Editor's note: Metro Putnam reporter Shelby Young died Oct. 22.
Two things you had to understand about Shelby Young were his sense of humor and his sense of history.
Our newsroom banter about "the Mule" illustrates both qualities.
Shelby loved perusing over old black and white photographs. He did a feature in Metro Putnam for a while where he ran historical photos dug up from the archives at the Putnam County Courthouse.
One week he showed me several photos of coal miners. In at least one, a mule was prominently featured. As I recall, our exchange went something like this:
"They had mules in the coal mines?"
"Oh yes...in small mines they were used to haul the coal out. They would often bite and kick the miners, and there were cases where miners were crushed against walls by mules tired of working. You couldn't trust them."
"So, the mules were mean and cantankerous?"
"You have no idea..."
Shelby grew up on a farm, and knew plenty of mule stories. At any rate, he started looking specifically for pictures of mules - not hard to find in photos from the '20s and '30s.
At some point, we began joking that it was the same mule in all the pictures (one mule does look pretty much like another). From here, the myth grew.
Over the ensuing weeks, the "Mule" became an evil creature hidden somewhere in Putnam County. Safe in his lair, this malevolent mutant sought to cloud men's minds and plot world domination.
In classic "X-Files" fashion, Shelby and I were the only ones who knew of the Mule's plans - or even its existence. (I should also give a nod here to Isaac Asimov, whose "Foundation" series featured a character called the Mule - a further source for our inspired nonsense. Shelby was an avid reader of science fiction.)
Naturally, anything bad that happened was blamed on the Mule. If we lost our notes, it was the Mule playing his Jedi mind tricks on us. If a source canceled a meeting at the last minute - yep, the Mule got to them.
Eventually, this web of evil was extended to include other animals. Donkeys were minions. Horses were suspect...you get the idea.
Silly? Of course. Good fun? You bet. And Shelby loved it. He would arrive at the office eager to show us a photo he'd taken. As we hunched over the screen of his laptop, he would announce, with a twinkle in his eye, that the photo was the best evidence yet of the "conspiracy." Sure, at first glance it appears to be an innocent shot of a girl holding a rabbit at the Putnam County Fair - but, look more closely....
Soon, Mule printouts (some shamelessly cut and pasted Monty Python style) were plastered over the office bulletin board, much to the bewilderment of the rare visitor who bothered to notice.
It might help to understand that the pressure in a newsroom can get, well, fairly intense. A casual outsider might think that doing weekly sections (rather than daily) is easier, and in some ways this is true. But in a small office such as Metro, it's easy to get overloaded with work. The sections have to be filled, no matter what - and some weeks we have special sections to do in addition to our community news stuff.
It can get crazy.
Shelby took his work seriously, and was a pro at multi-tasking. But he could always be counted on to use humor to cut the tension. Often, it was a bad pun, which would prompt us to tell Shelby to go "sit in the corner" (the joke here was that Shelby's desk was already in the corner).
Similarly, I guess the Mule Conspiracy became an outlet for blowing off steam. In a strange way, it helped keep us sane.
But I think it says a lot about Shelby, the person. He was intelligent, quick-witted, and enjoyed a good laugh. He never seemed bored with life or the work he loved, even on days when it was obvious he didn't feel well.
He will be missed.
Lessons for life can be hard to come by, but Shelby taught me a couple:
Don't forget to have fun. Work hard, but still have fun.
And never, never turn your back on a mule.