The Beef Princess of Practical County

by Michelle Houts

  Ouch. That was severe, even for Lil.

  “Oh, yeah, well, I wouldn't wear that stupid dress if I had to. It's ugly.”

  Just then they rounded the corner. Lil had on a short flowered skirt, a hot-pink tank top, and flip-flops with a giant daisy on her big toe. She looked fairly together, but she'd been taught well by her older sister. Ohma, who could never seem to pull off the same look as the other Darlings, was wearing a pair of neon yellow shorts and an old T-shirt. Her hair was in her face, which was red from yelling at Lil. Seeing me, they quickly stopped arguing. Lil flashed her famous smile. Ohma kept the trademark scowl.

  “Well, it's Libby Ryan!”

  “Hey, Lil. Hey, Ohma.”

  “I heard a rumor that you're going to enter the Beef Princess pageant at the fair this year.”

  “Yes, I am,” I said, holding my head high.

  “You realize, don't you, that this is a beauty pageant?” Lil questioned, her painted eyebrows arched high. She looked me up and down, and for a moment I wanted to disappear into the shelving. But I stood tall and shot right back at her.

  “Actually, it's a contest to find the best spokesperson for Practical County cattle producers. You should know that.”

  I was feeling pretty good about my comeback. Then Ohma blurted out a bald-faced lie.

  “Libby has been telling everyone she can beat you, Lil. I heard her say it.”

  “Ohma, that's not true,” I defended myself.

  Lil laughed coolly.

  “Maybe you could beat me. In your dreams!”

  Stick to the facts, Lib.

  “Oh, it's no big deal, really. I'm just entering for the fun of it.”

  I tried to sound casual, and I wondered if I was pulling it off. I'd nearly choked on the word fun.

  “No big deal?” Lil squealed loudly. “Yeah, right, Libby. The Beef Princess pageant is, like, the highlight of the Practical County Fair!”

  “Well, I'll see you there, then.” I smiled and ducked into the next aisle.

  I found a can of marinated artichokes for Mom and met up with her and Frannie near the checkout.

  As we loaded the back of the van with sacks of groceries, I thought about the encounter with Lil and Ohma. Lil certainly had the beauty-queen image, just like Precious. I was sure she had the wardrobe for it, too. And me, I had jeans, a ponytail, and no dress.

  It's really no big deal, I told myself. No big deal.

  With the fair growing ever closer, I began dwelling more and more on the fate of Mule. He had actually won me over, and I found that I was enjoying working with him.

  One warm summer night, after bedding down his pen with fresh straw, I watched him kick and run around. He wasn't a calf anymore. He had hit the thousand-pound mark a while ago, but watching him play in the fresh straw like a puppy made me laugh.

  Mule dug his nose deep into the slick, golden straw and lifted his head high, making straw fall everywhere. He kicked it around with his hooves and jumped forward. Then he ran from one side of the pen to the other, almost sliding into the barn wall as he came to a halt. His cheerful enthusiasm reminded me of Piggy. I missed him dreadfully.

  Mule skidded up to the gate, panting from his romp in the straw.

  “Come on, Muley,” I said, grabbing his halter. “I've got a real treat for you!”

  I led him out into the lot and tied him to the fence. Summertime heat in Indiana could be brutal, and we were on our sixth day of highs in the nineties. The heat was bad enough, but the humidity was even worse. Humans could escape to the air-conditioning, but animals had to find other ways to cool off.

  Pulling the hose into the lot, I turned on a gentle stream of water and let it run down Mule's back. He lifted his head high and twisted it as far as the rope would allow him so that he could see what was going on.

  “How is that?” I asked, as his hooves danced in apparent delight. I let the water run over his neck and under his chin, the only place on his muscular body that was fleshy and floppy. He stuck out his huge tongue to lick the water from the hose.

  “I'll be right back. Stay put,” I instructed, and then laughed at my own words. Of course he was going to stay put. One, he was tied, and two, he was Mule.

  I returned from the barn with a bottle of show soap, poured some in my hands, and then rubbed it into one of Mule's massive sides. He stood still, loving every minute of it. The lather turned him instantly from black to bubbly white as I washed away the barn smell, bits of straw, and dried manure. I soaped up his tail until it was so slippery I could no longer keep ahold of it when he swished it to one side or the other.

  As I rinsed the suds from his glistening body, his sloppy, soppy tail swung around and smacked me squarely on the shoulder.

  “Hey, you,” I called. “Quit that.”

  I moved to the other side. Whack. His tail came around to that side and hit me.

  “Mule!” I laughed.

  He was doing it on purpose. Time and time again, his tail found my arm, my shoulder, even my face. He was enjoying this little game, and I couldn't stop laughing.

  Mule gave me the most innocent blue-eyed stare when it was all over and I led him back to his pen.

  “Mule, you're quite the steer,” I told him.

  In a few short weeks, the pen would be empty, and Mule would be gone, too. First the show, then the auction. That was the way it would go. I really hated to think about it, but I couldn't avoid the truth.

  In bed that night, as I tried to picture myself leading Mule around the auction ring, the tears came easily. With Frannie snoring softly in her own bed, I cried for the first time since I'd said goodbye to Piggy. The tears flowed at the thought of having to part with yet another steer. Then I heard the hardwood hall floor squeak, and I flipped over, quickly pretending to be asleep. Too late. Dad had come into the room.

  “You still awake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you doing up so late?” he asked.

  “Nothing. Just thinking.”

  Dad sat down on the end of my bed.

  “What's on your mind, Libby?” he asked.

  “Dad, why can't we just keep him?” I blurted out. It wasn't the way I would have wanted to bring up the subject, but I didn't have much time to organize my thoughts.

  “Your steer? Libby, you know that you have to take your fair project to auction, and—”

  “But I would feed him, I promise, and he is so tame, he wouldn't get wild, even if he gets really, really huge.”

  Dad just sat there.

  “Please, Daddy, we can just keep him in the barn. I don't want to sell him.”

  “Listen, Lib, cattle are raised to produce food,” he said. “Steers are not pets. They need to be sold at market weight. Otherwise, their meat will be no good, and all the feeding and caring you've done for them will be for nothing.”

  Fine, I thought. Let all the other steers sustain the world. Let Mule sustain me! I felt like my heart would stop beating if I had to part with another animal.

  Dad stood up and patted my head like I was a little girl. He handed me the tissue box from the dresser top and stood at the door for just a moment.

  “Libby,” he said seriously. “I was afraid of this from the very start. Maybe this whole cattle-showing business isn't for you.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, blowing my nose.

  “Maybe it's just not a girl thing,” he said into the darkness.

  I couldn't believe he was bringing up the whole “girl thing” again.

  “Dad!” I was raising my voice.

  “Shhh, Lib. Frannie's sleeping. What do you say we move this conversation downstairs?”

  I slid out of bed and together we went down to the kitchen, where Dad poured two glasses of cold milk.

  We sat at the table, and I started again.

  “Dad, haven't I shown you that I can take care of my animals just as good as Ronnie did? Haven't I fed and cleaned and trained Mule?”

  Dad nodded. “Yes, Libby,
you have done a fine job. Better than I ever imagined a girl your age—”

  I groaned when he said “girl.”

  “Okay,” he corrected himself, “better than I ever imagined a person your age could.”

  I was pleased with his admission. He hadn't thought I could raise steers, and I had proven to him that I could.

  “But, Libby, the toughest part is yet to come.”

  I knew what he meant.

  “You've already been through it once. You know what it feels like to let go. That's why I made you go out that morning and halter up Piggy.”

  I felt guilty, remembering that I had thought he was being mean. He was just making me face what would happen at the end of every steer project. They all end with goodbye.

  “Daddy,” I admitted, “I don't know if I can do it again.”

  “Tell you what, Libby,” he said, placing his hand over mine. “You have to do it one more time, at the fair, with Mule. And then if you decide showing cattle isn't for you, you won't have to do it again.”

  It was kind of him to say, but the truth was, I wanted to show steers. I wanted to be part of the Ryan family tradition. And I wanted more than anything to be strong enough to let go of Mule.

  “I can do it, Dad. I know I can.”

  It was the Fourth of July, a holiday the Ryan family always did in a big way. As a result, the wheat harvest and straw baling were put on hold, Mom shut off her cell phone, and Ryansmeade was transformed into picnic paradise. The front porch became a smorgasbord of potato salads and baked beans, fruit dishes and desserts. Table after table of summer recipes lined the porch railing. Mom had invited the usual assortment of friends and neighbors. Carol Ann and her family were there. With the hardware store closed for the holiday, the Cuthberts hadn't missed a July Fourth celebration with my family since Carol Ann and I became best friends. Frannie was thrilled to have all of Carol Ann's younger brothers and sisters to play with.

  Granddad was in charge of the grill and everything that went on it. Standing there in his stars-and-stripes apron, he'd wave his hamburger spatula and grin at everyone who drove up the lane. Nearly every guest commented on the wonderful aroma coming from the grill. The smell of summer, the smell of the Fourth of July, America's hamburger holiday.

  From the porch, it was just a few steps down to the most wonderful outdoor dining room you could imagine. Picnic tables sporting red, white, and blue tablecloths took center stage under the enormous oak. Frannie was placed in charge of dozens of tiny U.S. flags on sticks, which she very randomly stuck around the garden, in flower pots, and in her hair. All afternoon she had been bouncing around in a headband that sported red and blue glittery stars on springs, so every move of her head was a patriotic event.

  Granddad flipped a hot, juicy burger onto Ronnie's plate. Ronnie lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply.

  “Ah! Burgers on the grill! Beats dorm food any day.”

  After having Ronnie home for several weeks, it was almost like he had never left for college. Dad was in a great mood with Ronnie around. Mom just kept hugging him and accusing him of growing taller. Frannie even gave Ronnie one of her grandchildren to look after while he was home.

  “You better take Eugene,” she explained. “Esmerelda Emily wouldn't be interested in doing the boy things you and Daddy do all day.”

  Ronnie played along as he always did with Frannie's charades.

  “I'll need another of these burgers, Granddad,” he said as he smothered the one on his plate with ketchup.

  “Already? You haven't had the first bite of that one.”

  “Sure I have,” Ronnie said through a mouthful of burger. “Besides, it's not for me. It's for Eugene.”

  He winked at Frannie, who wore an ear-to-ear grin.

  Despite the festive atmosphere, I just couldn't quite get myself into the mood to celebrate. I'd spent a lot of time thinking about Mule in the past few days. Every moment I spent with him made me appreciate him even more. Every time he blinked his long black lashes over those big blue eyes, I became more and more attached. The thought of selling Mule at auction so that he could be steak on someone's table became unbearable. I had promised Dad I could handle saying goodbye, and now I had no idea how I'd live up to that promise.

  Somewhere between the potato salad and the mixed fruit on that Fourth of July fourteen and a half miles from Nowhere, another thought had occurred to me. Another way to defend my love for Mule. And if I couldn't free my steer from a horrible fate, I would at least take a stand on his behalf. Although I was completely unprepared, I was about to make an announcement.

  I guess if I had it to do all over again, I would reconsider making that particular announcement in such a public man-ner at such a gathering as my family's Fourth of July party.

  It didn't go over real well.

  “Where's your burger?” Ronnie asked innocently when Carol Ann and I sat down at a picnic table next to him and two of his college buddies who were visiting for the holiday.

  I glanced down at my meatless plate.

  “In memory of Piggy, and out of respect for Mule, I hereby declare myself a vegetarian,” I announced confidently.

  Ronnie looked at me like I had two heads.

  “Oh, really?” he challenged me. “Since when?”

  “Since now, I guess,” I replied, my confidence quickly slipping away. I should have known Ronnie wouldn't let this go without questioning it.

  “A vet-in-arian!” Frannie cried. I hadn't realized she was around. There was no turning back now.

  “Not veterinarian, Frannie,” I started to explain. “Vegetarian.”

  “Mom!” Frannie screamed across the lawn. Mom was just coming out of the front door with another pitcher of lemonade. “Libby is a vegetable-arian.”

  Mom laughed. Others stopped talking and turned our way.

  “It's vegetarian, dear,” Mom said to Frannie.

  To me she said, “Are you, kiddo?”

  All eyes were on me. Dad stopped in his tracks with the tray of burgers he was carrying from the grill. Forks were poised in midair as people stopped eating to await my reply. I swear the birds stopped singing.

  Had Libby Ryan, daughter of a cattle grower, granddaughter of one of Practical County's most respected cattle-men, just said that she would no longer eat meat?

  “Well, I—I …,” I stammered. I hated being in the spotlight. “I, um, I just thought that, maybe, um—”

  “She's taking a stand for the animals she loves dearly.”

  It was Carol Ann. Dear, clear-headed, articulate Carol Ann who spoke for me.

  Friends and neighbors turned back to their plates and the buzz of chatter continued, only now I was sure it was about me.

  “That's just weird, Libby,” Ronnie said, shaking his head with an I'm-disappointed-in-you look on his face.

  “Why?” I asked. “Why is it weird?”

  “Because raising beef for our table is a part of our livelihood. It's what we do, Libby.”

  Part of me was surprised to hear Ronnie say “we” when he talked about the farm. Any other time I would have thought that “we” referred to him and Dad and Granddad, the men, the farmers. But the way he said it told me he meant to include me. I had somehow earned a place in the “we” that was Ryansmeade. It didn't matter to Ronnie that I was only twelve and a girl.

  Truthfully, I didn't know what to say. He was right; raising cattle was our family's work, our tradition. But I was right, too, wasn't I? I had the right to stand up for my steers, didn't I?

  Mom and Dad both came over to the table to join us. Dad's forehead was wrinkled with concern.

  “What's all this about you being a vegetarian, Libby?”

  “What about chicken?” Mom asked. “Is this strictly a beef boycott or are you really going to be a vegetarian?”

  Dad looked at her like she was nuts.

  I didn't have all the answers to their questions. I hadn't given much thought to this whole vegetarian thing yet. Surely I wasn't t
he first person in Practical County to become a vegetarian. Somewhere in Nowhere there had to be at least one other vegetarian. I just couldn't think of one.

  Chicken, turkey, ham? I wasn't attached to any chickens, turkeys, or pigs—not like I had become attached to Piggy and Mule—but I didn't want to appear wishy-washy on the subject.

  “Nope,” I said firmly. “No meat. It's just disrespectful to our fine furry and feathered friends. Besides, is it fair that we Americans get to pig out like this when there are people starving all over the world?”

  I knew that would strike a chord with Mom, the food-pantry champion of Practical County. Dad gave Mom a look-what-you-started stare.

  That night in the barn, while I fed Mule, Carol Ann and I discussed my announcement.

  “Whoa, Lib, that was some bomb you dropped!” Carol Ann sounded both proud and surprised.

  “I had to do something,” I told her as I scattered a leaf of fresh green hay into the feed bunk. “Mule's going to die, Carol Ann. Do you realize that?”

  “Sure I do. That's been the plan all along, right?”

  “Well, yes, but it seems so unfair. I can't keep him forever, and I don't see any particularly brilliant spiders in this barn weaving webs with complimentary messages over Mule's head, do you?”

  Carol Ann laughed.

  “No, I don't.”

  Then, as if vegetarianism weren't already confusing enough, Carol Ann had to complicate the issue even more.

  “So, what kind of vegetarian are you going to be, Libby?”

  “What kind? I didn't know there were different kinds.”

  “Of course there are.”

  I had to have a walking search engine for a best friend.

  “Are you a vegan?” she inquired.

  “Am I a what?”

  “A vegan. They not only reject meat, they don't eat other animal products either. You know, like eggs and milk.”

  “I don't think Mom would be too happy if I stopped drinking milk.”

  “Oh, okay, then you are probably a lacto-vegetarian. Unless you're going to eat eggs, in which case you are a lacto-ovo vegetarian.”

  For crying out loud, I hadn't expected this whole vegetarian thing to become so complicated. Still, I wanted to do it for Mule's and Piggy's sakes.