Sometimes I Have Not Been Nice at All

Animal Day, huh? Well, this probably isn't what you had in mind when I wrote that, but here goes.

I grew up in rural Minnesota. No big deal. We had electricity and a telephone. For a while it was party line, but Daddy's job required he have access to a telephone and so my parents sprung the extra money and got a private line. I still recall the number: 5008. Didn't have to use the prefix if you called within the area.

There were various wildlife creatures about, but nothing exotic. Supposedly, a black bear took up residence near my house, but I think that was foolish child's talk. I never heard an adult say they saw one. I don't recall even seeing that many deer. Mostly, the wildlife consisted of birds, squirrels, and a few other miscellaneous rodents. Generally, if one were to see an animal larger than a squirrel it would be a pet or a farm creature.

We did not have much for farm creatures at The Old House, despite the place originally being a farm. We got rabbits once, for Easter. But the dogs broke into the shed where we kept them and killed them all. We had chickens, too. And ducks. The chickens were nice because they walked the yard and took out the wood tics, of which the area was well inundated. Before we got the chickens you couldn't walk across the yard without picking up a half dozen. The first thing you did when you got inside was use the bathroom to sift through your clothes. After the chickens, no wood tics.

When Daddy was diagnosed with cancer, my parents sold the place and moved into the city. Roseville. A suburb north of St Paul, near the State Fair Grounds. That fall I was to be a senior in high school. I wanted to graduate in the school where I had spent most of my growing up. (I was afraid to go anywhere else. "The H*ll That You Know.") So my parents arranged for me to board at a retired minister's placed about five miles from the high school. The man was a control maniac and I didn't particularly enjoy my stay. In fact, shortly before Daddy died, I left that place and went to Roseville to live. I drove the thirty or forty miles distance daily for the rest of the year.

So what has all of this to do with animals? Well, Mr Minister (not his real name) fancied himself a part-time farmer. He raised cattle and planted hay. Well, one day I come home from school to find Mr Minister had forgotten to close the pasture gate. As I drove up the lane I could see the monsters milling about on the yard. Now I had never had anything to do with cows. All I knew about them was: a) they gave milk; b) chopped up, they made excellent burgers; c) the smallest of them weighed twice what I did.

I drove my car as close to the house as possible and then dashed inside. Safe, I went upstairs to my room and proceeded to write.

About an hour later Mr Minister comes home and ushers the cows back into the pasture. Then he comes upstairs and proceeds to yell at me and tell me what an idiot I am for not noticing the cows were out. I told him I had noticed. He asked why I hadn't put them back in the pasture. I responded by saying there were thirty cows and one me. And since most of them weighed more than a thousand pounds and I weighed less than two hundred I didn't like the odds. He told me I was stupid. Everyone knew cows were slovenly creatures who wouldn't hurt anyone. Well I didn't know that, and I told him so.

He made me feed the cows in the pasture after that. You can make teenagers do things, you know? If he tried to do that today I'd tell him where he could put his feed. Well, he's probably long gone now. He was older than I am now when I was seventeen. But I drove the tractor (now that was a treat) into the fields, pulling a wagon filled with hay. The cows saw me coming and began to hurry to intercept me. I didn't like that. Tame or not, I didn't particularly relish getting squished between the cows and the wagon, or knocked to the ground under their feet. So I climbed across the hitch and tossed hay down for the bovines and then drove away.

Mr Minister wasn't really a bad man. He was just a control freak. He hated it that I had a car. He hated that I could drive to Stephen's house without having to ask him permission. He hated it that I never showed him my homework. (I never showed it to my parents, why should I show it to him? Ah, for the record, though. Spouse and I keep close tabs on Son's homework. He's straight 'A'. I was straight 'C', which pissed off teachers and counselors alike.)

I tolerated his meddling until Daddy began to get worse. Then Mr Minister's meddling became an interference and I left shortly after Thanksgiving. That Christmas I took all of my money (I had a job at a pizza shop) and spent it all on Christmas presents. Stephen was with me and kept insisting I buy Mr Minister a gift. I didn't want to. I thought he was a horse's a*s, and I told Stephen so. But Stephen kept pestering me, so I finally relented. And here is where my sense of humor took over.

Against Stephen's wishes, I found a little plastic statuette. They were popular back in the 1970s. They were about six inches tall, made of hard plastic, and completely tan. The figures were of all sorts of things, and on the bases were inscriptions. You know the kind? "I Love You." "You're My Friend." "All The Best." Fun stuff. And some of it quite silly.

I chose a little man with an incredibly fat belly. He stood with his arms spread wide. And stuck - right in the middle of his belly-button - was a giant screw. The inscription? "Thanks For Everything!"

I bought that.

Stephen was beside himself with distress. At first he thought I was only joking. But then I paid for it and put it in a little brown paper bag. He fussed and worried as I drove out to where Mr Minister lived. He kept begging me not to give that to the old man. By chance, Mr Minister was at the end of the lane, clearing snow, as I drove up. He smiled and said, "Hello, Bevie." I smiled and said, "Hello." He asked what I was up to. I said I had bought him a Christmas present, and then I handed him the bag. He thanked me and I drove away, never to see him again.

Every so often I think about that and wonder: how did he react when he saw the gift? Did he understand what I was trying to tell him? Or was I just another teenage punk?