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 in 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.
They were total opposites from the very beginning. It was almost a year ago that I first saw them. It was a sunny Saturday morning in early September, and if I hadn't seen a calendar, I would have thought it was still midsummer. The air was heavy and sticky already at nine-thirty in the morning, when Dad, Frannie, and I piled out of the rusty old pickup at the gate to Granddad's pasture.
I loved the pasture. It always gave me a comfortable, kind of homey feeling. There was just something about acres and acres of green with big brown and black dots scattered all over, slowly moving and munching, like furry lawn mowers, keeping the grass all even and neatly trimmed. But pasture ground was a rare sight in Practical County.
“Northern Indiana farm ground's just too good for pasturing,” I'd heard Dad say many times. What he meant was a man could earn a better profit raising a crop of corn or soy-beans than he could growing grass for cattle to eat.
That was why Granddad's pasture was so perfect. With little rolling hills, a winding creek that cut a jagged path diagonally through it, and a couple of acres of woods, it would have been a nightmare to till, plant, and harvest.
As we stood at the gate, all of Granddad's calves loped eagerly over to greet us. All but one. In fact, that one acted downright uninterested in any of us while his herdmates licked our hands with their long, rough tongues.
The week-old calves wrapped their tongues around my fingers and tugged. That's a calf's way of saying, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Dad had explained when I was no bigger than Frannie, my four-year-old sister, who at that moment was walking the fence. I watched her teetering, arms out straight, her mess of blond curls flapping behind as she placed one tennis-shoed foot after the other on the top rail. Where she had gotten those blond curls was a mystery. My own stick-straight, mousy brown hair came from the Ryan side. I ponytailed it daily, because there wasn't much else I could do with it.
While Frannie planted herself firmly on a fence post, I stared out across acres and acres of grass still green from summer but chewed to the very roots by the hungry herd inside the fence. The new calves at the gate were checking us out with the same curiosity we were showing to them. I set my mind on finding the calves with the most potential for steer stardom. I was looking for a steer calf that would take the Practical County Fair by storm.
The Practical County Fair. It was nothing short of the best week of the year in Practical County. Everyone in the community pretty much stopped whatever they were doing to come to the fair. It was where for one week you could do what you couldn't the whole rest of the year. Like eat elephant ears. Or sit inside the Grange tent sipping milk shakes and catching up with the neighbors. For some folks, the fair was a chance to show off their finest whatever. To pick that perfect rose and display it in a vase to see if it could earn the blue ribbon. Or wow the judges with a deep-dish apple crumb pie from Great-grandma's secret recipe. For a handful of others, it wasn't about competing but about coming to see it all. The exhibits, the animal shows, the annual Beef Princess pageant, and the neighbor folks who were usually too busy working to visit.
For my family, the Practical County Fair was all about beef.
Dad's family had raised some of the best beef in Indiana for generations. The Ryan family farm, dubbed Ryansmeade by Granddad's Irish parents, sat on four hundred acres located exactly fourteen and a half miles from Nowhere. Nowhere, Indiana. Population four thousand and not really growing much. Now, I've often wondered, Who on God's green earth names a town Nowhere? Because Nowhere is actually somewhere. It's the county seat of Practical County, and it's right smack-dab in the middle of the flattest fields of northern Indiana.
Dad was raised here, and so was Mom. And generations of their families before them. Granddad, Dad's dad, was my only living grandparent, and he lived in the old home place right beside the pasture and about a half mile from my house. The old home place looked like something from a folk-art painting. A square, white, plain-fronted, wooden-sided farmhouse with twin chimneys on each end. Except for new paint every four years and the electric lines that linked it to the poles along the road, that house probably looked just like it did when it was built a hundred years ago. It was old. And it was big for just Granddad, but he had been born there and he'd sworn time and time again that he would die there when the good Lord had a notion to take him.
Just then Granddad stepped out onto the small back porch, slipped his stocking feet into his black rubber boots, and joined us at the pasture gate.
“Good morning,” he said to all of us, calves included. “You here to pick 'em out, Libby?”
“You bet I am.”
“Are you sure about this, Lib?” Dad asked. He still had that hint of doubt in his voice. As if a girl couldn't possibly fill my older brother Ronnie's shoes. Well, maybe I couldn't yet handle those big, square hay bales like Ronnie could, but I was sure I could show a steer just as good, and, I hoped, better.
“I'm sure, Dad,” I told him with no hint of doubt in my voice.
Looking out over the pasture as
the September morning grew into a sweltering day, I knew I had an important task ahead of me. Two of these calves would be mine; I had to be sure we had at least one winner.
I had been to the Practical County Beef Show every year for as long as I could recall, watching and cheering for Ronnie in the show ring. There was so much to take in. The exhibitors as they maneuvered their enormous animals around the ring. The judges, deep in thought as they ranked each steer in their minds. The hush that fell over the crowd just before the champion was selected. I'd seen it all from the stands, and watching my big brother show steers was thrilling. But now that I was twelve, it was my turn. At next summer's fair, it would be me in the show ring. And I had big plans. Not only would I prove to Dad that I could show steers, but I would show the Grand Champion steer as well.
It just made sense that a Grand Champion steer would come from Ryansmeade. Dad and Granddad were known to be two of the best cattlemen around. And though Ronnie had done well, Grand Champion, even Reserve Champion, had escaped my brother. Now that he had left for Purdue University, it would be up to me to bring the family the recognition it deserved.
Dad always said it wasn't about winning, but we all knew how it was between farmers in Practical County. The competition was tough. There were plenty of folks who knew an awful lot about raising and showing cattle. Then there were those who just thought they did. Like the Darlings.
Dad and Granddad had struck up their usual conversation.
“Had purty near an inch an’ a quarter Tuesday night. How much did they get in town?”
Rainfall. You'd think it would be a springtime topic. But not for farmers. They measured rainfall on a daily basis year-round, like a supermodel measures fat grams. Honestly, I didn't really see the point in keeping such close track of either one.
I studied the group of calves until I had a good idea which two were perfect for the Practical County Fair. There were mostly Angus, I noticed, their jet-black hair smooth and shiny in the sun. Here and there I spotted a Shorthorn, with big blotches of red and white on its sides. I had to admit, they were just about the sweetest group of calves I'd ever seen. Just thinking about taking two of them home to our own barn made me eager to cut the chatter and get on with it.
Granddad seemed to read my mind.
“I'll bet you'd like to pick out your calves and take them on home, wouldn't you, Libby?” he said with a grin.
“I've got them picked out already,” I told him.
“Do you, now? Well, I happen to have a couple in mind, too. Tell you what, Lib, you pick one, and then I'll pick you a champion.” He winked.
“Sounds fair to me,” I agreed.
“Well then, ladies first.”
“Okay,” I said. “How about this little guy right here?”
I pointed to the adorable Angus mix that had been sucking my fingers with the power of a vacuum cleaner. Granddad smiled and scratched the calf's black-and-white head.
“You read my mind, Libby dear. And now …”
Granddad's eyes scanned the lot.
“Pick me out a winner, Granddad.”
“Okay, well, how 'bout that fella right back there?”
My eyes followed his pointing finger to a smaller, black calf at the back of the lot. The calf turned to glance in our direction, then turned slowly away as if to say that he wasn't very impressed with us, either.
“Looks like he's a calm one,” Dad said with a nod.
Calm, sure. He wasn't skittish like some of the others. And he certainly wasn't jumpy. But was he even breathing?
I shot my dad a look of doubt, but he was already headed toward the stock trailer.
“Granddad?” I asked. “Are you sure about that one?”
I studied the Angus calf once again, looking for something appealing but finding nothing at all to make me want to take him home. He was a mess from the tip of his wet nose to the end of his matted, muddy tail.
Granddad's blue eyes sparkled. “Never been more sure of anything, Libby.”
Just like that, it was a done deal.
As we drove up the long lane to our place, we could hear both calves bellowing their displeasure at leaving the pasture.
“You're home, guys!” I shouted over the racket of their cries and the metal trailer bouncing up the gravel drive. I could hardly believe I had two of my very own animals to raise. It would be a project Dad and I could work on together. I couldn't remember ever doing anything with Dad that didn't involve Ronnie, too.
Home was a collection of buildings that surrounded a big square gravel barnyard. The barn was the center of it all, its huge black hip roof standing taller than even the tallest trees on the farm. A newer, metal machine shed stretched out along the north end of the barn, and to the south sat the old corncrib, granary, and chicken house. Our house stood tall in front of it all, a two-story yellow farmhouse, much newer than Granddad's, but an antique when compared to the houses in Nowhere that Mom had listed with the real estate agency.
“Oooh, Libby! They're so a-dor-able!” Frannie squealed as we unloaded the two calves from the trailer and into their pen. The first calf stepped with ease off of the back of the trailer, just as he had stepped up onto it at Granddad's. The second calf was much less willing to go and needed prodding.
“What are we going to name them?”
“We aren't going to name them anything,” I reminded my little sister. “I am going to name them, but not until I'm good and ready.”
Frannie scowled. She looked hurt. There it was again. That chubby-cheeked cherub face. Her unruly bangs had fallen over her sky blue eyes, and she used a plump fist to push them aside. Why'd she have to be so cute? I decided to humor her.
“Any ideas?”
Now that I was open to suggestions, Frannie's scowl disappeared. She had that I-thought-you'd-never-ask look on her face. It was a look that ranked somewhere between perky and disgusting.
“Yes,” she said decidedly. “My grandchildren think you should call them Toto and Dorothy.”
Why had I even bothered?
Frannie was a four-year-old with the vocabulary of a forty-year-old and an imagination the size of Texas. Some kids have imaginary friends, maybe even imaginary pets. But not my little sister. No, that would be too ordinary. My sister had imaginary grandchildren. Two of them. Sometimes her imaginary grandchildren were amusing, but most of the time, their very existence was embarrassing.
The worst part about the grandchildren was that I never knew exactly where they were. Sometimes I would sit on them—quite by accident, I assure you—and when that happened, we'd all get to experience the wrath of Fran.
“You sat on Esmerelda Emily!”
Eventually, I learned to try to avoid sitting down when Frannie was in the room.
The calves immediately began exploring their new surroundings. I broke a bale of straw into their pen. Delighted with the fresh bedding beneath him, the black-and-white calf skittered across the barn, kicking up his hind legs and scattering the clean yellow straw. The smaller calf stood in the corner of the pen, quietly surveying his new home.
“Yippee!” Frannie cheered as she climbed another step higher on the rusty pipe gate.
“Careful there.”
Dad's voice was serious, and it matched the look on his face, which was almost brown after a summer of wheat harvest and baling straw and hay. His skin showed some deep lines, mostly from the worries of farm life. Dad was all about work. Year-round, from before dawn to well into the night, Dad was either on a tractor, with the cattle, or fixing broken machinery. Not all that long ago, Dad's hair had been brown like mine, but recently the gray had begun to take over.
Ronnie had gotten Dad's tall, lanky build. My height, or lack of it, came from Mom's side of the family.
“Yeah, Frannie,” I echoed Dad's warning. “You better watch your step on that gate.”
But when I glanced at Dad I saw that it wasn't Frannie's climbing that had prompted his words of caution. He was looking right at me.
“Be careful there,” he repeated. “Fair calves don't need names.”
“Sure they do, Dad!” I protested. “We can't just go around saying, ‘Here, calf,’ for the rest of the year. Every barn animal has to be called something.”
Dad was used to his own cattle, who milled around in the feedlot behind the barn or roamed in the pasture out by the woods. Hundreds of them were raised each year on the Ryan farm. Sure, a person didn't name that kind of animal. But these were bucket babies, special little guys who needed care and attention.
“Suit yourself” was all he said as he stirred powdery milk replacer into two buckets of warm water. But then he added, “Your brother never named his show cattle.”
I was used to being compared with Ronnie. Dad missed him, now that he was at Purdue. I was sure of that. Dad and Ronnie used to sit at the kitchen table late into the night and plan the farm's next crop rotation, cattle sale, or machinery trade.
Humph. Well, I'm not Ronnie, I thought.
I took the first bucket. The watery milk was sweetsmelling and sticky, and the calves knew without a doubt it was feeding time. The special feeder for newborns had a soft plastic nipple attached, and the first calf nearly knocked the other over to get at it. He took the nipple without any coaxing, and I laughed as he sucked and slurped noisily. The calf gulped, tipped his head to the left, then to the right, and nearly jerked the bucket right out of my hands.
When he was finished, I had to pull back on the bucket and pry my fingers into the calf's mouth to get him to let go of the nipple. Frannie giggled at the little calf's strength.
“He eats like a pig!” she cried.
The calf tipped his head back to see if he could get anything else to eat out of my hands.
I had to agree. I looked into his wide black eyes and said, “Yes, sir, you are a little piggy!”
That was the moment Piggy acquired the perfect name, a name he would live up to with pride.
Naming the second calf wasn't quite so easy.
I got very little help when my best friend, Carol Ann, stopped by with her mom to see the new calves that evening. She opened the car door almost before her mother was completely stopped.
The Beef Princess of Practical County Page 1
