WELL NOW, THAT’S INTERESTING . . . .
Discovering the Curious Corners of Honey Hill Country with Clarence “Clary” Moss
“The Possum & Mule Exchange”
Clarence “Clary” Moss firmly believes every town, road, and front porch has a story waiting to be discovered.
With a curious eye and an appreciation for the unusual, he explores the people, traditions, oddities, and local legends that make Honey Hill Country endlessly fascinating.
Approaching down the road with the early summer breeze in your face, the first thing you notice about The Possum & Mule Exchange is the smell. But not the sort to make one immediately turn around and head back in the other direction, necessarily. For one having grown up or worked around animals, it is a welcoming smell of hay, leather, feed grains of various sorts, horses, mules, and other assorted animals. And a dozen other scents that somehow combine into the unmistakable aroma of a place. All emanating from a bustling hive of activity where work gets done and a myriad of things seem to get worked out thru the day. Add a hint of woodsmoke and some fresh-brewed coffee in the background, and you have The Possum & Mule Exchange.
Making your way around wagons and assorted farm implements in front, the second thing you notice is the sound. Hooves shifting in stalls and in the paddocks. Harness chains rattling. Farmers and others visiting. Conversations. Never-ending exchanges of stories, gossip, and rumours.
And somebody laughing. Usually not alone.
A mule expressing a loud opinion in the back, and other mules instantly disagreeing with it.
The Possum & Mule Exchange sits on the edge of Butterfield in a large wooden building that appears to have grown naturally out of the surrounding countryside.
The long center aisle of the main building runs from front to back, most often open at both ends except during heavy rains or snow. A high roof supported by heavy oak beams darkened with age covers it all.
Inside and around the grounds a large, white billy goat named “Chief Sergeant Billy” roams freely, watching over everyone and everything as though on security patrol. His six-inch beard conveys a mature, and rather majestic appearance. I gave a respectful salute as we passed.
Floorboards down the center aisle, rough and splintery along the edges, have been worn smooth down the middle by countless boots, hooves, wagon men, farmers, traders, and curious visitors passing through over the years.
Including me today. Stepping through the open doors, old floorboards creaked and groaned beneath my feet as I walked along past open-fronted stalls on both sides. Suspended motes of straw and the dry, sweet dander of the barn filled the air.
On my right, a large red mule occupying one of the nearest stalls watched my arrival with calm interest before returning to his hay.
“That’s Barnaby,” a young boy carrying a bucket of water informed me.
It seemed Barnaby considered a formal introduction unnecessary and simply continued munching.
Now, the first question most folks ask is not about the mules. Or the horses. Or the goats out back. Or even about Chief Sergeant Billy.
Rather, the first question asked is — “Why in the world is it called The Possum & Mule Exchange?”
Which seemed to me like an excellent question. So I asked.
The owner, Mike Shaye, paused writing and looked up from his desk.
“Because that’s what happened,” he deadpanned.
Which explained absolutely nothing.
Mike Shaye leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, with a “here we go again” look about him.
“Twenty-two years ago, I bought my first mule,” he began.
That sounded like a promising beginning.
“Three days later, a fellow came in wanting to buy it.”
“What happened?” I inquired.
“He didn’t have any money.”
I waited. Silence followed as I waited longer for him to continue. And then waited some more, as Mike Shaye simply sat there, relaxed in his chair and gazing at the ceiling. Apparently the story was not prepared to move forward without additional encouragement.
And?” I finally asked.
Mike signed in a way to suggest that he had told this story many times before.
He opened with — “And — he had two possums.”
I stared at him. Mike stared back.
“Live possums?” I further inquired.
“Very much so,” he responded.
I considered this information for a moment.
“Did you trade him? A mule for the two possums?”
“Not exactly.”
“What exactly then?”
“One mule. In exchange for the two possums, a broken wagon tongue also needing a kingbolt, half a barrel of sorghum molasses, and a promise of five dollars whenever he had it.”
I blinked.
“Who got the better deal?”
Mike grinned.
“That depends who you ask,” I suppose.”
At this point, I was no closer to understanding the name than when we started.
Unfortunately for Mike, several nearby customers had been listening.
One of them laughed.
“Tell him the rest of the story, Mike,” prodded a man nearest the door. Wearing a collarless button-down tan work shirt, high-waisted jeans held up by sturdy canvas suspenders, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and high-top leather work boots, he appeared every bit the part of someone who would be intimately familiar with both mules and possums.
Mike immediately shook his head.
“There isn’t any rest of the story,” Mike retorted.
“There absolutely is!” the farmer asserted with a laugh.
Another man dressed in stained, brown canvas overalls leaned against a stall door.
“There is quite a bit of rest, actually,” the man insisted.
By now, a fair-sized group of assorted visitors and customers had gathered around in the central walkway to hear the story unfold.
The first fellow pointed toward the large painted sign hanging above the front entrance.
“You forgot the important part,” he maintained.
Mike sighed. The sort of sigh produced by a man who realizes events have escaped his control.
“The possums got loose,” the farmer in the high-waisted jeans began.
I waited for more.
“And they stayed,” he added.
“They lived around the barn for years,” added the farmer in the overalls. “The two possums were a male and a female. They raised families. Stole eggs. Frightened dogs and church ladies. Made themselves completely at home.”
“One of them lived under Mike’s office for nearly three years,” someone added from the back of the gathered crowd.
Mike rubbed his forehead.
“That was one possum,” he tried to explain.
“It was several possums,” the first farmer insisted.
“It was one possum several times over,” the second farmer corrected.
The entire barn erupted in laughter.
I was beginning to understand why people enjoyed spending time here.
The Possum & Mule Exchange, as it turned out, had accumulated stories the way old barns accumulate dust over the years.
Naturally. Gradually. And in considerable quantities.
As for the name, Mike finally shrugged.
“After a while, folks just started calling it The Possum & Mule Exchange,” he explained.
“And you kept it? The name, that is?” I asked.
“Seemed easier than arguing,” Mike relented.
I looked around the barn. At the horses. The mules. The goats. Traders. Customers. At the smell of hay and other feeds. The laughter and stories.
I had to admit. The “Possum & Mule Exchange” name seemed to fit.
At some point I noticed something curious.
During the better part of an hour, I had seen only a handful of actual transactions. One mule had changed owners. A saddle had been sold. And a farmer in dusty overalls was animatedly negotiating over a wagon.
Yet the barn remained full. Men leaned against stall doors. Farmers sat on feed sacks. Two fellows seated on a bench near the front entrance appeared to be attempting to solve several of the world’s problems simultaneously. And though it seemed no visible progress was being made, nobody seemed concerned.
Some folks were buying. Some were selling. Some were trading. Most were simply visiting. And nobody seemed to think that was unusual. Everything seemed to be going about in its own natural rhythm.
Near the back of the building, a black stove sat against the wall with a coffee pot resting on top. The coffee, I learned, was free. So were the conversations, and neither appeared to be in short supply.
Most regulars brought their own cups. For everyone else, a rack of well-used mugs hung nearby.
During my visit I observed several cups of coffee poured, three stories told, two fishing arguments begun, and one spirited discussion concerning the weather. No final conclusions were reached regarding either the fish or the weather.
A fellow wandered in through the front door, nodded toward Mike, poured himself a cup of coffee, and joined a conversation already underway. Nobody introduced him. Nobody needed to. He appeared to know everyone, and everyone appeared to know him. The longer I stayed, the Possum & Mule Exchange began to feel less like a business and more like a gathering place.
The animals brought people together. And the people stayed.
After a few minutes, several regulars gathered around the coffee stove. Mike moved between conversations. A fellow in what appeared to be new blue overalls was explaining how he would have fixed the nation’s problems if only somebody had asked. A pair of farmers debated mule prices. Another seemed to be going on and on about Congress to a congregation that wasn’t paying attention.
And from a nearby stall, Barnaby the Red Mule listened to every word. Judging by the expression on his face, he had heard most of it before. An occasional headshake confirmed it.
A fellow carrying a cup of coffee wandered by.
“Morning, Mike.”
“Morning, Earl.”
Another man stepped through the front door.
“Morning, Mike.”
“Morning, Harold.”
A few minutes later:
“Morning, Mike.”
“Morning, Pete.”
I began to suspect Mike Shaye spent a considerable portion of every day saying good morning.
Eventually, I asked the obvious question.
“Mike, how do you ever get any work done around here?”
He looked around the barn.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s enough conversation in here to keep three newspapers in business.”
That earned a laugh from several nearby customers.
Mike shrugged.
“Folks stop by,” he explained.
That seemed to be the entirety of his explanation.
Before I could continue, a voice called from farther down the aisle.
“Ask him where the ‘Honest’ came from.”
Several heads immediately turned.
Mike closed his eyes. Slowly. His reaction suggested this was not a new conversation.
“Now hold on,” Mike pleaded.
“No,” somebody replied. “Tell him.”
“You tell him,” another chimed in.
“We’re planning to,” the first fellow responded.
At that point I became considerably more interested.
“All right,” I said. “Where did the ‘Honest’ come from?”
Three people answered at once.
Mike sighed. And appeared badly outnumbered.
“I’ll tell him,” said a grey-haired farmer leaning against a stall door.
“No, tell him about the watch first,” another fellow in mud-stained overalls called from farther down the aisle.
“The watch wasn’t first,” the farmer insisted.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s the best story,” the other asserted over the farmer’s protest.
Honest Mike rubbed his forehead as though feeling a headache about to begin.
The farmer nearest me, the one in the calico, button-downed shirt, pointed in Mike’s direction.
“Fellow came in years ago wanting to sell an old pocket watch, you see,” he began.
Mike immediately shook his head. “Now hold on,” he interrupted.
“The fellow thought it was worth five dollars,” the farmer continued.
“It wasn’t exactly five,” Mike countered.
“Close enough,” the farmer rebutted, ignoring the interruption. “Turned out it was worth considerably more,” he went on.
“Fifty-two dollars,” Mike muttered.
The farmer nodded.
“See? He still remembers the exact amount,” he laughed while pointing his finger at Mike once again. “Fifty-two Dollars!”
Several people laughed.
“Most folks would’ve bought it and kept quiet,” another man said. “Mike didn’t.”
“He never does!” another down the way shouted.
Before I could ask another question, a woman examining a harness nearby joined the conversation.
“What about Mrs. Perkins?” she asked.
Several heads nodded.
“That’s a good one,” an elderly gentleman agreed.
The woman smiled.
“Mrs. Perkins brought in an old team harness after her husband passed. Thought it was worn out,” she began.
Mike looked toward the ceiling. “Another one,” he muttered softly. Apparently there was no escaping this.
“Somebody else in town had already offered to buy it,” someone chimed in.
“Cheap,” the woman added.
“Very cheap,” another man agreed, looking down at the ground and shaking his head.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Mike told her what it was actually worth,” the woman responded. She shrugged. “Cost him the sale, it did.”
“Saved her from a bad deal,” yet another added.
That earned several murmurs of agreement. By now, a large group had gathered in front of Mike’s office.
At this point I noticed that nobody seemed especially interested in discussing Mike’s business successes. They preferred discussing the deals he hadn’t made.
Then a voice called from the back paddock as a man in a well-worn straw hat, green shirt, jeans, and boots stepped forward.
“Tell him about the mule.”
The entire barn laughed.
Even Mike. But only a little.
“Now that’s not fair,” he inserted.
“That’s exactly fair,” the farmer countered. “And you know it, Mike. A fellow came in a few years ago wanting to sell one of the finest mules I’d ever seen.”
Mike already knew where this was headed.
The farmer continued anyway.
“Mike looked at the mule. And he looked at the farmer. Then he looked back at the mule and asked why he was selling such a fine animal.”
Silence overtook the walkway as everyone waited for him to continue the story.
The farmer grinned. “And then Mike went on and talked himself right out of another perfectly good purchase.”
More laughter.
“What did you say, Mike?” I asked.
Mike shrugged. “I told him he didn’t want to sell that mule.”
The farmer nodded. “And he was right.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“I was the fellow that day and kept the mule,” the farmer replied.
“Still got him?”
“We work every day,” was the reply. “Turned out to be the best mule I ever owned.”
A few moments passed.
Then another voice spoke up quietly.
“That’s why folks call him Honest Mike.”
The laughter faded. Heads nodded. No one argued. The fellow nearest me took a sip of coffee.
“He’ll trade with you.”
Another nodded.
“He’ll buy from you.”
A third added:
“And if you’re about to make a mistake, he’ll tell you that too.”
Nobody seemed to find that remarkable. They simply seemed to expect it. Which, I suppose, is how reputations are built.
One fair deal at a time.
Before leaving, I was shown — “the possum.” The one who presently makes his home at The Possum & Mule Exchange the man next to me explained. But unlike countless others before him living beneath Honest Mike’s office, this one actually makes his home “in” the office.
“His name is Lazarus,” Mike explained.
Naturally.
The possum was resting peacefully inside a small wooden box that strongly resembled a coffin.
I stared at the possum.
The possum stared at me.
Or perhaps slept.
It was difficult to tell.
“What exactly does he do?” I asked.
Mike pointed toward a small handbell resting on a nearby shelf.
Somebody rang it.
Instantly, Lazarus sprang to life.
The entire barn laughed.
Apparently this never grew old.
Lazarus climbed from his little coffin, accepted the attention as though it were his due, and then proceeded to inspect the nearest pockets in search of snacks.
I had the distinct impression he considered himself management.
“He does any other tricks?” I asked.
Mike grinned.
“We’re working on a few.”
The answer suggested future developments.
As Lazarus reached into my vest pocket and unwrapped some dried apples I had been saving for a snack later, I began to suspect that Lazarus and I had not seen the last of one another.
“Tell him about Barnaby. Tell him about how you came about getting that grumpy, red sourpuss of a mule. His mood is as gloomy as a rainy Sunday most days,” a bystander asserted.
“Not today, fellas,” Mike replied. “It’s getting late and that’s a story for another day.”
I glanced over at Barnaby, who seemed relieved. As relieved as a supposedly gloomy mule can look, I suppose.
Outside, the afternoon sun was beginning to settle lower in the sky.
A wobbly wagon rolled into the yard. Two farmers were discussing a horse. Somebody else was discussing politics. At least I think it was politics. It may have been fishing, as the volume of each sort of discussion can sound a bit similar.
A woman with three small children in tow and who had two egg-laying chickens in a basket for sale brushed off a worker and insisted on dealing only with “Honest” Mike Shaye. From the reaction of the worker, it seemed that sort of thing might happen often.
Near the stove, coffee continued to disappear at an impressive rate.
New stories were beginning even as old ones were being finished.
And nobody appeared especially interested in hurrying home.
As I stood there watching, another fellow wandered through the front door.
Several voices greeted him immediately.
“Good afternoon, Arthur.”
“How are you?”
“Haven’t seen you since day before yesterday. Where ya been?”
The questions arrived naturally.
Not because anybody was keeping track.
Because everybody clearly was.
That, I realized, may be the real purpose of places like The Possum & Mule Exchange.
The mules. The horses. Wagons and wheels and harnesses.
The trading. Buying and selling.
Those things matter. Of course they matter. But they are only part of the story.
The animals brought people together. And the people stayed.
And somewhere between the coffee pot, the animals, the buying, the selling, the trading, the stories, the laughter, and Honest Mike’s steady presence, quite unexpectedly a community happened.
The lady with the small children and chickens walked past me as I untied my horse, noticeably tucking cash into her purse. She had needed money for groceries, I had overheard.
Climbing up into my buggy, I noticed the hole in its canopy that had brought me to The Possum & Mule Exchange earlier in the day to begin with. I gathered the reins, said “Walk on” to my horse, and headed back toward town, not at all sad that I would need to be returning soon.
Behind me, the conversations continued. I suspect they always do.
If you happen to find yourself near Butterfield someday, wondering where all the interesting stories are hiding, I know exactly where I would begin looking. Perhaps you can trade a story for a good working mule. I’d been told “Honest Mike” had made that deal more than once, too.
If you’re looking for it someday, simply follow the smell of hay, and listen for the laughter.
You can’t miss it.
en-and-ink illustrations have been created for this piece with the assistance of AI . . . lovingly prepared and styled for the world of Little Red Bear.
James Milson - The Writing Pages 