"I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go. I will counsel you and watch over you. Do not be like the horse or the mule, which have no understanding but must be controlled by bit and bridle or they will not proceed in the right direction."

Dear Lizzie Mae,

His name was Pearlus, and he owned a mule.

This comes as no surprise to you, Lizzzie Mae, as Pearlus was your man. I think, if I remember right, that he was your husband? Not sure, but we came to know him through you. I think you remember this . . .

I stood there in the dirt, maybe six or seven years old, my pants cut off just above the knee looking at the mule, sweating and blowing, long ears twitching. Pearlus behind the plow, black as night, determined as the Internal Revenue Service (about which I knew nothing at all).

Lizzie Mae was my mother -- sort of. Lizzie Mae was the young, black woman hired by my natural mother's sisters to take care of me. She came every day to my house at 32 Third Avenue, in Atlanta, to cook, wash clothes, iron, sweep and mop the floors, and whatever else "maids" do. But to me, she was the warmest, most loving mother I have ever known -- to this day.

During the Second World War, everybody had a "Victory Garden." Some of the "gardens" were quite large. Ours was smaller, only taking up less than half our yard. Maybe 60 x 70 or 80 feet wide and long. Enough to make cultivating the dirt by hand unreasonable. So Lizzie Mae had her husband, Pearlus, come and with his mule, plow our Victory Garden to get it ready for planting.

Pearlus said, "Whoa Mule!," the mule stopped and Pearlus took out his red bandana from his hip pocket, removed his straw hat which he used to shield his face from the hot, Georgia sun, and wiped considerable sweat from his brow.

This was my opportunity.

"Mistuh Perlus?" sez I, "Can I git up on an' ride that mule?"

Pearlus look' at me with wizened but not unkind eyes. "Boy," sez he to me, "That mule'd buck you to nigh t' the moon. Mule's mean and hard-headed. She ain't got no truck wid' a white chile. She'd a' buck you, and stomp you all'a way to China m' back." I looked up at Pearlus and he wasn't smilin.' I knew one thing for 'sho. Pearlus ain't gon' let me git up on that mule.

"Well," sez I, "ef you cain't let me ride that mule, kin I hep' you plow?"

Pearlus, he say, "Oh Lawd!," sez he, rolling his big brown eyes. He paused briefly, looking tolerantly askance. "Come heah, boy." I step up behind the plow. That mule's posterior loom' large and foreboding before me, tail swishing at the flies. I hoped to the Lord, that he wouldn't poop, squirt or pass gas. My hands could barely reach the handles of the plow. It teetered from one side to the other. I couldn't even hold the dang thing straight while sittin' still. Pearlus slip' his big, black hands over mine, calloused and rough from interminable hours of turning the earth.

"Git' up!, Mule!" he cried. The animal leaned into the harness and took a step. The plow bit into the earth which curled fresh and steamy around my feet. "Gee! Mule," Pearlus cried, and the mule bore right. "Haw! Mule," he cried, and the mule bore left. I was plowing! I was making that mule go where I want.

Well, I was six years old, what did I know?

All I knew for sure was that I was stumbling along in the dirt behind that mule, grinning, prouder'n a peacock, and forgot all about those beautiful black hands comfortably enveloping mine.

. . . I remember now.

An' I cain't hep' it, I got to b'lieve thas how God guides us through life. We may plow a crooked row a' lookin at a mule in the ass, but His hands are on ours, and He won't let go.

-- PDM

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