The Beef Princess of Practical County

by Michelle Houts

  Granddad would say, “Yup, they just don't make 'em like this anymore.”

  He was right. If it looked big from the outside, the barn was enormous on the inside. The huge, rounded roof arched what seemed like a mile overhead. The two mows, one for straw and one for hay, were nearly full this time of year, giving the place a fresh smell strong enough to overpower the damp manure from the stalls below.

  Piggy ran to the gate to greet me.

  “Hi there, fella,” I cooed to him as I scratched behind both his ears. He lifted his head and extended his long tongue to grab hold of my coat sleeve. He had grown already and was starting to lose his fuzzy baby coat.

  “You hungry again?”

  The second calf stayed at the far end of the pen. He never took his eyes off me as I walked around the barn, sweeping the floor and pumping fresh water from the hydrant. He never flinched, even as I talked to him.

  “We've got to come up with a name for you, fella. We can't just call you ‘the other calf’ forever, you know.”

  I threw one leg over the gate and my boot squished into the brown mixture of manure and straw. Piggy nuzzled my hand and licked my palm, hoping, I was sure, to find it filled with grain.

  “Sorry, Pig.” I scratched his forehead and gently moved him aside. “I need to have a chat with this guy over here.”

  To my complete amazement, the other calf didn't startle or try to escape my presence as I approached. In fact, he stood perfectly still, allowing me to run my hands along his back and rub behind his ears.

  “There now,” I told him. “You're not unfriendly at all. You're just shy, aren't you, little guy?”

  Testing my luck, I reached for the rope halter hanging on a nail over the feed bunk. Slowly, carefully, I turned with the slightest of movements, fearing I'd spook him if I moved too fast. I kept one hand running evenly along his shoulder and back while I carefully slipped his nose into the halter. The calf turned his head from one side to the other but didn't move his feet at all.

  “Now we're getting somewhere.” I smiled at him as the halter slid easily over his ears and into position.

  The calf turned his shiny black head toward me as I spoke. That was when I noticed his deep blue eyes. They were so blue, I had to look twice. He blinked his long, wispy lashes, again revealing the dark blue summer-night color of his eyes.

  For a moment, I was sorry for misjudging him. For an instant my heart went out to this sweet, gentle animal standing so calmly before me.

  But only for an instant.

  When I gently pulled on the rope halter to move for-ward, the calf did not budge.

  “Come on,” I coaxed. “Come on.”

  I tugged lightly.

  “Come on, sweetie.” I pulled a little harder.

  Nothing. I tugged at the halter and nudged his shoulder with mine.

  “Let's go,” I said, a little more loudly.

  Still not a step. It was as if his feet were glued to the straw.

  “All right,” I nearly shouted. “Come on!”

  I yanked. Hard. By now the animal was moving. Backward. He stretched his neck against the pull of the halter, and without a moment's notice, he jerked his head. I was caught off guard. The rope slid from my fingers and I landed on my butt in the slick straw. As the wet manure seeped up and soaked my jeans, the calf turned his head again to one side and blinked an innocent blue eye.

  “You,” I sputtered. “You are as stubborn as a mule.”

  From the straw mow far above came a familiar giggle.

  “Mule! Hey, Muley-Muley-Mule! Let's call him Mule!”

  I closed my eyes as my elbows sank deeper into the mucky straw. How did that child always manage to be every-where all the time?

  As September fell away into October, Dad's usual preoccupation with work turned to obsession with the harried task of harvest. It'd be harder on both Dad and Granddad this year with Ronnie out of the daily picture. He'd been a big help during high school, and like most farm boys, he had been allowed to take two or three days off school when harvest time was at its busiest.

  The soybeans ripened first, changing almost overnight from huge green bushes to skinny dry stalks loaded with fuzzy brown pods ready to burst at the seams. The corn quickly followed, providing truckloads of hard yellow kernels to fill the grain bins and more work than there were days in November.

  Dad's modern machinery, like the enormous John Deere combine, made harvest easier, faster, and safer than it had been in Granddad's day. But the technology that made farming more efficient had also changed the face of the family farm. I'd heard it discussed over and over again on Friday afternoons at Cuthbert's Hardware.

  Nowhere was one of the few towns that still had an old-fashioned hardware store, complete with a long counter and a row of wooden stools that tended to attract the farmers on rainy days or even sunny ones in the wintertime. Carol Ann's father owned it, and it had been in his family for generations. When Carol Ann and I were little, we used to wander behind the counter and open the hundreds of little wooden drawers full of nuts and bolts and screws. The hardware store always smelled exactly the same. A combination of old wood, new tools, leather, and aftershave. The smell never changed, and neither did the conversation.

  “The only way to do it is to do it big,” Mr. Parker, the retired high school vocational agriculture teacher, would say, and others would always agree.

  “Yep, there just ain't no way the little guy can make a living farming.” Mr. Cuthbert would nod.

  “Some guys gotta take factory jobs to support their hobby!”

  This comment from old Grove Everett brought a chuckle from Dad and the others.

  But fall meant that the only folks hanging around at Cuthbert's Hardware were the old-timers, too old to do the work but still sharp enough to talk about how the next generation ought to be doing it. Granddad hadn't reached that point quite yet. Ronnie's absence meant that he was back behind the wheel of a tractor, a duty that prompted him to suddenly behave as if he were half his age, whooping and hollering as he drove by, honking the horn just to see if it still worked. It would be Thanksgiving before Ronnie would make the trip home from Purdue, and by then, weather permitting, all the crops would be in.

  I wanted to do my part, so I told Dad I would take care of barn chores by myself before and after school. Early in the fall, when the school bus dropped me off at the end of the lane, I would find Frannie and her grandchildren waiting on the front porch. She begged to help, so I gave her, or should I say them, the job of feeding the numerous barn cats. In the mudroom we kept a collection of holey jeans, old sweatshirts, and anything else that we wouldn't want to be seen in at school. These were dubbed “barn clothes,” and that was where Frannie and I would change before going out to tackle the evening chores together.

  Frannie was fascinated with the barn cats. To me, they were ever-present mouse chasers, all looking pretty much the same, rather nondescript black and gray tiger cats. But to Frannie, each was unique, and each deserved a special name.

  In September she named them all after food. There was Pickle, and Lemonade, and Sugar, and Ice Cream. She named one Macaroni and another Cheese, and she tried to make them stand together at all times. That resulted in at least one scratch.

  But by mid-October it had turned rainy, and Frannie made fewer trips to the barn with me.

  “Eugene and Esmerelda Emily aren't feeling well,” she explained as I pulled an old gray sweatshirt over my head one day after school. “They should not be out in this mis-er-ble weather, so I think I will stay inside to take care of them.”

  How convenient, I thought.

  The wet ground conditions kept Dad and Granddad out of the field and chomping at the bit for more than two weeks. The bad weather was delaying harvest.

  Mom cooked extra-nice meals those weeks. Comfort food, she called it, knowing Dad was worried about the crops. The lines on his face grew deeper with each soggy day that passed. Granddad, on the other hand, remained light-hearted.


  “I've seen wet Octobers before,” he said. “Just be glad it ain't snow! I've seen that before, too!”

  In northern Indiana, snow in October wasn't impossible.

  By the end of the month, the rain did stop, and though it was chilly, the afternoon sun dried out the fields enough that harvest could resume. It meant the farmers would have to go at full speed to get finished.

  Mule and Piggy knew just when to expect me each morning and night. Even Mule ambled over to the feed bunk to greet me when I slid the barn doors open one Friday evening. Alone in the barn, I spoke to them freely.

  “Hi, guys. How's it going today?”

  I talked to them while I mixed their feed, telling them the news of the day.

  “Mom has two new listings on houses in Nowhere,” I told Piggy, who listened intently, or maybe he was just waiting for me to pour the grain into the feed bunk. He watched me closely as I explained how Dad and Granddad would be working at breakneck speed to bring in the last of the corn over the weekend.

  “And listen to this,” I told both steers, who now stood with heads between the gates, eyeing the bucket in my hand. “Carol Ann and I have just been made partners for our science project, and you don't even know what a huge relief that is, because, besides Carol Ann and me, there were only Karen Elliott and Ohma Darling left for Mr. Collins to pair up. Boy, when he said my name, I held my breath and didn't let it out until he said Carol Ann's. Poor Karen. I'm sure Ohma is going to be nearly impossible to work with.”

  Always hungry, Piggy paced restlessly while I chatted. Eventually, he nuzzled up to me while I talked, his square black nose soft and wet. He put his head under my arm, waving his furry ear in my face.

  “Aw, Pig, I love you, too,” I told him. His fuzzy warmth made him so cuddly, and his impatience to be fed was endearing.

  Mule, on the other hand, stood still. Was he listening? Maybe, I decided, but it was unlikely. He seemed way too self-absorbed to care about my day.

  When I tipped the grain bucket so its contents spilled out into the feed bunk, both animals started eating like they hadn't seen grain for days.

  “Liiiiibbyyyy!”

  Frannie's voice sang out from the barnyard. Had she changed her mind about coming out to do chores? I walked to the barn doors.

  Frannie was alone, or at least without visible company. She was grinning her I-know-something-you-don't grin.

  “Guess who's here?” She beamed.

  I looked around, seeing no one.

  “I don't know, Frannie. Eugene?”

  Frannie shook her head. “Nope. Someone bigger.”

  “Granddad?”

  “Nope,” came the giggled reply.

  “Frannie, really, is it someone invisible? Because …”

  I stopped as the side door to the house opened and out stepped Ronnie, sliding his arms into a flannel jacket while he crunched a Golden Delicious apple he'd no doubt snatched from the kitchen counter.

  “Ronnie!”

  I ran across the gravel barnyard and threw myself right into his arms. The apple core flew straight up in the air, landing in the yard by his feet.

  “Whoa, there, Libby! What a welcome! Good thing I was done with that apple.”

  His hearty laugh sounded more like Granddad's than I had ever noticed before, and I was sure he was taller than he had been in August.

  It had only been two months since we'd taken Ronnie and half of his belongings to a tiny dorm room at Purdue, but it felt like two years. I'd wondered then how a farm boy like Ronnie, so used to the wide-open spaces of Ryansmeade, would survive dormitory life. And here he was back home long before the end of the semester.

  “Wait a minute. What are you doing here?” I asked, suddenly worried that he'd changed his mind about college. “Did you …”

  The broad smile never left his face.

  “No, Libby, I didn't quit school. I knew Dad and Granddad were way behind schedule with harvest. A guy from the third floor was going home to Wabash for the weekend. He offered me a ride, and here I am. Dad says we'll get all the corn in now for sure.”

  I was relieved that Ronnie was okay with school. Going to Purdue had been a dream of Ronnie's since he was my age. But now, I had so much to tell him. And show him.

  “You have to see Mule and Piggy. Do you have time? Real quick, before Granddad gets back with the next load of corn?”

  “Sure, Lib, let's see these prize calves.”

  I pulled him with me into the barn, and Frannie followed, staring up at her big brother, quieter than she'd been in ages.

  As Ronnie looked the calves over, I explained to him about how Piggy had pretty much picked me that morning at Granddad's pasture. I told him how Piggy had sucked and slobbered on my fingers and then had earned his name and lived up to it ever since. When I tried to introduce Mule, he turned his head away and ignored Ronnie.

  “That one,” I told him, “that one is stubborn, and I don't know what I'm going to do with him.”

  Ronnie surveyed Mule while Piggy nuzzled his jacket pockets for grain.

  “Well, I don't know, Lib. They both look like show calves to me. I'd have a tough time deciding which one to take to the Practical County Fair.”

  “Oh,” I said confidently, “I know who's going and who's staying.”

  Ronnie laughed.

  “Don't be too quick to decide. A lot can happen over a winter. And you need to take the best one. You know I never got Champion. So if Ryansmeade is ever going to get it, it'll be up to you, Lib.”

  Thanks for the reminder, big brother, I thought.

  “There's a lot of competition in Practical County,” I reminded him. “Maybe more than you had in the past.”

  Ronnie gave me the oh-really raised-eyebrow look, and I told him about the Darling sisters’ unusual September visit.

  “It was so strange, Ronnie. Precious, Lil, and Ohma never showed much interest in their own cattle. Why are they suddenly interested in mine?”

  “Maybe they think they've got a winner this year,” Ronnie suggested, his voice serious until a playful smile spread across his face.

  We both burst into laughter, knowing that in all the years Ronnie had shown cattle against them, nothing had come out of Darling Farms worth turning a judge's head even for a second.

  A rumble in the barnyard told us that Granddad was back with a hopper wagon of corn to unload, and Ronnie hurried to take his place behind the wheel of the tractor. Just before he left the barn, he turned.

  “Nice calves, Lib.”

  His words brought a smile to my face that stayed while I finished up the chores. Even if Dad hadn't noticed that I was capable of filling Ronnie's big shoes, Ronnie had. It was a new feeling I had, this full and happy feeling, one that I later recognized as pride. I'd been proud before. Of myself. Like when I pulled off a B+ on the toughest science test ever given. But this was different. I was proud of Piggy. I was proud like I'd been of Frannie when she started saying her first words. (Of course, that was a long time ago and given the fact that she hadn't stopped talking since, I'd pretty much forgotten how excited we all were when she'd first started.)

  But Piggy hadn't done anything. Nothing spectacular or out of the ordinary, I mean. At least not yet. He ate, he slept, he piled up manure for me to scoop out of his pen. Not much to be proud of there, right? Even so, I was proud of him in a way I couldn't explain.

  There are some Ryan family traditions that are so certain you can count on them like you can count on the leaves to fall from the trees in autumn. No matter what. Like filling the fourth pew on the right-hand side at Nowhere Community Church each Sunday morning. Like opening Christmas presents in alphabetical order. And spending Thanksgiving Thursday at the soup kitchen in Indianapolis.

  It began before Frannie was born. Mom, who started the food pantry in Nowhere, got a group of local folks together to help at an Indianapolis soup kitchen on Thanksgiving Day. Now several families from Practical County could be found working there each ye
ar. Mom always said, “There's no better way to be thankful than to spend the day serving those who have less to be thankful for.”

  I was about six years old the first time I made the Thanksgiving drive to the city with Mom, Dad, and Ronnie. All I really remember about that first trip was the people. There were so many. More people than at church on Sunday morning. More people than I'd seen at the Practical County Fair. The city and the soup kitchen were filled with the kinds of people you just don't see in Practical County. Some were alone, and some in large families. Some wore clothes my mother would have said were too old or torn even for the barn. And some, I remember from that first year, when I hid behind Mom's legs, talked loudly to no one at all, and I was scared. I watched them go through the line and I whispered, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  So, every year, while most of the rest of Nowhere sat down to a traditional Thanksgiving dinner, the Ryan clan headed south on I-69 and into Indianapolis. This year I had asked Carol Ann to join us for what always promised to be a memorable adventure. Who could have known how very unforgettable this year's trip would be?

  We left the farm before daylight, so I had to do the morning feeding in the dark. Mule and Piggy, both bedded down in the warm straw, turned to see who was intruding as I switched on the dim yellow barn light. Neither calf budged as they watched me pour grain into the feed bunk and scatter hay over the top. It was too early for even Piggy's voracious appetite.

  “Have a good day, boys!” I told them as I turned off the light.

  Most of the ride to the city was quiet, with Frannie dozing the entire way. By the time we pulled into the soup kitchen parking lot, the sun was already shining and people were beginning to form a line along the sidewalk and around the corner of the building. It was a chilly morning, and though Indiana had yet to see the first flake, a light dusting of snow was expected by Friday.

  The soup kitchen was actually an old school that had been converted into a homeless shelter. The cafeteria was used to feed the people who stopped by daily. But to make room for the Thanksgiving crowd, the gymnasium was used. Long rows of tables were covered in white plastic with fake leaves in red, yellow, and orange scattered down the center. A miniature pumpkin with a Magic Marker face sat in the middle of each table. It was just festive enough that a person could overlook that the white walls were cracked and peeling and the ceiling tiles were water stained.