The Farmer’s Daily Struggles
Once upon a time, in a small, forgotten corner of the countryside, there lived a hillbilly farmer named Jed. Now, Jed wasn’t a wealthy man by any means. His farm was small, and the land wasn’t the most fertile. But it was home, and for all its imperfections, it was a life he had grown used to.
Jed’s farm was modest. He had a few cows, chickens, and a stubborn old mule named Bessie, who was the most dependable animal on the farm. Of course, when things were going smoothly, Jed’s days consisted of long hours of hard work—mending fences, collecting eggs, and, most importantly, plowing the fields. But there was always one thing that made those long days particularly hard to endure: his wife, Myrtle.
Myrtle was a woman of notable character—though, not the kind that made Jed’s life easy. From the moment the sun peeked over the horizon, Myrtle’s voice was never far behind. She would shout orders, complain about the weather, the animals, the crops, the neighbors—even the air. Anything and everything was cause for concern, and it was her mission in life to make sure Jed knew about it.
It wasn’t that Myrtle didn’t love her husband. She did, in her own way. But Myrtle had a way of expressing that love through an unrelenting barrage of complaints. If Jed worked too hard, she’d say he was making himself ill. If he didn’t work enough, she’d accuse him of being lazy. If he ate too much, she would fuss about his health, and if he ate too little, she’d say he wasn’t taking care of himself.
It didn’t matter what Jed did—nothing seemed to satisfy her. The only time he found relief from the constant tirade of complaints was when he was out in the fields with Bessie, plowing the land.
Bessie, despite her stubbornness, was the only creature on the farm who didn’t judge Jed. She would walk steadily down the rows of plowed earth, while Jed, with his weathered hands gripping the reins, let the quiet of the countryside soothe his soul. There, in the silence of the fields, he could get some peace.
But life, as it often does, had a way of turning even the quietest moments into chaos.
Part 2: A Fateful Lunch
It was another typical day on the farm. The sun beat down on Jed’s broad shoulders as he led Bessie into the field. The rows of crops were growing tall, but there was still plenty of work to do. The day had been long, and Jed had barely taken a break when, at midday, he saw his wife coming toward him.
Myrtle’s figure grew nearer, and as she got closer, Jed could hear her familiar voice. She was, as always, in the middle of a lecture.
“Jed!” she called, her voice carrying over the field, “You still haven’t fixed that leaky pipe in the barn! And I swear, if you don’t do something about those chickens, they’re gonna eat all the corn again!”
Jed sighed, shaking his head. He could feel the tension building in his shoulders. His bones ached from the hard work, and the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of all the things that weren’t done.
But then, Myrtle did something unexpected. She brought him lunch—his favorite: a sandwich with ham, cheese, and a homemade pickle. Jed, momentarily surprised, watched as she set the lunch on a nearby stump before taking a seat next to him.
For a moment, he thought perhaps the day would go differently. Maybe Myrtle would sit quietly for just a few minutes, and they could share this moment in peace. But that, of course, was not to be. The minute Jed took a bite of his sandwich, Myrtle began talking again.
“Jed, don’t forget to clean out the pigsty. It’s filthy. And you need to repaint the shed before the weather gets any worse.”
Jed tried his best to ignore her. He chewed slowly, the taste of the sandwich oddly comforting in the midst of the noise. The breeze rustled the leaves of the trees nearby, and for a moment, he allowed himself to drift away into the quiet of the moment.
But Myrtle wasn’t done. Her voice cut through the stillness of the afternoon like a knife.
“Why are you eating so slow? Are you trying to save that sandwich for later? I swear, sometimes you act like you don’t have a care in the world.”
Jed could feel his patience beginning to fray. The incessant nagging had become unbearable, and all he wanted was a few minutes of peace. He glanced at Bessie, who was munching on some grass under the shade of a nearby tree, looking as though she were blissfully unaware of the storm brewing between husband and wife.
And then, just as Jed was about to lose it, something incredible happened.
Bessie, the old mule, who had always been so reliable and calm, suddenly lashed out. With a mighty heave, she kicked both hind legs out, sending a powerful blow to the back of Myrtle’s head.
Jed’s heart froze as he watched his wife collapse to the ground, her body falling limp in the dirt. The lunch he had been eating moments before slipped from his hand, forgotten. Bessie had acted without warning, as if she too had had enough of Myrtle’s complaints. And just like that, in a single moment, everything changed.
Part 3: The Funeral and the Odd Behavior
The days following Myrtle’s tragic death were a blur for Jed. The shock of the event, the funeral preparations, and the strange quiet that now filled the farmhouse—it all made his head spin. He had never imagined that his life could change so drastically, so quickly. One moment, his world had been filled with Myrtle’s endless complaints, and the next, it was silent.
The funeral was a somber affair, with neighbors and family members coming to pay their respects. But there was something peculiar about the way the mourners behaved when they approached Jed.
As the women came up to him, they would offer their condolences and then say something about how nice Myrtle had looked in her dress or how well she had taken care of things on the farm. Each time, Jed would nod in agreement, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he politely acknowledged their words.
But when the men approached him, their questions were very different. They didn’t ask about Myrtle’s appearance or how nice the ceremony had been. Instead, they all seemed to ask the same question: “So, Jed, is the mule for sale?”
At first, Jed wasn’t sure what to make of this strange behavior. It wasn’t until the minister, who had presided over the funeral service, noticed the oddity and decided to ask Jed about it.
After the service, the minister pulled Jed aside. “Jed,” he said, “I couldn’t help but notice something curious during the funeral. Whenever a woman came up to you, you would nod and agree with what she said. But when the men came up to you, you would shake your head and disagree. Why is that?”
Jed, his weathered face creasing into a small grin, took a deep breath. “Well, preacher,” he said, scratching his chin, “the women would come up and tell me how pretty Myrtle looked, or how lovely her dress was. And, I’ll tell ya, I couldn’t help but agree with them. She did look nice, after all.”
The preacher nodded, listening intently. “And what about the men?” he asked.
Jed leaned in, his voice lowering conspiratorially. “Well, preacher, the men, they all asked if Bessie was for sale. And I just couldn’t bring myself to agree with them.”
The preacher’s eyes widened in understanding, and Jed let out a quiet chuckle. “I reckon the mule’s not for sale, preacher. She’s been a good ol’ gal, and I’m not about to part with her now, not after everything she did.”
The minister stood there for a moment, a smile creeping onto his face as he realized the humor in the situation.
In a way, Jed had found peace in the most unexpected place. The very mule that had been the cause of such tragedy had also become the center of a strange new chapter in Jed’s life—a chapter where, despite the loss, he could still find a little humor amidst the pain.
