“Hurry, hurry,” we sputtered. Pulling, pushing, jumping, we scampered up the tree like panicked chipmunks. In seconds all six of us were clinging to branches, pulling our feet up just out of reach of the heifer that arrived only moments after the last one of us heaved up to a safe branch. Panting, we caught our breath and lapsed into nervous giggles as the heifer stood looking up at us, bawling.
“We made it,” Johnny crowed, kicking at the heifer that stood craning her neck up toward our dangling feet.
We wiggled around on the branches, grappling to find solid seats and secure limbs to hold for balance.
“What’s the matter with her?” Herm asked.
“She wants to play,” Jane said. None too fond of heights, Jane had one arm wrapped around the trunk while she kept a grip on Sue’s arm with her free hand.
“Play?” Donny exclaimed. “More like kill us.”
“No, she wants to play. Don’t you remember last summer when you came for a week? We braided halters and led the calves around the yard. We used to do that with this heifer when she was little,” Jane explained.
“No way!” he said in amazement. The little calves we lassoed when we played cowboy with our cousins bore no meaningful connection to these adult cows.
“Yes, it is. I guess she liked to play. She still thinks she can.”
We all looked down at the heifer butting her head against the tree trunk and straining her neck up toward our feet dangling from the branches like fruit ready to pick.
“What are we gonna do?” Herm asked.
We looked around. The barbed wire fence that marked the safety of the next field was a good 50 yards away. Between our tree and the fence were gullies and a brambly blackberry patch. It may as well have been a mile. We couldn’t run there faster than the cow.
“Maybe if we all got down at once, it would scare her away,” Donny suggested.
“I don’t think so. She came after all of us by the creek,” I reminded him. “And all three of us were in the barnyard getting the heifers in when she chased Sue up on the fence.”
The boys turned to Sue. “What happened to you?” Herm asked.
Sue didn’t answer right away and I jumped in. “It was really funny,” I said.
“It was not,” Sue glared at me, her lower lip curled in a pout. “It was scary.”
“Yeah, but it’s funny now,” I persisted.
“Come on. What happened?” Herm prodded.
“Okay. The cows were in the lane ready to come in for milking,” I began, since it didn’t look as though Sue was going to talk.
“It’s my story,” Sue interrupted.
“Okay, then. Tell it.”
“Just let me,” Sue glowered, suddenly important in the limelight of our cousins’ attention. “The heifers were in the barnyard. Dad said to go chase them into the barn. Then we could open the gate for the cows.”
“Usually they just go right in as soon as we open the barn door,” I interrupted, hurrying the story along. Sue stared daggers at me and I shut up.
“Most of the calves headed for the barn right away, just like they always do,” Sue continued. “But this calf started coming at me. I didn’t know what to do, so I just ran.”
Donny straddled the branch as he turned to me, “Why didn’t you stop her?”
“I didn’t even see it happen until Sue was already on the fence and the heifer was butting her. Sue held onto the fence rail. When the heifer butted at her behind, Sue flew up in the air and came back down, still hanging onto the fence. The heifer butted her into the air again and again. Sue held on, screaming her lungs out.” I paused, rather enjoying the drama and forgetting for the moment how scared I had been at the time.
“What happened then?” Herm asked, his brown eyes wide open.
“Dad came tearing out into the barnyard with a pitchfork in his hands and a look on his face like I hope to never see turned on me. Dad yelled ‘HEY!’ and smacked that heifer across the rump with the pitchfork. She backed right away from Sue and ran.”
The boys looked down at the heifer that had taken to eating grass just below our tree. The boys were gaining newfound respect for her size, which looked huge even as we peered down at her from our secure and lofty perches. We drew our feet further up on the limbs.
Turning back to Sue, Johnny asked, “Why didn’t you just let go? I bet you’d have flown right over the fence and she couldn’t have got you.”
Sue’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I didn’t think to let go. She was going to kill me.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” I interjected, seeing at once the logic of Johnny’s suggestion. “You could have just gone over the fence. Besides, Dad was there.”
Sue stuck her tongue out at me and we lapsed into silence staring down at the heifer who had just lain down. Right under the tree. She was chewing her cud like she didn’t have a care in the world and also like she wasn’t going to move. Ever.
“And now we’re stuck in this tree,” Johnny pointed out the obvious. “What are we going to do?”
We talked about sneaking out of the tree and making a run for it. We looked again at how far away the fence was. We knew we could not all make it. We considered whether we could holler loud enough to get Butch to come; the cows respected the dog. We thought about whether Johnny or Donny could outrun the cow and go get Dad. We sat in the tree for a long time.
Over time, we tore leaves and twigs off the tree and threw them down, pelting the heifer. She looked up, but she just continued to chew her cud, waiting for us to come down and play.
“We can’t stay up here forever,” Jane observed. Still, we were not coming up with an alternative.
While we were talking, Johnny had been working to tear a limb from the tree. Finally, it broke off and he began poking at the cow. He could barely reach her, so his initial pokes had about as much effect as a fly landing on the heifer’s back.
“Hold on to my legs. I’m going to reach down and give her a good poke. Maybe she’ll move,” he said as he slung his legs over a branch and lowered himself down until he was hanging by his knees. Donny held his brother’s legs and I grabbed hold of Johnny’s pants pocket.
Johnny poked the cow hard. She looked up. He slapped her twice across the back, as hard as he could.
“She’s getting up,” Sue squeaked. “Be careful!”
Indeed the heifer was getting up. Standing, she was altogether too close to Johnny who was still hanging by his knees as we scrambled to pull him back up to the limb. But standing, the heifer was tall enough so Johnny could reach her with his stick and slap her. The rest of us took to screeching like a pack of demented squirrels and between the screeches and slaps, the heifer, looking bewildered and dismayed, moved a couple of steps away.
“Keep yelling,” Jane yelled. We did. “Keep hitting at her.” Johnny hit at the heifer really hard. The heifer started to lope away from the tree, toward the herd.
“Don’t make her run,” I panicked, remembering at the last moment Dad’s warnings. No one stopped yelling. The heifer ran.
We had not discussed what we’d do if the heifer moved, but we did not wait a second when we saw she was headed away from us. Johnny and Donny jumped down. Jane swung Sue down by one arm. As fast as we’d gone up the tree we all came down. Then we ran. And we never stopped yelling.
Moments later we dove under the bottom row of barbed wire, rolling to safety on the other side. Once in the cornfield, nerves trickled out in a stream of giggles as we recounted the race to escape the heifer. In bare seconds, the danger wasn’t danger at all.
“Come on,” Johnny said, “Let’s go tell Uncle Harvey.” He raced off toward the house with the rest of us keeping up as best we could. On the safe side of the fence, the entire experience became a great adventure.
In time, this heifer joined the milking herd as Number Six. No ‘Bessie’ or ‘Crissie’ on our farm. The cows were a business. And Number Six taught us some valuable life lessons.
Lessons like: “A
ssess the risk and then take action.” You can’t stay up a tree all day. Or maybe you can.
Or: “Consider the consequences of your actions.” If you make friends with an 80–pound calf, it’s helpful to have the wherewithal to deal with the 1,200–pound cow.
At the very least, a practical, self-defense lesson like: “Run fast or carry a big stick.” From that day on, we kids made sure Butch was with us when we went to the pasture.
Since the whole farm was our playground, it would never have occurred to us to stay out of a field because Number Six was in it. While we may have asked ourselves why Dad didn’t get rid of Number Six, we never brought it up to him. After all, we knew where our milk check—and our most exciting games—came from.
The County Fair & the Teddy Bear
Jackson County Fair—July 23–27—The sign hung on the fence at the southeast corner of the fairgrounds. It wasn’t a big sign but when it had gone up at the beginning of the summer just as it did every year, I saw it at once. And now, every time we came into Maquoketa to get groceries or books from the library, I read the sign and when I did, butterflies flittered around in my stomach.
I sat up tall and craned my neck as we passed the fairgrounds, searching for any sign of trucks bringing in the midway rides. Nothing. Thoughts of the Fair and my secret plan were so exciting I could barely sit still. Crouching on my knees, I was dangerously close to sticking my head out the window, a real no-no.
“Sit down and keep your head inside,” Mom ordered for the thousandth time. “There won’t be anybody there for another two weeks.”
Sometimes it was as though she could read my mind, I thought as I flopped down on the seat and dangled my arm out the window, letting my hand float on the wind current. I fiddled with the window vent until it directed the hot July air straight on my face. My hair flipped on the breeze and strands flew into my eyes and mouth.
“What days are we going to the fair, Mom?” I asked, just the same as I asked every time we came to town. Ready to put my plan into action, I knew the fair could not come soon enough. “Can we come every day?”
“Oh, honey, we won’t be here every day but we’ll come in a few times.” Mom breathed an exasperated sigh. We had asked and she had told us this, as well, just under a thousand times.
“I’m going to win the pony this year,” Sue shouted from the back seat.
“No, I am,” I countered, without even looking back.
“Are not. I am!”
“Uh-uh.”
Sue and I batted retorts at each other like a game of badminton. Playing along disguised the fact that this year I didn’t care nearly so much about the pony. I had a bigger plan for winning, one I could control.
Winning the Shetland pony given away at the fair every year had been my fondest desire. We could enter as many times as we wanted, and Sue and Jane and I filled out slip after slip, folding each one in a tangle of origami-like folds before depositing it in the barrel by the grandstand, as though the elaborate folds would attract the hand of the person who did the drawing.
In all the years I dreamed of having a pony of my own, it never once occurred to me to tell Dad I’d buy one with my own money. Dad farmed with horses when he first came on the farm. I vaguely remembered those horses though they were gone by the time I was four years old and it’s possible I remember the horses only because Mom took pictures. From time to time, I begged openly for a horse and Dad—who bought a tractor as soon as he could afford one—never hesitated to share his position on horses.
“Squirt,” he’d say, “A horse is good for nothing. When you have a horse, here’s what happens. At the beginning of winter, you have a barn full of hay and a horse. When spring rolls around, you have a horse and a pile of shit. No hay.”
So my annual quest for a horse began and ended with the possibility of winning a pony at the fair. I realized that with the pony, my fate was entirely in someone else’s hands. To win, to be sure I would win, I needed to employ my own skill.
This year I had my eye on winning something else—a teddy bear on the midway. I crossed my legs Indian-style, threading my fingers in and out between my toes, in a vain effort to sit still. Barely able to contain my excitement, I turned toward the window so Mom wouldn’t read the secret on my face. No one knew about this secret. No one.
“I am too going to win,” Sue blurted again, hanging over the back of the seat and punching me in the arm.
“Cut it out!” I slapped at Sue’s hand.
“That’s enough,” Mom ended our squabble. “I’ll drop you off at the library while I get groceries. Pick out some books and I’ll be back in a half-hour.”
“Okay, Mom. We’ll be waiting,” I called over my shoulder as Sue and I jumped out of the car and ran up the steps to the library. We skidded to a stop as soon as we got to the heavy doors opening to the library’s cool marble floors and huge oak checkout desk. Our chatter turned off like a spigot when we moved reverently between the stacks of books. The dry, dusty book smell surrounded me like a welcoming blanket.
I wandered through the bookshelves, trailing my fingers along the leather spines, and finally sat cross-legged on the floor next to the Zane Grey section. I pulled Riders of the Purple Sage off the shelf, opened it on my lap and idly turned the pages. The words blurred in front of my eyes; my mind was on the fair. In fact, my mind had been on the fair all summer.
I looked forward to everything about the fair. The grandstand shows where one year Gene Autry picked ME out of the crowd and had ME stand by him on the stage. His horse Champion nibbled on my cheek and everyone laughed. I would never forget that. Sitting with Dad on a stool at one of the concession stands under the grandstand, having a hamburger. The Methodist Church had the best food overall, but the American Legion men grilled the best hamburgers. I could already smell the fried grease and my stomach growled thinking about it. I glanced up to see if the librarian had noticed. She hadn’t looked up and I returned to leafing through the western.
At the fair, we wandered through the cattle barns, watching with thinly disguised envy as the kids in FFA and boys’ 4-H clubs got their steers and sheep and pigs and horses ready to show. We wanted to show animals, but Dad was against it. No matter what we said, we never convinced him. Jane and Sue and I were members of a girls’ 4-H club and our fair entries ran through a cycle of sewing, gardening, cooking and home furnishing projects. We waited impatiently to see if our work earned a blue ribbon or red. I didn’t even want to think about getting a third-place white ribbon.
Every year during the fair, we scouted out the commercial vendor exhibits, snatching up all the free stuff—pencils and key chains and yardsticks—until we had a treasure bag of valuable booty. At one end of the vendor building was one of the magical wonders of the fair—a giant faucet that floated in the air, unconnected to any pipe or wire, yet pouring a heavy stream of water into a barrel below. Even after I was old enough to understand how it worked, I stood transfixed at the Culligan exhibit each year, straining to see the plastic tube. I never could.
I leaned back against the stack of books and sighed. It was magic. It was glorious. It was The Fair.
Above all else, though, the midway was the big attraction. The midway was loud and bright, dangerous and romantic. Thrill rides: the roller coaster, the Octopus, the Tilt-a-Whirl. Even the Teacup ride taken to extreme could be too much. Sue learned that one year after she rode it time and again and wound up barfing up the hot dog she’d just eaten.
And the Ferris Wheel always stopped at the top at least once during the ride. From there you could see all over town and out into the country. As the seat swung back and forth, my knees turned to water and I clutched the bar that held us in the bucket. I thought soaring so high in the air must be like flying in the airplanes I watched leave white trails in the sky over our farm.
The house of mirrors. The freak show with midgets and tattooed women and Jo-Jo the Dog Faced Boy, and the barker encouraging all the men to come in and see the dancing
girls.
The games where, for just one quarter, you could win a giant teddy bear. For just one quarter!
I watched these games every year. I saw teenaged boys win stuffed animals for their girlfriends. I saw kids littler than me win funny hats and goldfish in bowls and Hawaiian leis. This year when the fair came to Maquoketa, I would win my very own teddy bear. I had been planning it for months. The idea planted itself in my head in the spring, and throughout the summer it had been growing and growing until now I could hardly go a day without imagining how I would accomplish this incredible feat.
I’d watched those games enough to know that you really didn’t win a teddy bear with just one quarter unless you were really, really, really lucky. Plus I wanted to go on rides and eat cotton candy and caramel apples and hot dogs. So I knew I had to save my money.
And I did. All summer. I saved my allowance and any money I earned picking potato bugs off the potato plants or giving Dad a ride to the barn in the red coaster wagon or from any other scheme we concocted to earn a little extra money. Each week I emptied out my piggybank on my bed, sorted the coins into neat little piles and counted it up. I’d done it again last night and with the fair just a couple of weeks away, I had amassed a fortune. I had $7.75. By the time the fair came to town, I would have Eight Whole Dollars!
I could hardly wait. I did not share my plan with anyone. I had made my decision on my own. I saved my money on my own. And I was going to win a teddy bear. On my own.
“Come on. Let’s go,” Sue nudged me with her toe. I looked up, surprised to see her standing with a load of books in her arms. “Mom’s outside.”
Scrambling to my feet, I grabbed a few more Zane Grey books off the shelf and ran to check them out. Maybe reading would make the days until the fair go faster.
No luck. The days crawled by with all the speed of the box turtle I’d found one day by the creek. But eventually, the fair did arrive and sure enough, I found myself walking through the livestock barns and picking up the free stuff in the vendor building and registering for the Shetland pony just because that was what I always did.
Growing Up Country: Memories of an Iowa Farm Girl Page 9