Show Day | The Sun Magazine
Search<br>RenewSubscribePersonal. Political.
Provocative. Ad-free.Subscribe and Save up to 45%<br>Renew your subscriptionGIVE A GIFT SUBSCRIPTION<br>SUBSCRIBEGIVE A GIFT SUBSCRIPTION
Independent, Reader-<br>Supported Publishing<br>Subscribe and Save up to 45%<br>Renew your subscriptionSUBSCRIBE<br>GIVE A GIFT SUBSCRIPTION
My Account<br>Sign Out<br>Sign In
Cart<br>Current issue<br>archivesarrowFeatured Selections<br>Shop Print Issues<br>Browse by year<br>Browse topics<br>Browse Sections
© Patricia O’Brien
Essays, Memoirs & True StoriesShow Day<br>By Doug Crandell•June 2019<br>Print<br>Print<br>Share<br>Email<br>Facebook<br>Twitter
My whole family went to the Reynolds Beef Farm to pick out my calf. It would be my first year showing a steer in the Wabash County 4-H Fair, and I was excited, even though my older brothers, Derrick and Darren, had warned me not to get too attached. “It’s not a dog,” they’d said. I’d nodded and agreed as I thought up possible names for my calf. I had a two-page list of them on yellow legal-pad paper, which I kept folded in my big World Book Dictionary.
We rode in the used station wagon Dad had bought with money he’d made working overtime at the ceiling-tile factory. It was 1978, and at the age of ten I could barely contain my glee at the idea of having my own animal to raise and dote on. Derrick and Darren had already found theirs, but mine would come from a farm two counties over and require a delivery. The Crandells participated in 4-H the way we did everything: bargain hunting, doing odd jobs, and keeping costs and desires to a minimum. I’d saved some money, and my dad had matched it, helping me track my balance in a credit-union bankbook. One hundred and seventy-five dollars seemed to me the kind of money a man would have when he asked a woman to marry him.
We turned onto a long blacktop road, and Mom nudged Dad to slow down as we passed a sign with the name of the farm in bold letters and a bull’s head surrounded by calves of every color: black, tan, spotted, red, white, and even a grayish blue. This was the farm of a man who owned — not rented, like us. We hoped he might have an animal I could afford. I was talking a lot, as usual, and when I took a breath, Dad jumped in: “Don’t get all riled up now. You act that way, and you’ll spend every penny in your bankbook.” Derrick and Darren elbowed me, and I straightened up but still imagined petting my calf.
We rolled into the driveway and saw a man by a picnic table scraping mud from his boots. White haired, with skin the color of roasted ham, he placed a muddy putty knife on the table and brushed off his hands. Dad got out of the car, and while they shook hands, the rest of us peered around the property and talked excitedly about what we saw: Darren spotted the livestock trophies lining the picture window of the house. Derrick saw a cattle dog trotting around the perfectly painted barn. Our sisters noticed the family had a swimming pool and a store-bought play set and a trampoline. We grew quiet when Dad came back.
He said the girls could visit with Mr. Reynolds’s granddaughters, who were on the porch with a litter of newborn kittens. The girls were happy about this and followed Mom. My brothers and I got out and shook Mr. Reynolds’s hand. I was proud when Dad told him how I’d worked hard and saved my money, but Mr. Reynolds seemed a little aloof. He opened a gate and led us through one pasture after another. It was a bright, crisp day, and our cheeks reddened in the strong wind. Blackbirds cawed, and cows looked up, chewing hay. When we entered the fourth pasture, a dog rushed over, barking. It was a farm mongrel, mostly wet teeth and raised fur. “Shush!” yelled Mr. Reynolds, and he threw his arms in the air to make the dog retreat. The dog had been overprotective of him, he explained, ever since he’d saved it from a raging creek flood. Someone asked its name, and he told us it didn’t have one; that naming animals was not advisable. The dog was barking less now, turning circles as Mr. Reynolds ignored it. We walked through more gates and a grove of small pine trees ringing yet another pasture. Then we stopped. Below us, about two hundred yards away, a herd of speckled cattle with yearling calves grazed on a blue-green blanket of grass.
“These are in your ballpark,” he said.
I understood: the pastures we’d passed through contained cattle from the best breeding lines, animals we could not afford. The families who could afford those cattle always won Grand Champion and Reserve Champion and went on to the state fair in Indianapolis. Their last names were printed in large white letters on their pristine red barns: the Godshalks, the Willamettes, the Fergusons.
“Now, mind you, they aren’t culls or any of that,” Mr. Reynolds said, plucking a piece of grass and sucking it as Dad lit a Salem. “They...