The Beef Princess of Practical County

by Michelle Houts

  I was pretty sure I had just babbled more words in public in the last twenty seconds than I had in my entire life.

  “Thank you. Libby Ryan, folks,” Mr. Fields said, giving me permission to return to my seat while the audience clapped politely.

  I was grateful to Karen Elliott, who had set my chair back up for me so that all I had to do was slide into it and pretend that no one could see.

  The other girls took their turns all too quickly and we began the second round, the interview. Questions were chosen at random by Mr. Fields, and we were expected to answer until the three-minute time limit was up.

  Karen was asked how she would promote the consumption of beef to the public given America's recent concerns about eating too much red meat. I would have panicked, but Karen was smooth and creative with her answer.

  As for Lil, she tugged at her tiara when she approached the microphone and flashed a brilliant smile directly at the judges, completely ignoring Mr. Fields. When he repeated the question a second time, she suddenly realized he was talking to her and giggled.

  “I'm sorry. Can you repeat the question?”

  “I asked you if you could tell us the impact BSE has had on the beef industry in America and how you would combat the negative effects of BSE.”

  The brilliant smile disappeared in a flash.

  “Ex-excuse me?” Lil stammered. “I'm sorry. What is BSE?”

  Mr. Fields looked nervously at the first judge, who nodded permission for Mr. Fields to help Lil out of her situation.

  “Bovine spongiform encephalopathy.”

  “I'm sorry,” came Lil's reply. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

  Again, the judge gave approval for Mr. Fields to elaborate. I squirmed in my seat to see if I could get a look at Carol Ann's face, but a tent pole blocked my view. It appeared she was sitting next to Frannie and quite possibly on Eugene.

  Why couldn't that have been my question? Mad cow! Mad cow disease! I wanted to scream.

  “Mad cow disease.” Mr. Fields had read my mind for the second time that evening.

  “Oh! Oh, of course, mad cow disease!”

  And in a flash Lil's blinding smile was back.

  Unfortunately for Lil Darling, the smile wasn't enough to cover the fact that she knew absolutely nothing about mad cow disease. She rambled incoherently for two minutes using phrases that started with “if I am elected Beef Princess” and “therefore.” Finally the timer sounded and put us all out of our misery.

  “So, in conclusion,” she said, beaming, “I believe some-body ought to do something about that BS, um, BS-whatever disease.”

  She finished with a final gum snap and then returned to her seat. She had no clue that she had botched her answer horribly.

  After the next few contestants had answered their questions, it was my turn, and this time I was ready.

  I stood slowly, and put one foot carefully in front of the other until I was facing Mr. Fields.

  “As you know,” he began, “more and more of the corn being raised by America's farmers is going to manufacturing rather than to feeding livestock. What are these new uses for corn, and what can farmers do to keep their feed costs at an acceptable level?”

  I looked straight at Dad. Not two weeks earlier rising corn prices had been the topic of discussion at the dinner table.

  “Well,” I started. Everyone was looking at me. Oh, how I wished I had a steer up onstage beside me. I'd be a lot more comfortable with a lead rope in my hand. Instead, I fiddled nervously with the thin blue ribbon that was tied around my waist.

  “It seems that, um, people are getting smart and finding ways to turn corn into gasoline and cola, and I've even heard about corn being used to make plastic, and that's good for farmers, but I guess that means that there will be less corn to feed our steers.”

  The timer was ticking. The judges were staring up at me from their table at the foot of the stage. I scanned the audience, unsure what or whom I was looking for, but there she stood. At the back of the tent was Ohma, not at all dressed for a pageant in khaki shorts and sneakers, a cool lemon shake-up sweating in her hand. She gave me a huge, genuine smile, then a thumbs-up.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Well, so, on our farm, my farm, well, not my farm but my dad's farm …”

  A soft wave of laughter rippled through the audience, and I realized I was rambling again.

  Wrap it up, Libby, you're almost done.

  “On my family's farm, we raise the corn we need to feed our livestock. But I think that it would be good for the beef industry if people researched other feed options for cattle. That way if there ever was a corn shortage, we would have other ways to feed our animals.”

  “Thank you, Libby.” Mr. Fields nodded.

  The audience clapped.

  I knew my answer wasn't particularly brilliant. And it certainly wasn't spoken eloquently, but I hadn't puked yet, and considering how my stomach was turning flip-flops, that was something to be proud of.

  When each contestant had answered her interview question, the judges retreated behind the curtain for a few minutes before handing the all-important envelope to Mr. Fields. Jennifer's face was a greenish gray, and Lil was bouncing in her seat.

  “It's a beastly hot evening, folks.” Mr. Fields wiped his brow once more and stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket. “Let's do what we came here to do and crown a Beef Princess!”

  The audience cheered in agreement.

  “Without further delay, ladies and gentlemen, your new Practical County Fair Beef Princess is…”

  Not me, not me, not me, not me. I closed my eyes and prayed. Of course, I'd entered this competition fully intending to beat Lil Darling, but if Mr. Fields called my name, I just knew I'd need that garbage can.

  “… Miss Karen Elliott!”

  An ear-piercing scream rang through the tent. It didn't come from the winner. It came from an outraged Lil Darling.

  “What? There has to be some mistake!”

  Mr. Fields ignored the outburst as Lil's hysterical wails nearly drowned out his words.

  Karen gasped in disbelief and stood up. The audience roared with applause and everyone was on their feet.

  Lil cried in her mother's arms until Mrs. Darling demanded a recount of the three judges’ votes, which took all of three seconds. The Darling family's era of royal reign had ended. Precious held her sister's hand as they marched out of the tent.

  I joined my family and Carol Ann. Each of them had hugs and kind words. When I got to Mom, she hugged me extra hard.

  “I'm sorry, Mom.”

  “Sorry?” she repeated. “What on earth for? You did a great job up there tonight.”

  “But I didn't win.”

  “Libby, we are your family. Win or lose, we support you.”

  She touched one of my loose curls and said, “I know you did this for me. Thank you.”

  “It wasn't so bad. But would you be terribly disappointed if I didn't do it again?”

  Mom laughed.

  “I had a feeling you'd say that. I promise not to make you into a pageant princess if that's not your thing.”

  Just then Frannie strode by wearing Karen Elliott's newly earned tiara.

  “She let me try it on, what do you think? It's so me, isn't it?” Frannie flitted across the stage, one hand on one hip, making supermodel turns and dramatic stops.

  I looked at Mom and we both burst out laughing.

  “Looks like you may get your pageant princess someday after all, Mom.”

  “Okay, Frannie,” Mom said as she snatched the little girl from the stage. “Let's go give that back to Karen.”

  Ohma hung around at the back of the crowd for a while before making her way forward. She smiled and gave me a hug. I'd never known she had such a pretty smile. I guess I had never really seen her smile much before.

  “You were great up there!” she exclaimed.

  “Thanks.”

  Ohma seemed to be dealing better
with the loss of her steer. In fact, she seemed different altogether. Maybe she was beginning to recover from years of being in the shadow of Precious and Lil. There was one thing I couldn't help asking.

  “Why didn't you do it this year?”

  “The pageant? Oh, I know everyone expected me to because of Lil and Precious, you know. But I'm really not like them.”

  “Well, I'm glad you came,” I told her. “Do you think Lil will get over losing?”

  Ohma shrugged.

  “That's a question for someone who cares.”

  Carol Ann, Ohma, and I laughed. Frannie was back and, seeing the opportunity to impress a new audience, she pulled Ohma by the hand.

  “Have you met my grandchildren?” I heard her ask Ohma as she led her toward two empty chairs.

  After the pageant, Dad suggested we head over to the Cattlemen's Club concession stand for burgers.

  “We'll need to stop somewhere else and pick up a salad for Libby, though,” he said, looking around for a place to grab something other than pork, chicken, or beef. There was no disappointment in his voice; he sounded very matter-of-fact. It seemed he had finally realized that I might never eat meat again.

  But I had come to my own realization.

  “No, Dad, it's okay,” I said. “I'd like to eat at the Cattlemen's tonight.”

  Dad, Granddad, Mom, and everyone else stopped walking.

  “Libby, you don't have to—” Mom started, but I stopped her.

  “Mom, really, it's okay,” I explained. “I've been thinking about what we do at Ryansmeade, and about Mule and Piggy. And you know what? When I decided to become a vegetarian, I really hadn't thought it out completely.”

  Everyone was listening, but Granddad especially seemed to be waiting to hear what I had to say next.

  “Beef is a part of my life,” I continued. “It's a family tradition that I want to be a part of.”

  “You can be a part of our family tradition, dear, without giving up being a vegetarian,” Mom reminded me.

  “I know. But I love raising cattle, showing cattle, and I've decided that I can love my steers and still eat beef. Besides”—I grinned—“I don't think I could possibly leave this fair without consuming a single Cattlemen's burger.”

  I had decided that supporting the beef industry was a better way to honor Mule and Piggy than boycotting it.

  “Well, then,” said Dad, “that settles it. I'm buying a round of cheeseburgers for the entire house!”

  I sat down with my family, unwrapped the one-third-pound cheeseburger, and inhaled deeply. Never had so much thought gone into eating a burger, and I savored this one more than any I'd eaten in my entire life.

  We had finished eating and were cleaning up our trays when I felt Granddad's hand fold snugly around my arm, his dark blue eyes serious.

  “You've been thinking.” He smiled.

  I nodded.

  “You know I wouldn't care a bit if you never ate another bite of beef for the rest of your life.”

  “I know, Granddad.”

  “With or without a blue ribbon, a tiara, or a cheese-burger, you are Libby Ryan, Beef Princess of Ryansmeade!” His eyes shone with pride.

  I laughed at his drama.

  “I may have competition,” I told him, nodding in Frannie's direction. She and Dad had been engaged in a serious conversation, which had just ended with Frannie making a very adamant declaration.

  “I am too old enough to have my own bull!”

  Wow. Dad would really have his hands full with that one.

  “Now, you know,” Granddad said, returning his attention to me, “you've done a lot of very mature things this week. But the hardest part is yet to come.”

  I knew exactly what he meant. The hardest part was yet to come.

  The arena glowed in the summer night. The stands filled quickly with a chattery buzz as spectators carrying elephant ears and lemon shake-ups took their seats. From inside the barn, I caught a glimpse of Carol Ann on the bleachers with her parents. Ronnie was out there too, with Frannie. And Mom and Granddad. Dad stood at the end of the arena.

  I couldn't think about anything. I had to keep my mind clear. No, not clear, blank. Block it all out, I told myself. I didn't hear the rustle of the impatient animals around me. I didn't hear the distant screams of the terrified, thrilled passengers on the Super Loop. And I tried my best not to hear the auctioneer's voice from out in the ring as he began his seller's song.

  Beside me, my steer huffed as if trying to pull my thoughts back into the barn, away from the state of blank-ness I tried desperately to maintain.

  Don't look, whatever you do, don't look.

  If I looked I might see those beautiful eyes, framed so perfectly by those long, wispy lashes. It was bad enough that I could feel him tugging slightly at the lead rope, his every movement pulling me closer to his living, breathing side.

  I ran my hand along his back and patted his smooth, sleek shoulder without looking at him. I mumbled to him to be patient. Stupid old steer anyway. His impatience only proved his ignorance. He didn't even know enough about what was going on not to want to go out into the ring.

  Of course, how could he know? After all, Dad and I had bathed him and groomed him just the same as we had done for every show this past week. And here he stood in a fancy halter, thinking he was headed out for competition one more time. How could a twelve-hundred-pound steer possibly comprehend what would happen next?

  Merely thinking about it brought the burn of tears back into my eyes. Hadn't there been enough tears in the past few days? Get it together, Lib. You're not going out there bawling like a baby.

  Suddenly the line moved forward. The hindquarters of the stocky Shorthorn steer in front of us took a step and so did we. One step closer to the inevitable.

  Don't listen. Don't look. Don't think. Just go. Just go.

  The tears were actually easier to hold back than the aw-ful urge to stop moving. I wanted to freeze time at this very second so I could throw my arms around him and squeeze. So I could bury my face in his warm, soft neck and smell the sweet mixture of straw and shampoo. So I could tell him I loved him and I was so proud of him.

  So I could say “Goodbye” and “I'm sorry.”

  The Shorthorn took another step and suddenly we were out of the barn and into the glaring lights of the arena. The urge to freeze was climbing to a higher place inside me.

  Just go. Just go.

  The lights of the ring were bright compared to the dim bulbs in the barns. Cameras flashed, some held by folks from the local newspaper, some held by parents anxious to capture the moment for future scrapbooks.

  It was a fast-paced sale. The fair board knew they had to get all the animals through before the buyers got tired and went home. The buyers were mostly local businessmen, looking for some good publicity for their companies. A few politicians were scattered here and there, hoping a bid would gain a few votes in the next election.

  I could hear the auctioneer banter with the livestock committee chairman over the loudspeaker.

  “How long's it been since you were a young exhibitor, Wayne?” the auctioneer asked.

  “Oh, it's been a good forty-five years since I first entered that sale ring, Hank,” the other man chuckled, taking the microphone. “I have to tell you, folks, that first year I showed a great big Hereford named Oscar,” he reminisced. “Big as an ox, tame as a house kitty.”

  Cute. Could we please get this over with?

  But the man named Wayne continued to remember Oscar.

  “Let me say something to these young exhibitors here tonight. Kids, I understand how you're feeling right now as you prepare to enter the sale ring.”

  I really didn't want to hear any more. But on he went.

  “As long as I live, I'll never forget that lump in my stomach as Oscar and I lined up for the sale.”

  I knew what was coming next. He was going to say that time heals all wounds, we'll get over it, life goes on.

  “Let m
e tell you, folks, as I stand before you tonight, that old lump is still there, right in the middle of my stomach, as I remember my first steer.”

  Oh, for crying out loud! I bit my lip a little harder as the man's voice cracked. The microphone squealed with high-pitched feedback as he handed it over to the auctioneer once again and stepped off the platform, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

  From where I stood, I could see ladies reaching into their purses for tissues. I hoped someone sitting near Mom had a mop. She was a sucker for sad stories.

  Without warning, Josh was in the ring. The auctioneer called for the first bid, and someone shouted out. Josh's job was to keep his animal moving in front of the bidders, which he did with his head down. Was it getting to him to sell his steer? Big Josh Joseph, who had done this many times before?

  Earlier, in the barns, I had overheard Mr. Darling giving Lil instructions.

  “Try to work up a few tears, Lil. It gets those buyers every time.”

  It made me furious, the thought of Lil trying to cry just to get more money for her animal while I stood there fighting tears with every ounce of energy I could muster. In the sale ring, Josh was surviving. I could too.

  The auctioneer, a stout man in suspenders and a huge cowboy hat, hollered over the microphone for the bids to keep coming.

  “This is your Grand Champion, folks. Buy this big boy and you'll have bragging rights for the next year!”

  The bids bounced back and forth between several potential buyers as Josh and his steer made continuous circles in front of the auctioneer's stand.

  “Going once, going twice …”

  There was a long pause and silence in the arena.

  “Folks, I've sold the Grand Champion Steer of Practical County!”

  Immediately, Josh exited the ring on the other end and one of the cattlemen opened the gate in front of Mule and me. Instinctively, Mule stepped forward. It was what I'd been trying to teach him to do for months. He wasn't going to make this any harder, and for that I was grateful.