Negotiations: Reprimand
I walked, didn’t run, past the cow.
Sure, this wasn’t going well.
But not wanting to seem uncool –– I was sixteen after all –– I moved with a swager and self-assurance I didn’t have.
As planned, Oscar Miller picked me up midday at the crossroads where the Greyhound bus dropped me. Loading my bag in the back seat he asked, “do you have boots.” I said yes.
“Better put them on.”
“Now?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Opening my bag I got out my new boots. Sitting on the back seat with the door open I replaced my Keds with the boots, shut the door and joined Oscar in the front. He pulled the lever into drive and we were off down the dirt road. He’s said the farm was a good twenty miles off.
It was hot and dry. The car at speed on dirt left a plume of dust. The crunching, rattling sound of gravel thrown up by the wheels made conversation difficult.
After a time, Oscar slowed, pulled over and pointing to a lone cow grazing on the side of the road said, “we need to get her back behind the fence.”
Getting out of the car he continued with, “I have emphysema from being gassed in the war. I can’t run, so you’ll have to do this.”
Knowing nothing about cows beyond milk cartons with cows on them, I felt the uneasiness beginning to rise within.
“Here, Ted, take my hat. Go up there past the cow, careful not to disturb her. Once past, say ten feet or so, turn and begin to jump up and down, yell as loud as you can and wave your arms wildly. She’ll trot down here, and I’ll shoo her into the gate.”
“Simple, see?”
Hat in hand, doubt in my belly, I head up the road giving the cow a wide birth as I pass her. She’s big.
Reaching the ten feet beyond I turn and look at Oscar, look at the cow, and feel the doubt overtaking me.
I wave my hands and say, “move cow,” knowing this is hopeless, knowing I’m going to fail.
Oscar yells instructions. I try jumping up and down. Nothing. The cow looks at me through brown, demure eyes and continues to chew. I’m helpless.
Oscar, disgusted heads my way. Takes the hat, and says, “go down and hold out the gate like I was. Hurry!”
I run down and grab up the wire gate from the ground while Oscar yells, “Yee-haw, giddy up little baby. Haw! Haw!”
Turning I see the cow trotting my way with Oscar in close pursuit waving his hat and arms wildly. The cow trots neatly past me and the gate, and into the field, looking back at Oscar with a defiant “moo.”
Oscar helps me leverage the gate back into position.
Back in the car, in deep shame I say nothing. Thankfully neither does Oscar.
Arriving at the farm Oscar points to some men working in the field, “see those men?”
I nod.
“Here take these gloves. Go up there. They’ll tell you what to do.”
I take the gloves. And knowing this is make or break it time, I break into a dead heat towards the two men. Getting close I see they’re picking up bundles of hay and standing them in shocks. Shocks like the Halloween decorations at church. Arriving, they assign me to a row, and I try to build shocks, matching theirs. Big John quickly notes I don’t know what I’m doing and gives me a few pointers.
I catch on and soon I’m doing it. Not as fast or as skillfully as John and Dave. But I’m doing it. We work at it in the heat for two-three hours. I’m hot and fragments of the straw sick to my sweat drenched skin. I itch from head to toe, but I keep it up, proud to be sharing the work. A bit before six, John looking at his watch says, “supper time,” and we stop and take a breath.
Dave, looking at my unfinished row, nods to John and they pitch in to help me finish my row. Finaly, now really done for the day, John wipes his brow, takes a swig of water and passes me the burlap rapped Clorox bottle that serves as a canteen. I take a drink and pass it to Dave, and we start the long walk down to the farm house.
On the way in Dave slaps me on the back and says, “you’ll be okay.”
And, lesson learned, I knew I was okay.
