I will never forget the day I had my first encounter with a young calf’s mother. This is one lesson I had yet to learn, but this experience engrained in me the extent of a mother’s protection. I hopped across the cattle lot in my oversized boots, in toe of my father as we made the morning rounds. I stopped to take a look at the newly born calf, its wobbly legs and awkward bawl. My attention then turned directly to the mother not 30 yards away. I remember looking at the cow’s large, dark eyes, and its incessant glare. After what seemed liked a lifetime, she broke the fixation. She looked at me, at her calf and back at me. I looked at her, at my dad, and back at her. Within seconds the sound of her hooves hitting the pavement echoed in my ears. I closed my eyes stunned by fear and incapable of reacting any other way. Next thing I knew, I hit the ground with a thud after a brief flight instigated by her nose. I lay there curled for what seemed like hours, afraid of the cow, afraid to move. I opened one eye ever so slightly only to catch a glimpse of the cow’s rear end headed toward the other side of the lot. I slowly got to my feet, brushed myself off and looked for my father. There he stood by the fence almost in the exact same position before the encounter. He was completely unaffected by the transaction between the cow and me. I will never know my true facial reaction; only that it produced another one of my father’s infamous belly laughs. Note to self—a mother would do anything to protect her children.
The hot summer sun beat down on my shoulders as I sat down on the front steps, crayons, markers and colored pencils in hand ready to create my next masterpiece. A girl stuck in the country with no playmates for miles, except for an older brother whose idea of fun was making her cry, has to resort to creating dramas with her central characters as cats and her set built with metal and wood scraps. No one realized that these were the beginnings of a future drama teacher. The start of each new play began with drawings from my journal. Each drawing, not always depicting cats, was limited due to the inadequacies of my artistry, but the storylines in my head were vivid and imaginative; well, at least at the time I thought they were. Although they never demonstrated a beginning, middle or an end, the theme or general idea was evident. The only drama that I vaguely recall included three cat families; however, one family consisted of two cats and a Barbie. Each family had a home filled with furniture specifically a dining room table. (A majority of my family memories occurred at the dining room table, so I incorporated them into my dramas, I’m sure.) Imagine…a modest home whose walls were just two-by-fours outlining its perimeter and dining room tables were tin scraps rusty from the weather. In my mind, each home was an elaborate castle filled with a master table in an enormous dining hall. Atop the dining tables was a feast grander than Thanksgiving or Christmas and something that you would only read about in a medieval novel. Once I had the set constructed, it was time to round up the actors. Two of my favorite cats, calico in color named Cali and Stinker, were fairly tame and played along the best they could, which as one can imagine was not really playing along at all. The others were a little more difficult and varied in attendance from production to production. I did have tryouts to see who was up for the particular roles in mind. If a cat was particularly cooperative, they were cast in a lead role. No matter how many characters I intended for my play, I always ended up with only two or three per scene because that was all I could really manhandle at a given time. I would then act out scene-by-scene, and this particular one, family by family. I cannot call to mind the storyline in its entirety, but I do recall that the families were feuding, over what I cannot say. I acted out the play by being a puppeteer for each cat and giving each a specific voice. I had no idea the gender of the cats, so I can only imagine that I had males portraying females and vice versa. I do know that the abuse the cats received due to their lack of cooperation and my determination to produce a good play was beyond anyone’s imagination. These dramas could go on all afternoon, mostly due to the lengthy intermissions between scenes. The intermissions were used to round up new characters or to rebuild destroyed set due to an irate cat. Many times my mom would drag me back inside for supper, and I would reluctantly leave my play unfinished or wrap the final scene in a matter of seconds. Other times, heckling audience members, my brother, interrupted, and I was forced to close down production until a later date. No matter what happened, how unwilling the cats were, how rotten the storyline, this young director was entertained for hours and hours with her illustrated scripts, imaginative set construction, and intolerable actors. Disclosure: No cats were physically harmed during the production; psychological harm was undetermined.
As a young child I would spend every summer day heading out the door directly after breakfast to explore the edges and beyond of my family’s 250-acre property. While our home, barns, feedlots, and corn or bean fields made up much of the acreage, two places captivated much of my imagination. Behind our house was a grove and beyond that, through a pasture down the lane, lay the creek. If I didn’t return for lunch or supper on time, my mom always knew where to find me—discovering nature. I climbed the rickety fence in my yellow sundress and brown leather shoe-laced boots. Skipping to the edge of the grove, I discovered the first sign of life. Slinking across the trunk of an oak tree was a fuzzy, orange-brown caterpillar. I eyed it for a moment witnessing its path along the ridges of bark in awe of its movements. My curiosity getting the best of me, I slowly placed my finger in front of its track and felt the sticky legs attach itself to my skin. The caterpillar inched its way across my finger and as I stole it from its destination, I peered at the simple eyes and jaws wondering what its purpose was in life. I thought about the animals on our farm and their purpose. A person certainly did not eat caterpillars or reproduce caterpillars. I carefully peeled it off my finger and placed it in the front pocket of my dress, off to find other signs of life to add to my day’s collection. Everything in that grove appeared beautiful, but it didn’t hold me captive for long. I could hear the sounds of the trickling water in the distance, where I knew more interesting aspects would arouse my inquisitiveness. Beyond the rows of oak trees was a beaten path manufactured by the many treks of the tractor and four-wheelers that led to the blue water that flowed along the edge of our property. Now with two rocks, an unidentifiable insect, and my caterpillar, I continued my ramble through nature. Along the water’s edge was an array of rocks strategically placed as a means to stop run-off as well as stand for a link to the other edge of the creek. I always stopped to stare at the progression of the rocks from day to day with its color and growth, for even a rock was beautiful to me. I ripped off my boots, socks, and dress and went splashing into the water. Fish, weeds, bugs, you name it and I could find it. I completely submerged myself and slowly stroked my away along the creek’s bottom. Things underwater were not as beautiful as the flowers, animals and bugs on land, but their warped distinctions swarmed my imagination to their purpose and origin like the caterpillar before. A person certainly did not eat weeds, or reproduce weeds. I fingered every little thing in my vicinity pulling a few items here and there to the surface. My collection for the day grew to incorporate a selection of weeds, slimy sticks, and several water inhabitants. I noticed the sun had crawled overhead and knew that lunch would soon be ready. I wandered up the path with items in hand allowing the sun to dry my skin and hair. The two dress pockets were no match for the extensive items from my morning’s adventure. Pockets overflowing and hands full I approached the front stoop where my mother had already set out the appropriate containers to host my findings. Mom wouldn’t allow me to bring things inside, but I still snuck in a few items to hide under my pillow. Later I would return to observe and ponder the many objects from nature.
Summer days spent with Dad on the farm formed the long-standing bond, the best was lunchtime in the kitchen. Permeating the entire room, the loud sound of the Eagles, while we two-stepped around the room. Accumulating the ingredients for diet chili, odds and ends from the cupboard and fridge. Moments like these will never escape my thoughts of my dad, with the motto “Don’t forget the Spam.”
I will never forget the day I had my first encounter with a young calf’s mother. This is one lesson I had yet to learn, but this experience engrained in me the extent of a mother’s protection. I hopped across the cattle lot in my oversized boots, in toe of my father as we made the morning rounds. I stopped to take a look at the newly born calf, its wobbly legs and awkward bawl. My attention then turned directly to the mother not 30 yards away.
ReplyDeleteI remember looking at the cow’s large, dark eyes, and its incessant glare. After what seemed liked a lifetime, she broke the fixation. She looked at me, at her calf and back at me. I looked at her, at my dad, and back at her. Within seconds the sound of her hooves hitting the pavement echoed in my ears. I closed my eyes stunned by fear and incapable of reacting any other way. Next thing I knew, I hit the ground with a thud after a brief flight instigated by her nose. I lay there curled for what seemed like hours, afraid of the cow, afraid to move.
I opened one eye ever so slightly only to catch a glimpse of the cow’s rear end headed toward the other side of the lot. I slowly got to my feet, brushed myself off and looked for my father. There he stood by the fence almost in the exact same position before the encounter. He was completely unaffected by the transaction between the cow and me. I will never know my true facial reaction; only that it produced another one of my father’s infamous belly laughs. Note to self—a mother would do anything to protect her children.
The hot summer sun beat down on my shoulders as I sat down on the front steps, crayons, markers and colored pencils in hand ready to create my next masterpiece. A girl stuck in the country with no playmates for miles, except for an older brother whose idea of fun was making her cry, has to resort to creating dramas with her central characters as cats and her set built with metal and wood scraps. No one realized that these were the beginnings of a future drama teacher.
ReplyDeleteThe start of each new play began with drawings from my journal. Each drawing, not always depicting cats, was limited due to the inadequacies of my artistry, but the storylines in my head were vivid and imaginative; well, at least at the time I thought they were. Although they never demonstrated a beginning, middle or an end, the theme or general idea was evident.
The only drama that I vaguely recall included three cat families; however, one family consisted of two cats and a Barbie. Each family had a home filled with furniture specifically a dining room table. (A majority of my family memories occurred at the dining room table, so I incorporated them into my dramas, I’m sure.) Imagine…a modest home whose walls were just two-by-fours outlining its perimeter and dining room tables were tin scraps rusty from the weather. In my mind, each home was an elaborate castle filled with a master table in an enormous dining hall. Atop the dining tables was a feast grander than Thanksgiving or Christmas and something that you would only read about in a medieval novel. Once I had the set constructed, it was time to round up the actors.
Two of my favorite cats, calico in color named Cali and Stinker, were fairly tame and played along the best they could, which as one can imagine was not really playing along at all. The others were a little more difficult and varied in attendance from production to production. I did have tryouts to see who was up for the particular roles in mind. If a cat was particularly cooperative, they were cast in a lead role. No matter how many characters I intended for my play, I always ended up with only two or three per scene because that was all I could really manhandle at a given time.
I would then act out scene-by-scene, and this particular one, family by family. I cannot call to mind the storyline in its entirety, but I do recall that the families were feuding, over what I cannot say. I acted out the play by being a puppeteer for each cat and giving each a specific voice. I had no idea the gender of the cats, so I can only imagine that I had males portraying females and vice versa. I do know that the abuse the cats received due to their lack of cooperation and my determination to produce a good play was beyond anyone’s imagination.
These dramas could go on all afternoon, mostly due to the lengthy intermissions between scenes. The intermissions were used to round up new characters or to rebuild destroyed set due to an irate cat. Many times my mom would drag me back inside for supper, and I would reluctantly leave my play unfinished or wrap the final scene in a matter of seconds. Other times, heckling audience members, my brother, interrupted, and I was forced to close down production until a later date.
No matter what happened, how unwilling the cats were, how rotten the storyline, this young director was entertained for hours and hours with her illustrated scripts, imaginative set construction, and intolerable actors.
Disclosure: No cats were physically harmed during the production; psychological harm was undetermined.
As a young child I would spend every summer day heading out the door directly after breakfast to explore the edges and beyond of my family’s 250-acre property. While our home, barns, feedlots, and corn or bean fields made up much of the acreage, two places captivated much of my imagination. Behind our house was a grove and beyond that, through a pasture down the lane, lay the creek. If I didn’t return for lunch or supper on time, my mom always knew where to find me—discovering nature.
ReplyDeleteI climbed the rickety fence in my yellow sundress and brown leather shoe-laced boots. Skipping to the edge of the grove, I discovered the first sign of life. Slinking across the trunk of an oak tree was a fuzzy, orange-brown caterpillar. I eyed it for a moment witnessing its path along the ridges of bark in awe of its movements. My curiosity getting the best of me, I slowly placed my finger in front of its track and felt the sticky legs attach itself to my skin. The caterpillar inched its way across my finger and as I stole it from its destination, I peered at the simple eyes and jaws wondering what its purpose was in life. I thought about the animals on our farm and their purpose. A person certainly did not eat caterpillars or reproduce caterpillars. I carefully peeled it off my finger and placed it in the front pocket of my dress, off to find other signs of life to add to my day’s collection.
Everything in that grove appeared beautiful, but it didn’t hold me captive for long. I could hear the sounds of the trickling water in the distance, where I knew more interesting aspects would arouse my inquisitiveness. Beyond the rows of oak trees was a beaten path manufactured by the many treks of the tractor and four-wheelers that led to the blue water that flowed along the edge of our property. Now with two rocks, an unidentifiable insect, and my caterpillar, I continued my ramble through nature. Along the water’s edge was an array of rocks strategically placed as a means to stop run-off as well as stand for a link to the other edge of the creek. I always stopped to stare at the progression of the rocks from day to day with its color and growth, for even a rock was beautiful to me.
I ripped off my boots, socks, and dress and went splashing into the water. Fish, weeds, bugs, you name it and I could find it. I completely submerged myself and slowly stroked my away along the creek’s bottom. Things underwater were not as beautiful as the flowers, animals and bugs on land, but their warped distinctions swarmed my imagination to their purpose and origin like the caterpillar before. A person certainly did not eat weeds, or reproduce weeds. I fingered every little thing in my vicinity pulling a few items here and there to the surface. My collection for the day grew to incorporate a selection of weeds, slimy sticks, and several water inhabitants.
I noticed the sun had crawled overhead and knew that lunch would soon be ready. I wandered up the path with items in hand allowing the sun to dry my skin and hair. The two dress pockets were no match for the extensive items from my morning’s adventure. Pockets overflowing and hands full I approached the front stoop where my mother had already set out the appropriate containers to host my findings. Mom wouldn’t allow me to bring things inside, but I still snuck in a few items to hide under my pillow. Later I would return to observe and ponder the many objects from nature.
Summer days spent with Dad on the farm formed the long-standing bond,
ReplyDeletethe best was lunchtime in the kitchen.
Permeating the entire room, the loud sound of the Eagles,
while we two-stepped around the room.
Accumulating the ingredients for diet chili,
odds and ends from the cupboard and fridge.
Moments like these will never escape my thoughts of my dad,
with the motto “Don’t forget the Spam.”