The Beef Princess of Practical County

by Michelle Houts

  “Okay, whatever, Carol Ann. I guess I'm that last one. I mean, it doesn't kill a chicken to lay an egg, does it?”

  Barn chores done, I switched off the light for the night and we headed back to the house, where old Grove Everett was preparing for his annual fireworks show. The sun had set on a gorgeous summer night, warm and clear. Carol Ann and I gathered Frannie and the littlest Cuthberts on a big blanket to watch the starry sky fill with colorful bursts of blue, red, green, and yellow. We oohed and ahhed for an hour.

  Well past midnight, sleepy children headed home with their parents, and all our guests were gone.

  “Leave that for morning,” Mom insisted when Dad and Ronnie started folding up lawn chairs and wiping off tables.

  I climbed into bed and listened to Frannie's quiet snoring and the dull thud of far-off Fourth of July celebrations that continued into the night.

  What a strange day it had been. I was proud of the stand I had taken for Mule and Piggy, but I had a feeling that it wasn't enough. Tears brought on by confusion and frustration fell to my pillow as I drifted off to sleep. I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that I could do more to help Mule.

  I don't know what woke me later that night. The pop-ping of firecrackers had subsided, and the house and world outside it seemed still. Frannie slept motionless in her bed across the room and even the crickets were silent. My tears were gone, but the ache remained when I thought of Mule asleep in the barn.

  All of the emotion that had built up over the spring and summer felt fresh and new, and my head was spinning. I had a desperate need to do something, anything, to stop the in-evitable. The sense of urgency was too much. Not even sure of what I was doing, I got out of bed, dressed quietly, and tip-toed down the creaky old farmhouse stairs. I'd never noticed in the daytime how incredibly noisy they were. The kitchen was dark, my parents’ bedroom door shut. From a hook in the garage, I grabbed Ronnie's flannel shirt.

  It wasn't until I had slipped out the back door and into the summer night that I knew exactly what I was going to do on that Independence Day.

  The sun streamed into my bedroom window and fell across my face. It was hot for morning sun, the promise of another scorcher. My first thought was of Mule. I'd have to be sure he had plenty of water.

  Mule. Oh, wait. Mule. Had I dreamed it? Or had I actually done it?

  I sat upright, trying to make sense of the events of the night before. I remembered leaving the house. The full moon had illuminated the barnyard so much that I hadn't even needed a flashlight as I made my way to the barn.

  The sliding doors had been open as usual on warm summer nights, so the animals hadn't noticed my presence until I spoke.

  Mule had been sitting close to the gate. The barn cats scattered, and overhead in the mow, something had skittered, a raccoon perhaps. Mule had lumbered to his feet when I'd opened his pen and stepped inside. He ambled over to me as if to ask what I was doing there in the middle of the night.

  I remembered talking to him, stroking his smooth black head, and leading him into the back lot. I remembered that I hadn't even cried when I told him goodbye.

  And then, I opened the gate and watched him walk out into the night.

  Oh, my gosh! I had done it. I had set Mule free.

  What was I thinking?

  Now very awake and nearly panicked, I jumped from my bed, grabbing shorts to pull on with the T-shirt I was already wearing. I tripped down the steps, my mind racing wildly. Why had I done that? It seemed so right at the time. I had reasoned that between Dad, Granddad, Ronnie, and me, we'd never really know who “accidentally” left the gate un-latched, we'd chalk it up to being one of those things that happens, and Mule would be spared a tragic fate and …

  And what? He'd roam around Practical County being fed by strangers like a stray pup?

  Oh, this was the stupidest thing I'd ever done. Cattle occasionally had gotten loose around here, and nothing good ever came of it. I'd heard the stories, at the dinner table, sitting at the counter at Cuthbert's Hardware. I'd heard about cattle loose for so long they turned wild, couldn't be caught, and had to be shot before they hurt someone. I'd heard about one of Mr. Erickson's steers that ran out in front of the mailman's car. Totaled the car, killed the steer. The mailman was lucky; it could have been far worse for him.

  Now, thanks to my own middle-of-the-night madness, Mule was out there, wandering the flat farmland of Practical County. How far could he go in—I looked at the clock as I stumbled through the kitchen—eight and a half hours! For-get Practical County—he could be halfway to Indianapolis by now.

  I paused long enough in the kitchen to read the note on the table.

  She obviously hadn't noticed that my steer was gone, or she would have woken me up. Not surprising, though, because Mom never did pay a whole lot of attention to what was going on in the barn.

  I flew through the garage, pulling on rubber boots as I ran. Where was Dad? Granddad? Or Ronnie? They were probably getting the combine and wagons ready to cut wheat today.

  But hadn't Dad gone into the barn this morning?

  Outside, I scanned the horizon for a large, dark lump wandering through the fields. The corn was shoulder-high; Mule could be forever lost wandering around in a cornfield. The soybean fields were shorter, but the neighboring farmers would be hopping mad if a steer trampled their beans. My best hope of finding him would be in the fields of freshly cut wheat. His big, black body would stand out clearly against the golden straw.

  The barn never seemed so far from the house. I flew through the sliding doors, praying for a miracle. And what I saw next darn near qualified as one.

  I sank to my knees in the straw on the floor and moaned out loud in utter relief. Mule was standing in his pen, gate latched, noisily chewing his morning grain. I got to my feet, tears stinging my eyes. Inside the pen, I threw both arms around Mule's soft neck, felt his breath on my skin, and cried.

  “I'm so sorry, Mule. I won't ever let you go again.”

  I brushed him while he finished eating, not wanting to leave his side. Had it all been a dream? No, I was sure it hadn't. But how, then, was Mule here now?

  The proof that I hadn't been dreaming lay before me when I turned to go back to the house. Ronnie's flannel shirt, the same one I had grabbed in the night, was sitting on a bag of feed.

  I carried the shirt to the house, hung it on the hook in the garage, and went into the kitchen. Pouring a glass of orange juice, I sat down at the dining room table and stared out the window at the tall green corn in the field and felt incredibly lucky that my steer was safe.

  I still couldn't believe my lack of judgment the night before. If I really had let Mule loose, and there was no doubt I had, then who put him back in? I was sure it was only a matter of time until Dad came home and I would find out.

  * * *

  Mom was the first to return home that day. When I heard her call to me to help unload the groceries from the van, I tried to act like nothing had happened. She didn't show any sign of knowing about Mule's midnight adventure, so I didn't mention it.

  With all the grocery bags in the kitchen, I started to put things into cupboards. Frannie handed me cans of tuna and boxes of macaroni. It looked like we'd be having tuna noodle casserole this week. I wondered if tuna was considered meat. Then Frannie started passing me things I'd never seen before. Avocado spread. Bean sprouts. Rice cakes.

  “It's almost lunchtime,” said Mom. “Why don't you girls leave out the sliced turkey, the deli roast beef, and the Swiss cheese, and, oh, yes, leave the avocado spread and sprouts for Libby to make a sandwich.”

  I was afraid that was what Mom had in mind when she bought those things.

  Soon we had a tray of sandwiches ready for Dad, Ronnie, and Granddad. Among all those roast beef and Swiss cheese sandwiches, among the buns piled high with turkey, one avocado and alfalfa sprout sandwich stuck out. I was both surprised and happy that Mom was supporting my decision to eat differently than the rest of the family. I just
wished I was as enthusiastic about alfalfa sprouts as she appeared to be.

  The rest of July went so fast, I can hardly remember it. Most days were the same: I got up and fed Mule early so that he could be finished eating before his bath. I had started rinsing him daily so that come fair time, his hair would be clean and easy to groom. A cold rinsing on a hot summer day was good for hair growth. And I had learned from Ronnie that a thick coat of hair can make a decent steer look like a champion.

  I had managed to stick to my word so far about being a vegetarian. I took to ordering my Jung Chow cheeseburger pizza minus the burger. I had been eating eggs by the dozen. Scrambled, over easy, hard-boiled, you name it.

  Dinnertime had become particularly stressful. I would sit down, absolutely ravenous, and say, “Pass the …”

  I would look around the table.

  Meat loaf, no. Fried chicken, no. Beef and noodles, no. Peas, okay.

  “Peas, please.”

  Dad just shook his head each time I passed the pork platter without taking even a bite and asked for more broccoli. To be honest, it was getting harder and harder to pass the platter. The smell of the rich, warm meat would reach my nose and my mouth would start watering. I was making my-self miserable. But it was for a good cause, I told myself. Mule was a good cause.

  Granddad had remained strangely silent on the subject of my new eating habits. I noticed he had been paying very close attention to the conversation that took place on the Fourth of July, but he had never mentioned it to me.

  One hot afternoon when I had just finished washing Mule, Granddad came out to the barn with a plate of water-melon.

  “Why don't you join me for a little snack over here, Libby?”

  I worked the handle on the pump a few times until fresh, clean water poured out. I washed my hands and joined Granddad in the shade of the maple beside the granary.

  “What's all this talk I hear about you lately?” he asked, handing me a thick, cold slice of melon.

  I'd known that Granddad would confront me about my vegetarianism sooner or later. I figured that because he'd been a cattleman his whole life, he'd have a pretty hard time understanding.

  Granddad's eyes were as blue as Mule's. I noticed that for the first time sitting there under the maple.

  “Oh, it's nothing.”

  “Doesn't sound like nothing to me.”

  “I just decided that I would stop eating meat.”

  Keep it simple, stick to the facts. I would follow the advice he himself had given me.

  “All right.” He nodded slowly.

  All right. Well, maybe Granddad was more open-minded than I thought he'd be.

  “It's okay, Libby. You have every right to choose how and what you will eat. You're becoming a young lady with ideas of your own, and I'm proud of you for that.”

  His eyes twinkled the way they did back at the pasture the day he picked Mule out for me.

  “I just want you to be sure that you are doing what you're doing for the right reasons. Seems to me you've been making some rash decisions without thinking things through first.”

  Rash decisions? Maybe I had kind of jumped into this vegetarian thing without researching it much, but… oh, Granddad's eyes gave away his secret, just as my guilty face must have given away mine.

  “I think someone ought to check the latch on that steer pen. I found Mule outside the gate the other morning,” he told me.

  I should have known that a steer as tame as Mule wouldn't go far from his feed and the ones who fed him.

  “You know anything about that?” Granddad prodded.

  I nodded. I knew it was a stupid thing to do, but admitting it to Granddad was embarrassing.

  “Granddad, I don't know why I did that. I was desperate. I just don't want to sell Mule at the fair auction.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “Let's say you don't.”

  “Okay. I don't.” I could go along with that.

  “So, then what?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You show your steer, he does well or maybe he doesn't do so great, and then you don't sell him at auction. What do you do then?”

  I was no dummy. Dad had already been through this with me.

  “I know I can't keep him, Granddad.”

  “Okay, so what happens to him? If you bring him home, he's already market weight. If you keep him, he'll become overweight and not nearly as good as if you sold him at the right time. If you sell him from home, you've given up quite a premium at the auction.”

  “That's part of it, Granddad. I know some girls who show steers just for the money at the auction. I feel so guilty profiting from Mule's death.”

  Granddad was a softy. Maybe he would see my side of things when it came to parting with my steer.

  “Libby, let me tell you something. Many years ago, when my parents came to this country from Ireland, they brought with them a knowledge of cattle and how to raise them. But even more than that, they brought with them a value of hard work and self-sufficiency. Do you know what I mean by that?”

  I nodded.

  “It's like this. Ryansmeade was built on tradition. We Ryans love this land, and we love the animals we raise on it. That's why they are so well cared for here. This year, you've had your first taste of raising cattle, and I can tell it's in your blood.”

  I knew what he meant. Whether I was in the pasture with the herd, or in the barn with my fair calves, I loved being with the steers.

  “No matter what we choose to do in life, Libby, we learn to take the bad with the good. Letting go is one of the hard parts, but it's not just a part of raising cattle, it's a part of life, too.”

  I swallowed hard, fighting back tears that came at the thought of ever letting go of Granddad.

  “This legacy is yours, Libby.” Granddad's eyes scanned the flat farmland that stretched far beyond our house and barn. He gazed over it, silent for a minute, then turned his thin, wrinkled face to mine.

  “You're old enough to know that there are folks out there who don't agree with our lifestyle. They think raising any animal for the purpose of eating it is wrong, and I understand that it's their right to believe what they believe. But I couldn't be prouder of my heritage, Lib. This”—he gestured around us—“this is what I know, this is what I believe in.”

  His blue eyes were filled with tears that didn't fall. I'd never heard Granddad speak so passionately about anything before. Mostly he and I talked about rain and how many kittens were born in the barn that week.

  Granddad took a worn red bandana handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his watery eyes.

  “You'll know, dear. Maybe not today or even this year, but someday you'll know if you want to take part in the tradition of Ryansmeade. Just know two things. First, you are a Ryan and you will always be loved regardless of what you eat or where you choose to live. And, second, the Ryan family tradition is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I didn't have any words to follow what Granddad had shared with me, but he didn't seem to expect me to say anything. A long, comfortable quiet passed before he spoke again.

  “Now, try this.”

  He placed a watermelon seed between his front top and bottom teeth, drew in his breath, and spit the seed as hard as he could over the fence and into Mule's pen.

  I laughed hysterically.

  “I want to do it!”

  I inhaled deeply and sent a seed flying just two feet in front of me.

  “You can do better than that,” he teased.

  We practiced until there were no more seeds to spit.

  I needed time to make sense of everything Granddad had just said, but it was okay. His words would echo in my mind for the next several weeks.

  “I'm going to town, Libby!” Mom hollered from the house. “Want to come along?”

  I quickly finished organizing the halters and ropes in the fair show box and ran to meet Mom and Frannie as the van was heading out the lane.

  With just a few days until the
fair, there were some things I knew we needed for Mule. Fly spray, for one. Nothing is more annoying to a steer than a horsefly on his butt.

  “I need to go to the bank and the bakery …” Mom was listing all of her stops aloud as she drove toward Nowhere.

  “Can we stop at the Feed and Seed, Mom?”

  “Sure, that's fine. It's just down from the thrift store, and I have a bag of Frannie's clothes to donate.”

  In the backseat, Frannie was pulling articles of clothing out of a paper grocery bag.

  “Hey, I can still wear this!” she cried, holding up a pink ballerina costume that had been too small since she was two years old.

  “Frannie! Don't!”

  “I'll get it, Mom,” I offered, reaching into the backseat. I put everything back into the bag except the ballerina dress, which Frannie clutched with both hands.

  “I have an idea,” Mom said as she pulled into a parking spot in front of the bank. “I'll go to the bank and the bakery, if you don't mind running this bag into the thrift shop. Then you can get your fly spray at the Feed and Seed.”

  She handed me a twenty-dollar bill and the bag of clothing, and I headed toward Another Man's Treasure.

  “Well, hello, Libby!” Mrs. Nipper nearly shouted when she saw me.

  “Hi, Mrs. Nipper. My mom has some things for you.”

  “Oooo, goody!”

  Mrs. Nipper took the bag from me and eagerly began to pull things from it, making over everything as if it were brand-new.

  “Oh, Libby, your mother always gives me the sweetest things!”

  Mrs. Nipper had a way of seeing treasure in everything.

  “This is absolutely precious!”

  She pulled the pink ballerina costume from the bag. How had Mom managed to get that back in there?

  “Oh, dear, well, look at me. Here I am ignoring you, Libby.”

  She pushed the bag and its contents aside on the countertop. I knew just what was coming.

  “What is it you are looking for today, dear? I have some new jeans, just your size!”