with our two milk cows. Wherever you found the cows, you could always find the mule. I think he may have considered himself a strangely built, hard-headed cow.

When the cows came to the barn each evening to get their sweet feed so they could be milked, the mule was always there and also would beg for a handful of sweet feed.

Well, one thing you learn when plowing with mules is that you must have one that walks the same pace as you. Otherwise you would tire out trying to match your pace to the mule’s pace. That’s one reason some farmers would sell or trade mules every year or so. When a farmer found the right mule, he would keep him for life. As was the case with this particular mule, who was getting old.

I was quite young at the time, but do recall brother Bobby telling this story. For some reason, the old mule quit showing up at the barn each evening with the cows. This caused no apparent concern until one day Daddy saw buzzards circling over the lower pasture. He knew that something had met its

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