Yes, This Is A Christmas Story!

..............if you grew up in Rocky Mount.

In eastern North Carolina we like to tell stories and every now and then one of them is true. 

You have no doubt heard many beautiful Christmas stories, mostly about the birth of Christ. Some are updated, about how soldiers in the Civil War through WW2 would sing Christmas carols across no man's land, excuse me while I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. Others might feature a family coming back together in time for Christmas Eve. Hallmark has introduced us to a new genre about, well, I don't know what they are about, I just know they start in August. One of my favorite secular stories is about Kris Kringle at Macy's. And then there are the Griswold adventures with whom many of us can identify.

But this morning I remember one of the most sentimental stories of all, and yes, it came out of eastern NC. What you say? Yes, the story of Horace the mule. I am already swelling up with a saline solution in my eyes just thinking about it. So here for your reading pleasure, is the story of Horace the mule. Please share it with all of your family, especially the toddlers:

The story of the ill-fated adventures of Horace the Mule, made famous by the late Edmund Harding of Washington, was the topic of a column by Vernon Sechriest, who was managing editor of the Evening Telegram for many years before his death in 1990. It became a holiday favorite in the Rocky Mount area.

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Mrs. George Wood, now deceased, of Chowan County had a mule who was named Horace. On Christmas Eve she called up Dr. Satterfield in Edenton and said to him, “Doctor, Horace is sick, and I wish you would come take a look at him.”

Dr. Satterfield said, “Oh Fannie Lamb, it’s after 6 o’clock, and I’m eating supper. Give him a dose of mineral oil, and if he isn’t all right in the morning, phone me, and I’ll come out and take a look at him.”

“How’ll I give it to him?,” she inquired.

“Through a funnel,” replied the good doctor.

“But, he might bite me,” she protested.

“Oh, Fannie Lamb — you’re a farm woman, and you know about these things. Give it to him through the other end.”

So Fannie Lamb went out to the barn, and there stood Horace, with his head held down, just moaning and groaning.

She looked around for a funnel, but the nearest thing she could see to one was her Uncle Bill’s fox hunting horn, hanging on the wall, a beautiful gold-plated instrument with gold tassels hanging from it.

She took the horn and affixed it properly. Horace paid no attention.

Then she reached up on the shelf where medicines for the farm animals were kept. But instead of picking up the mineral oil, she picked up a bottle of turpentine and she poured a liberal dose into the horn.

Horace raised his head with a sudden jerk.

He let out a yell that could have been heard a mile away.

He reared up on his hind legs, brought his front legs down, knocked out the side of the barn, jumped a 5-foot fence and started down the road at a mad gallop.

Now Horace was in pain, so every few jumps he made, that horn would blow.

All the dogs in the neighborhood knew that when that horn was blowing it meant that Uncle Bill was going fox hunting. So down the highway they went, close behind Horace.

(Editor's note: As Gomer Pyle said, this here is my favorite part)

It was a marvelous sight. First, Horace — running at top speed; the horn, in a most unusual position, the mellow notes issuing therefrom; the tassels waving; and the dogs, barking joyously.

They passed by the home of Old Man Harvey Hogan, who was sitting on his front porch, well into the cups as they say down east. He hadn’t drawn a sober breath in 15 years, and he gazed in fascinated amazement at the sight that unfolded itself before his eyes.

Incidentally, Harvey is now head man of Alcoholics Anonymous in the Albemarle section of the state.

By this time it was good and dark. Horace and the dogs were approaching the Chowan River Bridge.

The bridgetender heard the horn blowing and figured a boat was approaching. So he hurriedly went out and elevated the bridge.

Horace went over the edge, straight into the river and was drowned. The dogs jumped into the water, but they could swim and climbed out without much difficulty.

Now it so happened that the bridgetender was running for the office of sheriff of Chowan County, but he managed to get only seven votes.

The people figured that any man who didn’t know the difference between a mule with a horn up his rear and a boat coming down the Inland Waterway wasn’t fit to hold any public office in Chowan County.

Who picked up on the irony of the farmer's wife? 

I know what you are thinking, but why is this story a Christmas story? Because it happened on Christmas Eve!