Catch the Mules Wayside

Early forms of transportation were by foot, horse, mule, and wagon.

Library of Congress

Quick Facts

Location:

Jimmy Carter Boyhood Farm

Amenities

1 listed

Historical/Interpretive Information/Exhibits

Catch the Mules
Here, at the barn, the day started early.
"All the workers arose each morning at 4:00 a.m…, wakened by the ringing of a large farm bell. We would go to the barn and catch the mules by lan-tern light, put the plow stocks, seed, fertilizer, and other supplies on the wagons, and drive out to the field where we would be working that day… and wait for it to be light enough to cultivate."
- Jimmy Carter, 1975  Why Not the Best?

Before World War II, mules—not a gasoline-driven tractor— provided the “horsepower” needed to farm in South Georgia.

Early forms of transportation were by foot, horse, mule, and wagon. 

• Outside Barn

  
  

  The barn was the heart of the Carter family farm, where both work and play came together. Each day, the mules and horses were taken to the fields, and at night, they returned for feeding and watering. The barn also served as a place for fun, with haylofts perfect for jumping into soft piles of hay after threshing oats and wheat. Jimmy Carter shared this farm with his African American neighbors, like Johnny and A.D., with whom he worked, played, and learned.
  Audio Transcript

  The barn was the center of our attention on the farm because all of our work was focused there. It was a very exciting place, as a matter of fact. We caught the mules and horses early in the morning, took them to the field hooked to wagons and plows. That’s where we brought them back at night for feed and for watering. We also had a good time around the barn. For instance, when daddy thrashed oats and wheat, we had a thrashing machine just behind the barn and we would have a big pile of loose hay. We used to get a running start in the loft of the barn and leap out of the window and land on the soft pile of hay. Throughout my young life I worked and played with my boyhood neighbors. My neighbors were African American. And we were equal to one another. But, when I was about fourteen years old, there was a profound experience that I had, that didn’t seem to be important at the time. But later in my life I realized it was one of the turning points in my life. I wrote a poem about it. The pasture gate: This empty house, three miles from town was where I lived. Here I was back and found most homes around were gone. The folks who stayed here now were black, like Johnny and A.D., my friends. As boys we worked in Daddy’s fields, hunted rabbits, squirrels, and quail, caught and cooked catfish and eels, searched the land for arrowheads, tried to fly the smallest kite, steered barrel hoops with strands of wire, and wrestled hard. At times we’d fight, without a thought of who might be boss, who was the smartest or the best; the leader for a few brief hours was who had won the last contest. But then – we were fourteen or so – as we approached the pasture gate, they went to open it, and then stood back. This made me hesitate, sure it must have been a joke, a tripwire, maybe, they had planned. I reckon they had to obey their parents’ prompting. Or command. We only saw it vaguely then, but we were transformed at that place. A silent line was drawn between friend and friend, race and race.