ALL DRESSED UP TO FETCH COWS

This short story is based on a childhood memory of pride, cowpies, and unexpected wisdom, exploring how love and belonging often manifest in the most humbling circumstances.

Pride Goeth before a Fall…or a cowpie!

During my early childhood, visits to my grandparents’ farm were pure magic. Their home greeted you with warm smiles and the comforting aroma of Grama’s pies, where each slice gave one the sense of belonging. Grampa’s booming laugh and sky-high twirls made every arrival feel like a celebration. I belonged there, leaving me in no doubt as to where my loyalty of heart stood.

We usually visit in the summer, at Christmas, and occasionally around Thanksgiving. But one Easter, dressed in my Sunday best, with brand-new white shoes, frilly socks and a heart full of pride. I recall the usual high anticipation of excitement, expecting an even broader smile from my grandfather after he sees me in all my Easter finery. I could hardly wait!

Instead, fate had me walking behind cows. Grampa was heading out to fetch them when we arrived. As I ran up to him, I called out, “Grampa, look at my new shoes!” Yet to my dismay, expecting to see his broad grin as he came into sight, he barely glanced but uttered, “You’ll be fetchin' cows in those?” Not altogether the response I was looking for, with this polished-up version of me.

Now, most of the time spent at the farm was filled with adventure play and exciting learning opportunities alongside my brother during our early childhood. This memory, however, was not among those wonders of the past, but turned out to be more like a drudgery chore.

Wanting to please, I followed my intuition and did my best to walk behind the cows as instructed, with a gleeful attitude. After all, I was always happy and willing to be a helper, and he would always find something I could do that pleased both him and me.

There would be much food for thought during that walk behind the cows. At such a young age, I was about to learn what mutual disappointment really looks and feels like, especially noticing the unusual, stern-like reaction in voice and expression from my usually jolly Grampa.

I would not understand until much later that my grandfather who had no appreciation for such an overt display of showing off oneself, in fact, very proudly loved to find ways to “bring anyone doing so down a peg or two,” which to my dismay is why I ended up walking behind the cattle and not up front with Grampa leading them in from the field.

Instructions were given to me gruffly to keep the cows following in a straight line, following the fence line path up to the barn. In my eagerness to please, despite having never walked behind the cows, I meekly followed and obeyed as requested, thinking it would make him proud that I was doing as he asked. Since there was no time to change into my working clothes, or I would miss the opportunity to bring a smile to my Grampa’s face, I had to take my chances in all my new finery.

Inwardly, I was afraid of being in that position. Those cows seemed like giants to me at the age of six, and I was unsure if I could stop them from going in another direction if inclined to do so. It’s hard to describe the smells, especially when tails lifted and mushy messes dropped right in the middle of my path.

I wondered if my grandfather knew all along what would happen. No matter that he was right, as it did not take long before my pride in my clothing was in shatters. At that exact moment, with pride crushed, I would experience thoughts for the first time of not being in the right place at the right time. With feet stamping the ground in anger, I even said out loud, “I do not belong here!”

As one could easily guess, the inevitable happened. What comes naturally to cows in the form of cow dung, or ‘cow pies’ as we called them, could not be avoided. Not a total surprise, as it all happened at the narrowest part of the path.

There was no avoiding stepping right into the middle of what seemed to be the biggest giant 'cowpie' of all time! I could sense its warmth as my foot slowly sank into the fresh, muddy substance, which was deep enough to cover my brand-new shoes and socks. They were ruined, never to be seen in the same light again.

I cried and cried over those ruined shoes. Even after being cleaned up, a greenish hue lingered, staining their former glory. The socks never regained their bright newness, leaving even the little frills around the top limp and lifeless.

To make matters worse, I found myself not minding that my grandmother had a great deal to say to my grandfather about the whole situation. She was well accustomed to shenanigans and understood precisely what he was trying to do.

My grandmother’s displeasure name for my grandfather was a loud and quick, “Jack!” displayed like a whip lash, with a vocal force that could not be mistaken. When on good terms, it was always a more softly spoken “John?” Indicating caution. This time around, Grampa was subject to one of those high-pitched, loud exclamations, leaving him even more displeased with me for crying about my shoes and having to be in Granma's bad books.

My exceeding pleasure in showing off my new clothes, in my grandfather’s eye, was something that only “proud city folks” displayed. In his mind, high fashion was not appreciated by ‘country folks.’ It seems, in his eyes, that I had not measured up to clan standards belonging to the rural country. I couldn't understand that to him, my primping was a show of haughtiness! Something farm folks do not display. My tears freely flowed for the rest of the day, not only in disappointment, but with the feeling of being pushed away by my Grampa’s dissatisfaction with me.

My grandfather’s all-time favourite way of making fun of my tears is his drawn-out response, “Ba-hoop, Ba-hoop,” whenever I cry. There would be no consolation for either one of us. I was in my room sobbing, filled with thoughts of not belonging. Grampa was off to sulk in the work shed until the supper bell rang.

The Supper Bell Truce

The supper bell at the farm was more than just a call to eat—it was a kind of reset button. No matter what had happened during the day, once that bell rang, the promise of food and family gathered around the table seemed to soften even the hardest edges. That evening, after the cowpie catastrophe and the tears that followed, I remember the sound of that bell echoing across the yard like a peace offering.

Grampa emerged from the work shed, his face still wearing stubborn lines of pride and irritation. I shuffled in from my room, eyes puffy, socks replaced, shoes nowhere to be seen. Granma had already set the table, her movements brisk but purposeful, the clatter of dishes speaking volumes. No one said much at first. The silence was thick, but not altogether uncomfortable. It turned out to be just the kind that settles in when everyone knows the lesson has already been learned.

Then, as if on cue, Grampa reached for the mashed potatoes and muttered, “Well, at least you didn’t fall face-first into it.” A chuckle escaped him, low and gravelly. I looked up, unsure whether to laugh or cry again. But Grama, ever the referee, gave a small snort and said, “Jack, you ought to be ashamed.” He winked at me. And just like that, the truce was sealed.

If walking behind cows all dolled up in my Sunday best taught me about pride and humility, what came next revealed something even more profound about the strange, unpredictable ways love can show up in one’s memory, even sometimes in disguise. Compassion, empathy, and acceptance of the differences between us are essential factors in getting along, providing the fuel to nurture one’s sense of belonging.

Looking at this mutual disappointment from an adult view, I can better understand that sometimes things do not go as planned. Sometimes one can indeed feel entirely out of place. Sometimes it is best to keep your views to yourself, if only to maintain your dignity. Self-disappointments can come in many forms, and in my case, it took ruined shoes to teach me that pride walks a fine line, and sometimes it walks behind cows.