Taming the Beast

When I was 7 years old I started working in the tobacco fields. My mother, who had split from my dad for what seemed like the upteenth time, left me for the summer in the care of her older sister and her husband on their farm in South Carolina while she went to secretarial college in Raleigh.

Time had stood still in many ways in this part of the country. The black folk worked the fields, along with the younger males of my family, including me. Long days picking tobacco in the hot Carolina sun were punctuated with sumptuous midday meals intended to sustain us until the sun went down and work stopped for the day. In those days, the black workers ate outside at picnic tables, while the white folk enjoyed what relief could be had from the heat by eating inside at a well-set table.

My older cousins delighted in playing tricks on me, a rube in their world of fields, farm animals and endless chores. Any excuse for a diversion from the drudgery of day to day life on the farm was welcome, no matter how ill-considered. Not yet schooled in the ways of pranks played for the cruel amusement of other boys, I fell helplessly for their plot, designed for their maximum entertainment and my utter humiliation.

Among the livestock, there lived on the farm a big old bull, name of Spartacus, who was kept content with access to a number of female cows and was the proud daddy of multiple calves. His exalted position as master of his own harem did nothing to sweeten his disposition. Even so little as a glance in his direction could elicit an angry snort and some agressive hoof pawing. God forbid you should approach the old scudder too closely or you risked a sudden, swift charge straight at you, with only a spindly wooden fence separating you from a certain and most unpleasant death.

Despite witnessing the old bull’s behavior on many an occasion, and well aware of his nature, I was still woefully naive and susceptible to my cousins’ devious tricks. As the summer wore on, I became more and more a child of my surroundings. I joined in the with the black folk singing spirituals while we worked and became fast friends with some of the younger boys as we spent long days laboring in the fields. I slept in the tobacco lofts, my suddenly growing body stretched between the drying racks. Not the most comfortable position, but to an exhausted kid, the equal of any luxurious bed.

Yes, I figured I had learned the ropes. My illusion of confidence that I was now a savvy, work hardened veteran of farm living was wrecked in spectacular fashion one moonless night in late summer. My cousins, who had spent considerable energy concocting a plot to put me in my place, now engaged in a misinformation campaign designed to lull me into cooperating with the most hair-brained scheme they could think of.

Although old Spartacus had shown no signs of slowing down, he did have rare moments of, if not exactly affection, at least some tolerance toward his human caretakers. These instances were always brought to my attention as indications that Spartacus was in fact mellowing out, and we started to call him “Mr. Chill.” So emboldened was I by this delightful development, I impulsively thrust my arm through the fence one day and was rewarded with a warm nuzzle instead of having my arm bitten off.

I was sufficiently deluded that Spartacus was now in a kinder, gentler state of mind than ever before. I no longer feared him, but thought I might just be a bonafide bull whisperer, so congenial had our relationship become. Full of pride in myself for my courage in forging a friendship with this formidable animal, I was blinded to my cousins’ surreptitious actions in their pursuit of entertainment at my expense.

One dark night, my oldest cousin and ringleader of the jokester squad, came to be as I slept heavily in my cot. “Mitch, get up! Get up!” He whispered urgently. “Wha…” I groggily replied, momentarily disoriented and flashing back to the atomic bomb drills we had in school back then. “We’ve got Spartacus tied up and ready to go for a ride, and you’re about to have the time of your life! Come on, on your feet! This is your big chance!”

Gathering my wits, I quickly pulled on my jeans and sneakers. “Lead the way,” I said, exhibiting a bravado I hoped covered up my fear.

“You have to be blindfolded first…it’s part of the ritual,” my cousin intoned solemnly. Intrigued, I stood still and allowed the thick black cloth to be wrapped around my eyes. He led me on a labyrinthine path and many minutes passed before we reached the old bull’s pen.

“OK, up you go, and hold on tight.” The ends of the crude rope securing Spartacus to his place in the corral were placed in my shaking hands. I heard the cry, “OK, let ‘er rip!” And suddenly I was out of the gate and riding on the great beast’s back through the vast prairie. I marveled at the bull’s easy gait and gentle movement as we smoothly glided along. I really am a bull whisperer, I thought to myself as Spartacus and I seemed to connect on every level. Still blindfolded as part of my cousins’silly game, I steered Spartacus back in the direction I judged his pen to be. He needed no encouragement from me; he took off straight for our destination as if it had been programmed into his hard drive.

Wearing a huge, self-satisfied grin, I let Spartacus lead the way back into what I assumed was his own pen. Triumphantly, I slid off the beast’s back and removed the blindfold, expecting nothing less than amazed approval and complete acceptance by my farm-raised cousins. Instead of the awe I thought would greet me upon my return, I saw them all rolling on the ground, laughing and holding their sides. Tears streamed down their faces as they hooted and cackled, and I got madder and madder. “What is so freaking funny?” I demanded, using the strongest swear word in my 7 year old vocabulary.

“Look at what you’ve been riding,” dumbass,” my cousin managed to squeak out between spasms of laughter. His bad word vocabulary was more developed than mine.

I looked around and saw the evidence of the joke that was on me - because there before me stood not Spartacus, the meanest, orneriest critter in the barnyard, but instead our old milk cow, Daisy - Daisy, the sweetest cow in the world. I had just had the time of my life thinking I had tamed a wild beast with my superior animal acumen, when all I had done was enjoy a leisurely ride on the back of a least dangerous critter I knew. “You guys…” I sputtered, at a loss for words and knowing they would never let me live this one down.

When my mom finally came and got me that fall, the inevitable question she asked was, “what did you learn this summer, son?”

With a knowing smile and the certainty of the young, I answered vehementally, “NEVER trust your relatives.”