The Beef Princess of Practical County

by Michelle Houts

“Mom, what do you want me to do now?” I asked as the men reappeared, washed up and looking like they hadn't eaten in days.

  “You can put the ice in the glasses. I'm going to ask your granddad to slice the roast, and then we'll eat.”

  It was Granddad's job to carve the roast, which he always did at the table with the expertise of a great chef.

  The ice cubes clinked as I used the special silver tongs to drop them carefully in the crystal goblets to the right of each place setting.

  “Don't forget ice for the grandchildren.”

  Frannie beamed a toothy smile.

  “Frannie …”

  I started to protest. Why waste ice cubes on glasses that no one would drink from? Pick your battles, Lib. That was what Mom always said, anyway. I decided a little frozen water wasn't worth a meltdown.

  Frannie walked over to the little table and set down a name card that read EZMRDA EMLEE in green and red crayon.

  “How many cubes would Ezmrda Emlee prefer?” I asked.

  “Two, please. And three for Eugene. He likes his water very cold.”

  Clink. The grandchildren got their ice cubes.

  At the table, we joined hands, and Dad thanked God for all the blessings our family enjoyed each day. With a hearty “Amen!” Ronnie was ready to dig in, but first, Granddad had to do his magic with the roast beef. And what a roast it was. While some families might slice up a holiday ham, we observed a long-standing tradition of enjoying the fruit of Ryansmeade, beef for Christmas dinner. Having slow-cooked all day, the juicy, rich brown meat now sat steaming on Mom's enormous white platter with the holly berry de-sign around the edges.

  Granddad stood solemnly at the head of the table and clinked his knives together with great ceremony. Frannie giggled. By the time Granddad had the platter piled with moist slices of beef, we were all laughing. He took a bow, and Ronnie said, “Let's eat!”

  The dinner conversation ranged from Purdue talk to Nowhere news and everything in between. Granddad and Dad were both proud Purdue grads, so between them there were a lot of Boilermaker stories to recall.

  Frannie just kept asking, “What's a Boilermaker?”

  Sometime after passing the sweet potatoes and the beef and noodles, Ronnie asked how my calves were doing.

  “You can see for yourself after dinner,” I told him.

  “They eating well?” Ronnie asked, heaping more mashed potatoes onto his plate.

  “ 'Bout as good as you, Ronald,” Granddad quipped, and everyone laughed.

  “Yes, they are eating fine,” Dad spoke up. “But I'd really like your opinion, Ronnie. Maybe we should adjust the feed some.”

  “Sure, I'll take a look.”

  I felt my face flush and I couldn't help but feel a little bit of resentment that Dad was still consulting Ronnie. These were my calves. This was my project. Why didn't he discuss feed with me?

  “So, who's your biggest competition this year?” Ronnie asked. “The Evans kids got any good animals?”

  Jack Evans's steer had won second place last year, taking home Reserve Champion. Jack would graduate from Nowhere High next June, and I knew he'd be trying harder than ever before for Grand.

  “That Joseph boy has some mighty nice-looking cattle every year,” Granddad offered, referring to Josh Joseph, a high schooler whose family raised Shorthorns.

  “I don't know,” I told him. “I haven't seen anyone else's calves yet.”

  “Those Darling girls seem to think they've got a chance this time around,” Dad added. “Boy, wouldn't that make old Jim Darling proud?”

  It'd make any dad proud. He didn't say it aloud, but I was sure that was what he was thinking. Suddenly, bringing home Grand Champion meant more than just honoring Ryansmeade. I wanted to make Dad proud, maybe even prouder of me than he'd ever been of Ronnie.

  As far as the talk about the Darlings being competitive in the beef arena, the only competitions they had ever won were stupid beauty pageants. Still, I found even the possibility of Precious and her sisters winning the steer show quite unsettling.

  The chatter continued through the pecan and sugar cream pies. Mom poured coffee into china cups with delicate handles and little saucers to match. Frannie and the grandchildren excused themselves from the table to play with Frannie's dollhouse.

  Finally, Ronnie said, “Lib, what do you say we go out to the barn and take a look at those future champions?”

  “Champion,” Dad corrected. “Don't forget, Libby can only take one to the Practical County Fair.”

  I watched Dad try to place his great big thumb through the tiny handle on his coffee cup. He managed to get the dainty little cup to his mouth and then swallowed the coffee in one sip. He'd be glad to get his favorite John Deere mug back in the morning.

  “Okay, Champion,” Ronnie agreed, and we got our coats. Outside, the frosty air hit my face, a sharp contrast to the warm indoors. It felt good, refreshing. The day was turning to night, and it was going to be a clear one with stars by the millions dotting the black sky. Fourteen and a half miles from Nowhere, the stars had no lights to compete with. No streetlights, no traffic lights, no lights at all. It had snowed late last week, leaving a nice five-inch blanket of white on everything. The temperatures stayed below freezing, and for once we had known days ahead that we would have a white Christmas.

  Our boots crunched in the snow-covered gravel as we crossed the barnyard to the barn. Piggy and Mule were comfortable in the straw, but even inside it was cold. I could see their breath appear in puffs of steam as they huffed and stood to greet us.

  Piggy nearly bolted to the gate, snuffling around first in my palm and then in Ronnie's in search of a holiday treat.

  “I don't have anything to give you,” Ronnie told him. Unconvinced, Piggy kept butting Ronnie's arm to lift it so that he could continue to search Ronnie's pockets for something to eat.

  Ronnie laughed.

  “Is this guy always so hungry?”

  “You bet he is. That's why I call him Piggy.”

  I got into the pen and had to use my shoulder to nudge the persistent Piggy away from Ronnie's empty hands.

  “Do you really think it's a good idea to name your calves, Lib?”

  Ronnie's face was serious. He sounded just like Dad. Immediately, I was defensive.

  “Of course it's a good idea. Every calf needs a name.”

  “My fair animals never had names,” Ronnie reminded me. He suddenly sounded so grown-up, so parental.

  “Well, that's because you didn't get very attached to your fair calves,” I told him, scratching Piggy just behind his left ear. As soon as I said it, I knew it was the wrong thing.

  “Exactly my point, Libby. How are you going to part with calves you've grown to care about so much?”

  I couldn't say I hadn't considered it, because the thought of letting go of Piggy had crossed my mind several times before. But I had been able to dismiss it with the knowledge that I had seen many a steer come and go from Ryansmeade. I had watched while Dad and Granddad loaded the livestock trailer with cattle to take to market. It hadn't particularly bothered me then, so why should it bother me now?

  “It's no big deal, Ronnie.”

  I tried to sound convincing even as Piggy playfully wrapped his long, rough tongue around my hand, just as he had done in the pasture on the day I picked him out.

  Mule, who had kept his distance and was standing in the far corner of the pen, let out a long, low bellow as if to say I was wrong.

  Ronnie and I both looked at Mule, who slowly turned his back to us. It seemed that was all anyone had to say about the subject of selling steers.

  “What are your plans to control bovine spongiform encephalopathy?”

  “What?”

  “BSE.”

  “Huh?” I gave Carol Ann my speak-English-to-me-please look. It was a look I had perfected since becoming best friends with a brain.

  “BSE. You know, mad cow disease,” she whispered.

  She stopped brushing M
ule and stepped back as if just saying the words mad and cow aloud in the same sentence might contaminate the whole farm.

  “It's an insidious disease, you know. It has the potential to bring down the entire American beef industry.”

  She was serious. Actually, serious was usually an under-statement when describing Carol Ann.

  “Get real,” I told her. “That whole mad cow thing is really overblown.”

  “That's what you think, but one case of bovine spongiform encephalopathy here in Nowhere, and life as you know it would be over.”

  What a ray of sunshine Carol Ann turned out to be on that January day. Winter had arrived in Practical County with an arctic blast, bringing frequent snow showers that ac-cumulated a couple of inches at a time, but not enough to do what all of us at Nowhere Middle School hoped: close school.

  With winter darkness settling in by late afternoon, that left only Saturdays for spending time with the calves. And Carol Ann had spent several with me, in the toasty barn, brushing Mule and Piggy.

  On this particular occasion, Carol Ann was wearing her favorite going-to-Ryansmeade bib overalls. Okay, they were her only pair of bib overalls. I continually told her she didn't have to wear them when she came to help me with the calves, because I knew very few farmers under the age of eighty who actually wore bib overalls. But Carol Ann wore them whenever she came so that she wouldn't look like a town kid, she said.

  I wore my favorite barn clothes: holey blue jeans and a hideous pink sweatshirt with three goofy lambs embroidered on the front, a gift from my great-aunt in Ohio. It was a heavy one, so I wore it out to the barn often. And that way, when my great-aunt phoned to ask if I was wearing the shirtshe made me, I could say, “All the time,” and I wouldn't be lying.

  “I'll ask Dad about bovine sponge-whatever whatever-whatever,” I assured Carol Ann.

  “Promise?”

  “Of course I promise.”

  I certainly wouldn't want to be responsible for the fall of anyone's hamburger empire. Carol Ann must have decided that, at least for the moment, Ryansmeade was safe from devastating diseases, because she went back to work on Mule's tail with the metal comb. He never moved a muscle while she tugged the tangles out of the long, wavy hair.

  Piggy, on the other hand, wiggled and stretched his neck, trying his best to reach what little corn might remain in the feed bunk. Finding nothing, he attempted to nibble on the brush I was using. That calf was always hungry!

  It was amazing how the calves had grown. Dad said he thought Mule was well over four hundred pounds and Piggy at least five hundred. They'd lost their bony baby look and each one now stood strong and sturdy. There had been a time not too many years earlier when I would have been afraid of such a big animal. I remembered being Frannie's size and going out to see the cattle on pasture with Dad and Granddad. They seemed as big as elephants. But now, with the constant attention these steers were getting, I knew I was raising two gentle giants. By the time the fair came around next summer, each of them would tip the scales at more than thirteen hundred pounds.

  “Ready to go?”

  Dad came in with rope halters, one in each hand, a white cloud of breath hanging in the air in front of him. The thought of stepping out into the cold made me shiver. But it was a perfect winter Saturday; the sun on the snow, and the crisp, clean air made it as pretty a day as you can get in the middle of winter.

  Dad started to put Mule's halter on, but I told him, “I'll do it.”

  He stopped.

  “You know how?” He seemed surprised.

  “Yes, Dad, I know how.”

  Mule stood motionless as I slid the halter over his fuzzy ears and tightened it around his wide black nose.

  “Not bad.” Dad nodded.

  “Now Piggy's, please,” I said, hand out for the second halter.

  Piggy wiggled a little and twitched his furry head until I had the halter in place.

  “Ready, Dad.”

  Dad pushed open the huge barn doors.

  “Ready, Mr. Ryan,” Carol Ann replied, her voice noticeably less convincing than her words.

  I hoped she still wasn't thinking about mad cow disease. I soon found out it was cantankerous cattle, not contaminated hamburger on her mind.

  “What if he jumps? Or runs? Or gets away from me?” She pounded me with questions as we headed out the double doors with the calves.

  I laughed out loud.

  “That's Mule you have there.”

  “So?”

  “You'll see.”

  No sooner had the words left my mouth and Mule's feet hit the barnyard than the calf locked his legs. He nearly left skid marks in the snow-covered gravel.

  Piggy and I continued forward, Piggy ambling alongside me with a steady, cooperative gait. What a good guy Piggy was. I beamed with pride at how he had learned so quickly to be led.

  Behind me I could hear Carol Ann.

  “Come on, Muley,” she coaxed.

  “It won't work,” I called over my shoulder.

  Carol Ann Cuthbert was not one to give up easily.

  “Come on, little sweetheart.”

  She cooed in his ear while tugging gently on his halter.

  “You gotta yank!” I yelled.

  “I don't want to hurt him!”

  I laughed.

  “Do you want to move?”

  “Yes! I'm freezing!”

  “Then pull!”

  She tucked her smooth brown hair behind her ears, a sign she meant business.

  She pulled. Nothing happened.

  Just then Dad came out of the barn.

  “Here,” he said. He reached for Mule's tail and brought it forward, pulling, but not too hard. Then he gave Mule a firm slap on the hind end.

  Mule turned his head to see who had intervened on Carol Ann's behalf and took one reluctant step forward. One. Carol Ann moaned, Dad chuckled, and I took Piggy once more around the barnyard while Carol Ann and Mule stood, going nowhere.

  “Here, take Piggy,” I ordered, handing Carol Ann his rope. She looked defeated.

  “Tell me again why we're doing this,” Carol Ann said, exasperated.

  “Because,” I explained, “fair calves have to be trained to walk and stand still on your command. The judge will never be able to get a good look at them if they don't stay still.”

  “Yeah, well, Mule over there seems to get the standing-still part just fine. But when it comes to walking, that animal is obstinate!”

  She was right. Dad and I spent the next half hour pushing and pulling an uncooperative Mule once around the barnyard. He planted his enormous hooves firmly in the snow when we tugged at his rope. I placed my back against his butt and pushed off the gate with my feet, and still, nothing. By the time we were done, we were exhausted, Mule was unhappy, and Carol Ann was feeling better.

  “That is one stubborn calf,” she remarked as we spread fresh straw in the pen to bed Mule and Piggy down for the night. Ten minutes later, with fresh water and a feed bunk full of ground corn in front of the calves, we headed for the house and two mugs of hot cocoa Mom had waiting.

  Dad and Mom joined us in the kitchen just as winter darkness set in.

  “How'd it go with the calves?” Mom asked as she set a plate of gingersnaps on the table.

  I looked at Carol Ann and we both laughed.

  “I have to admit,” Dad told Mom, “these girls are pretty good calf handlers.”

  It was the first compliment related to the steers Dad had ever given me. I smiled at Carol Ann.

  “You know,” Dad said, “another month or so and you'll have to decide which calf goes to the fair this summer.”

  To me it was a no-brainer. There had never been a steer more perfect than Piggy. He was a good eater, gaining weight right on schedule. I had fallen in love with his sweet, cooperative nature, and I had already played the scene out in my mind. Piggy and me in the show arena, his black-and-white coat shining under the lights as I shook the judge's hand and accepted the blue ribb
on. I just knew he would look and act great.

  “Well, I know which one I'd take!” Carol Ann chimed in. She never was one to keep her opinion to herself.

  “Don't be too quick to judge,” Dad cautioned. “That Mule is one handsome calf. Straight back. Stands real nice on those front legs. It's too soon to know, but he may turn out more heavily muscled than Piggy.”

  What Dad said next fell on my ears like a giant thud.

  “Yep, Mule might have the best shot at Champion.”

  I stared at Dad and for about half a second I considered what he was saying. Dad had seen enough steer shows to know what the judge would be looking for. And Dad seemed to see in Mule something that he didn't see in Piggy. It'd be unbelievable to come home with the top award my first year out. For one very short moment, I thought that Dad might have a point. Maybe Mule should be the one to go. Then I came back from fairy-tale land.

  “Yeah, right,” I said sarcastically. “The only way that stubborn calf will ever see the Practical County Fair is if he is served out of the Cattlemen's Club concession stand on a bun.”

  Everyone laughed.

  But I meant it.

  Friday-night pizza night was a tradition at our house. The best was cheeseburger pizza. Lots of hamburger, cheese, and onions piled on my favorite crust from Jung Chow's Pizza. Don't ask me how a pizza place in Nowhere got the name Jung Chow's. I guessed it was one of those little oddities that every small town has. Nowhere just happened to have a few more than most.

  Mom loved pizza night because she didn't have to cook. But she did have to drive. Jung Chow's didn't deliver, and even if they had, no one would have delivered fourteen and a half miles from town. The good thing was that when Mom picked up pizza, she picked up Carol Ann, too. So cheese-burger pizza night was also Carol Ann night at the Ryan's.

  * * *

  One Friday night early in March it was snowing like crazy when Mom was leaving to get the pizza. That was March in northern Indiana. Somewhere else it was almost spring. But in Practical County, it was snowing. Again.

  “Coming?” she asked. The car keys were clamped between her teeth as she rummaged through her purse.

  “Yeah,” I said just as she held up pizza coupons and spit out the keys. We climbed into Dad's four-wheel-drive pickup, which Mom liked to drive when there was snow, and backed out of the garage.