The old blue flatbed Chevy pickup, surrounded by a dozen hungry cows, crept slowly along through the rough, half-frozen field as I flaked hay off of the bed. In its gentle wake behind us, 300 cows strung out for a couple hundred yards and contentedly partook of the daily offering. Every so often a nervous mother, in search of her newborn calf, would let loose with an anxious bawl. Through the chill of the early spring morning, the sun rose over the familiar mountains to the east and illuminated the bright blue sky, its rays reflecting off of the few brilliant white clouds a thousand feet above us, whose purpose, it seemed, was simply to accentuate the essence of the idyllic scene.
Sitting behind the wheel in the cab of the old truck was Lexy, my soon-to-be daughter-in-law. Next to Lexy was Penny, my 3-year-old granddaughter who idolized her future aunt and barely left Lexy’s side for the entirety of their three-day visit. Lexy was a city girl with hardly an inkling of ranch life, yet she had an insatiable curiosity about our agrarian ways and a sincere eagerness to learn all she could about what made it all tick. She was especially interested in the business side of things, and I was excited about the prospect of adding her sharp mind and business acumen to our often-disorganized enterprise. Trailing along behind the truck was my son, and Lexy’s betrothed, Peyton. I’d equipped him with a rope and instructions to watch for untagged calves, particularly those with a few days age on them that would soon be next to impossible to catch and tag before branding time. Aside from the simple joy I got from having some of my family around for a few days, I hoped to take advantage of the cheap, able-bodied labor while I could.
As I kicked the last of the hay from the bed of the truck, Peyton trotted up, and with just a hint of excitement mingled with a dash of trepidation in his voice informed me that Old 507 had a day-old calf bedded down over in the corner by the old orchard. I didn’t need to ask why he hadn’t tagged the calf. Old 507 was, without a doubt, my most notorious cow. Always one of the first cows to calve each year, she consistently raised one of the biggest calves in the herd. Yet her propensity for efficiency and profitability was secondary in the cause for her notoriety. She was a touch on the wild side, and when she had a calf at her side she was a head-hunting man-eater. Probably due to her advanced age of 17 years, she’d calved a little later this year and was probably due for the cull pen that fall, provided I could keep her in the corral long enough to load her on the trailer on the appointed day.
I instructed Lexy to drive the pickup over to where 507 stood pawing the ground and blowing snot, her head held high in the air and her one crooked horn appearing more menacing than usual. As we got close to our prey, and before the crafty old girl could fully realize our intentions, I flipped a loop over the head of the unsuspecting baby calf and pulled him up onto the truck bed. The little bull let out a startled cry, and the circus was underway.
The old cow went into full-on rage mode as she madly came after the truck and any living creature in its vicinity. She tried to come after me as I held the calf between my legs. She jumped up onto the truck bed but thankfully could only manage to keep her front legs on the slick steel surface. She then circled the old pickup, making a ruckus that could be heard across the valley. Penny glued herself to Lexy’s side as the demon cow thrust her head into the open window of the driver’s side door, bellaring and slobbering and shaking in a fit of matronly rage. Though nearly paralyzed with fear, Lexy showed none of it as she wrapped a comforting arm around Penny and didn’t move a muscle.
Peyton and I finished tagging and banding the calf and slipped him off the back of the truck. The maniacal bovine mama turned her attention to me as I smacked her on the head with the rope. She found her baby and finally trotted off across the frozen field with the calf in tow.
Despite her urban upbringing and her encounter with a deranged beast, Lexy, to her everlasting credit and our eternal gratitude, still chose to become a permanent part of our family.
Some five-plus years later on the eve of Lexy’s funeral service, I stood with a grief-burdened heart and tear-filled eyes, pen and notebook in hand, as I struggled to record a memory of Lexy for the benefit of her and Peyton’s 7-month-old baby son, Eddy. I hoped to capture the essence of Eddy’s mama so he could someday hopefully learn, know, understand and appreciate who she was and the good stock he came from. I decided the story of Lexy’s run-in with Old 507 was an apt tribute to her and her approach to living and the battles she faced in life, not the least of which was the fight with the terminal cancer that ultimately took her from us.
As I prepare to honor the birth of our Savior at the end of a tumultuous year, I hope to continue to learn from my sweet daughter-in-law’s life and example. May we all trade our jealousy and pettiness for empathy, our bitterness for mercy, our selfish obstinance for forgiveness, our hate for love and our broken hearts for hope.
Merry Christmas.
