I always called him Midnight

Not all memories of my youth were confined to wonderful people.1

A few favorite animals, as well, made those days growing up down on the lower West Side quite wonderful, indeed. One who stands out to this day was an aging black mule named Precious.2

I learned Precious name long after I’d met him, when I became acquainted with Carl. A fascinating study in himself, this old man with his magic shopping bag, had adopted Precious. Prior to our meeting I had named him Midnight from the song by Walter Brennon, about a young boy who worked, plowing fields with a sharecropper and his mule. Like Midnight, Precious was tall, old, coal black, except for a crown shaped blaze beneath his droopy ears and between his solemn dark eyes, with pupils the size and shape of chestnuts, and a patch of white on his velvety soft nose.3

Many the neighborhood kids and adults would always stop to pull tall grass and feed it to Precious. In his fence enclosed corner lot there by Boise Cascade Paper Mill, he lived a contented life. Precious shared his home with a little white Moreno sheep, with a black face, which I learned later, was named Angel. Angel was shy towards people, coming to the fence only to take his share of handouts otherwise remaining at a cautious distance. Precious, however, loved to have visitors. When I walked my Australian Shepard “Smokey”, he seemed always to be on watch for our arrival.4

He’d perk up his ears, breath a snort and practically dance over on his long gangly legs, his huge hooves clopping hollowly over the weed strewn bunch grass. I used to feed Precious Butter finger bars, and pop corn, until the day I fist met Carl,5

with his magical canvas bag. Out of Carl’s bag would come all sorts of things. It gave forth carrots for Precious, Copenhagen for himself, pepperoni sticks for Smokey and Black Jack chewing gun for me. When I saw how much Precious and Angel favored Carl’s carrots, I abandoned my offerings. After that I pulled fresh carrots for them from the garden, as long as there were any to pull.6

Being Precious adopted papa, Carl stopped by daily. He was a familiar figure in the neighborhood, with his baggy jeans or uniform pants, with a belt and suspenders, striped shirts in white and black or fire engine red patterns, and his old felt hat with a red feather peeking out of the band. His paunch hung out, strapped in by his chocolate brown suspenders. And, his hickory walking stick seemed all that held him up at times. His teeth, mostly gone in front, were yellow and brown from years of chewing and his face seemed oddly vacant behind his tortoise shell horn rimmed glasses.7

But, he was very much alive, just the same, and always watching over his old friend.8

As time passed, from drippy winter to spring,9

and into lengthy days of summer, one year after another,10

he made a faithful journey, finally planting carrots in among the sod chunks and splintered boards that littered the ground. And, Carl tended these carrots faithfully with a hand trowel and a toy watering can.11

Precious and Angel, it seemed, stood sentinel over their shared treasure, through out it all, waiting for their friends to come by to say hello.12

Three summers and as many winters passed with Precious there,13

until one day he simply lay down to sleep and never woke up.14

The paper mill turned the lot into parking spaces for their semi's and I never learned what happened to Angel, though I heard one of the employees took him home. But, Carl set up a stone by the tracks for Precious and planted some carrots there. He hoped they'd never cover Precious memorial, but of course they did, 15

Progress is no respecter of personal memorials.16

As for Precious, his memorial long gone, he still must live in some manner in all the kids’ hearts that grew up there near those railroad tracks. And, when I tend my own carrot patch, there are stirring thoughts of a dear old mule, who Carl and I loved so much.17