Moo

by Sharon Creech

  DEDICATION

  For

  Karin, Mark, Pearl and Nico

  with special thanks to

  Pearl, Greta and Audrey

  and all the

  dedicated

  4-H-ers

  at

  Aldermere Farm

  and to their intrepid leader,

  Heidi

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  That Zora

  But First, Before Zora

  Flight Path

  Which Is How

  People Said

  Why Maine?

  Friend Withdrawal

  Welcome to Maine

  Harbor Town

  A Cow

  The Farm

  The House on Twitch Street

  Inside

  Don’t You Touch Me

  Beat and Zep

  Employment

  Misty Morning

  Rocks

  Back to Twitch Street

  The Books

  We Went

  Disrespect

  Prickly

  Charming

  Meltdowns

  The Next Day

  The Barn

  Scoop and Shovel

  Cow!

  Zora

  Mrs. Falala’s Plan

  A Day Off

  The Outfits

  Setback

  Mucking About

  Color

  Bugs

  Bodily Fluids

  Lonely

  Fog

  Dreams

  Plans

  A Long Line

  A Friend

  Yolanda Arrives

  Training

  Rain Day

  Sad Zep

  Whaaaat?

  Sympathy?

  Agitation

  Face the Facts

  Show Stick

  Beauty Day

  To the Fair

  Fairgrounds

  More Primping

  Showtime!

  Catch That Heifer

  Showmanship

  Breed

  Rides

  Phone Call

  Speculation

  Waiting

  Notebook

  Dripping

  Puzzled

  The Search

  Portraits

  Mrs. Falala’s Gifts

  More Dripping

  The Proposal

  Six Months Later

  About the Author

  Books by Sharon Creech

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  THAT ZORA

  The truth is, she was ornery and stubborn, wouldn’t listen to a n y b o d y, and selfish beyond selfish, and filthy, caked with mud and dust, and moody: you’d better watch it or she’d knock you flat.

  That’s Zora I’m talking about. Nobody wanted anything to do with her.

  Zora: that cow.

  BUT FIRST, BEFORE ZORA . . .

  I am Reena, twelve years and two months old, formerly of a big city, a city of monuments, and people of many colors, a harlequin city

  of sights and noises,

  of museums and parks and music

  and cockroaches and rats

  and mosquitoes and crickets

  and fireworks and traffic

  and helicopters whopping overhead

  and sirens screaming through the air

  and that’s how we lived for a time

  me and my parents and brother

  zzzoooooooooommmming

  on the

  subway

  or creeeeeping along in buses or cars

  in

  to

  and

  around

  the city

  trawling through the museums

  ogling

  the dinosaurs and artifacts

  ambling through the zoo

  listening to the ROARS and SCREEEEEECHES

  and scrabbles and warbles

  staring at the l a z y crawls

  of bored animals.

  Yes, for a time that’s how we lived.

  FLIGHT PATH

  Then one day, when we were stuck in traffic

  behind a tall gray bus spewing exhaust

  with horns HONKing

  and people YELLing

  and sirens WAILing—

  on a day that was hotter than hotter than HOT

  my mother asked my father a question.

  A question can swirl your world.

  My parents had recently lost their jobs when the newspaper they worked for went out of business. We were on our way to drop my father off at another job interview.

  So, my mother said, do you still like reporting?

  Not so much, my father admitted.

  Is that what you see yourself doing ten years from now?

  Um—

  Because that’s the flight path we’re on.

  I was sitting in the backseat with my brother, Luke, a seven-year-old complexity. Sometimes he acted as if he were two, and sometimes twelve. He was full of questions and energy and opinions except when you wanted him to have any of those things.

  Luke was drawing with a black marker in the yellow notebook that was nearly always with him. He drew for hours and hours: contorted heroes leaping and jumping and vaporizing; bizarre enemies with gaping mouths and sharp talons and horns; and complicated towns with alleys and bridges and dungeons.

  In the car, when Mom said, Because that’s the flight path we’re on, Luke said, Flight path? We’re not in an airplane, you know. We’re in a car and we’re on a road, but I noticed that he was adding a runway and an airplane to his drawing.

  Drivers all around us were HONKing their horns like crazy, and the smells and the heat and the NOISE were pouring in the windows and

  squeezing us

  from all sides.

  Let’s get out of here, my mother said.

  My father took his hands off the wheel and raised his palms to the sky.

  No, I mean out of this city, my mother said.

  Let’s move.

  To—?

  Maine! I said.

  My parents turned to look at me.

  Then they looked at each other.

  Then they looked at me again.

  Maine! they said. Of course!

  My parents had met in Maine many years ago

  and when they spoke of Maine

  their voices had the glint of sea and sky.

  In the car that day,

  Maine just popped out of my head.

  I hadn’t expected they would take me seriously.

  I’m glad I didn’t say Siberia.

  WHICH IS HOW . . .

  Which is how I came to meet Zora, though not quite so easily as it might sound because first we had to give our landlord a month’s notice and then we had to clear out all our closets and cupboards and the dreaded storage garage. Then we had to lug some of that outside for a yard sale and the rest to the Salvation Army and then we had to clean and watch as future renters tromped through our rooms noting

  how small they were and how old

  and how dark and

  it

  was

  embarrassing.

  And then there was the packing and moving of the beds and clothes and books and pots and pans—oh, it hurts my head to remember it so let’s skip it.

  PEOPLE SAID . . .

  My parents’ friends said

  Are you crazy?

  and

  It gets cold in Maine, you know.

  and

  There are giant mosquitoes in Maine.

  and

  It gets cold in Maine, you know.

  and

  Why? Why? Why?

  But some others said

  They have lots of lobsters there.

  and />
  Great blueberries in Maine!

  and

  Beautiful ocean and mountains!

  and

  Great skiing!

  and

  Lots of lobsters!

  Lots of blueberries!

  Though . . . it does get cold there

  you know?

  Luke said

  How did this happen

  this moving thing?

  In his yellow notebook

  Luke drew a winged dragon

  scaled in gold

  flying through purple skies

  grasping a house, a car,

  beds, tables, and chairs

  in its black talons.

  WHY MAINE?

  Why did I say Maine! that day?

  Let’s move to Maine!

  Because I’d read a book about it—

  three books in fact:

  two were stories about a family’s life

  on an island in Maine

  and one was a book of photographs

  of rocky shores and lighthouses

  and vast oceans with breaking waves

  and high blue mountains

  and while I was reading those books

  and looking at those pictures

  I was there already

  in my mind.

  I was clambering over rocks

  and wading in the ocean.

  I was hiking up a mountain

  and standing at the top

  peering down the steep hillsides

  to the ocean beyond.

  I was there.

  Maine.

  It had such a sound to it

  such a feel.

  And yet . . .

  I’d always lived in the city

  I was full of buses and subways

  and traffic and tall buildings

  and crowds of people

  and city noises

  honking and sirens and

  helicopterwhirring

  and city smells

  bakeries and car exhaust

  hot dogs and coffee

  and city lights so bright . . .

  Was there room inside for

  the sights and sounds and smells

  of

  Maine?

  Would I know what to do

  and how to be

  in

  Maine?

  FRIEND WITHDRAWAL

  The few friends I had didn’t believe me when I told them we were moving to Maine, and then when I’d convinced them, they acted excited about it, but as the days went by, I realized they were already forgetting me. It seemed they didn’t want to waste friend effort on someone who was leaving town.

  One of them said, You’re going to get all Maine-y.

  I wasn’t sure what “all Maine-y” meant, but whatever it was, they had decided it was undesirable.

  My parents had similar reactions from their friends. At first people thought they were joking, and then they seemed excited and curious, but gradually they became less and less interested.

  My mother was hurt by that, but my father said, Maybe they’re jealous or maybe they feel you’re abandoning them.

  When Luke told his latest friend, Toonie, that we were moving to Maine and that it was far away and he couldn’t come over to her house anymore, she socked him on the nose and called him a stupid doofy head.

  When Luke told Dad about his encounter with Toonie, Dad said, Well, who knows, maybe we’re all stupid doofy heads.

  WELCOME TO MAINE

  With that white chalky paint

  that newlyweds write

  Just Married

  on their cars

  we wrote

  Moving to Maine!

  And all along the way

  as cars and trucks passed us

  people honked their horns and waved.

  Some rolled down their windows

  and shouted: Maine!

  and some scribbled signs

  and held them up for us to see:

  Eat some lobstah for me!

  and

  I love Maine!

  and

  We’re so jealous!

  but one guy’s sign read

  It’s COLD there!

  At the border

  we pulled over and posed beside

  the WELCOME TO MAINE sign.

  People honked their horns like crazy

  as they sped past us.

  Maine!

  In a small town three hours up the coast

  we parked by the post office

  and walked to a diner for lunch

  and when we returned there was a note

  on our windshield:

  Welcome to Maine!

  We hope you like it here.

  The ocean was a block away—

  you could smell that salty air.

  People were walking their dogs

  and their kids

  and the church bells were chiming

  and the sky was blue.

  Maine!

  Dad stepped in dog poop

  that oozed into every crevice

  of his running shoes

  but still:

  Maine! We’d made it!

  HARBOR TOWN

  It was the beginning of summer

  and we thought we’d landed on another planet:

  a boat-bobbing

  sea salty harbor town

  with people strolling the docks

  eating ice cream and lobster rolls.

  Gentle mountains rose up opposite the harbor

  and curled around it

  wrapping the town

  in their bluegreen embrace.

  How exactly did we get here? Luke said.

  He drew towering mountains

  and steep cliffs

  above jagged rocks

  and tiny, fragile boats

  bobbing in the ocean below.

  We made our way

  to the place my parents had rented:

  a small old house

  with a woodstove inside

  and an apple tree outside

  and a chipmunk on the doorstep

  and a chickadee nest in a lilac tree

  and spiders in the woodpile.

  That same day our parents said

  Go on, ride your bikes.

  Check out the town.

  We’ve got unpacking to do.

  Go!

  What? we said. By ourselves?

  In the city where we’d lived

  there were few safe places

  for us to ride—

  few places where we weren’t competing

  with cars and trucks and buses

  and surprise clumps of kids

  armed with sticks and stones

  or wobbly bearded men spitting

  but here in this little town by the sea

  there were wide sidewalks

  and quiet, curving lanes

  spreading like tree limbs

  from the trunk of the town center

  and you could ride and ride

  the whole day long.

  We rode down streets and trails

  discovering our new town

  its people and dogs and old houses

  its winding lanes and gnarled trees.

  One day we passed a farm

  and Luke shouted, Oreo cows!

  Black-and-white cows

  (black in front and back

  with a wide white fur belt)

  munched at the grass.

  A girl about my age

  in rubber boots

  stood near us

  on the other side of the fence.

  Belted Galloways, they’re called,

  she said.

  Or just Belties, for short.

  Purty, right?

  A COW

  Maybe I had imagined a cow was like a

  LARGE lamb:

  soft, furry, gentle, uttering sweet

  sounds.

  But oh—

  not so, not so!


  One of the Belted Galloways

  lumbered up to the fence

  and pushed its

  ENORMOUS HEAD

  with its

  ENORMOUS NOSE

  toward us and uttered a

  DEEP DEEP LOUD

  MOOOOO

  so loud and deep as if it were

  coming from low down in the ground

  and traveling up through the cow’s legs

  and body and head and out of that

  ENORMOUS

  SLOBBERY

  MOUTH:

  MOOOOO

  so LOUD and surprising that we

  j u m p e dback

  and the girl in the rubber boots

  gave us a pitying look

  as if she were thinking

  Silly tourists!

  And I wanted to say

  No, no, we’re not tourists!

  We live here now!

  More cows ambled up to the fence

  nudging their

  ENORMOUS HEADS AND NOSES

  between the wires of the fence

  and bellowing the

  DEEPEST LOUDEST

  MOOOOOS.

  Luke’s hands were pressed tight against his

  ears.

  Flies

  dipped

  herethere

  and

  amid the smell of

  cow dung.

  THE FARM

  Out riding around on our bikes, Luke and I passed that farm nearly every day. On the gate was a blue and white sign:

  BIRCHMERE FARM.

  I’d never been to a farm before our move to Maine, and I wasn’t sure what I thought of this one at first. On sunny days, it looked inviting, with its green pastures and its barns, and cows dotting the hillsides and gathered in the pens. On the first rainy day, though, when Luke and I stopped by the fence, it looked muddy and sloppy and smelled of sawdust and manure. Flies dogged the animals and the stalls.

  Up close, the cows were thick and wide, with heads as big as kegs, and black eyes the size of oranges, and wide sweating nostrils, and they let out loud, low mooooos. They scared me, to tell the truth.

  A rotating group of teenagers showed up each day to work with the animals. Only a few adults were around, driving tractors or trucks. We watched the teenagers fill feed bins and water buckets and climb fences and tromp through sawdust and lean against cows. Luke often sat on the grass and drew. His heroes, now, took on the look of farmers brandishing halters and conquering giant cow-like creatures.

  THE HOUSE ON TWITCH STREET

  Just before you reached the farm

  at the far edge of town

  at the end of Twitch Street

  was a tall, narrow house

  that tilted to one side.

  Thick, twisted vines crept up

  the side of the gray house