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Fickle Freckle Erin ****


On a brisk June morning a memory was born, while I was still sound asleep in my pink-patched bed. My father had left the house early that day to attend to the cattle on my granddad’s farm. I woke to the sound of light chatter coming from the kitchen. I could hear my mother and father talking among themselves about the recently occurring events. I refreshingly stretched out on my bed, and slowly made my way out to them.

“Oh look who’s finally up. Your father has some exciting news for you,” said my mother with a smile across her face.

I looked up at him with a perplexed look in my eyes. “Well, tell me already,” I said with an impatient and irritated tone.

“Someone’s crabby today,” he said with a small smirk. “I was just wondering if you would like to enter the Little Britches Calf Show for the fair this August. Kids in 4-H and FFA from the ages of seven to eight years old are able to enter a calf of their choice. All that you’d have to do is simply lead it around a rink and answer a few simple questions. So, what do you say?” he asked.

I nodded my head and simply answered, “Sure.”

A few days later on a clear-blue Sunday afternoon, he suited me up for a trip back out to the old farm. I could feel the breeze on my bare, sun burnt skin as we cruised down the highway. Once we arrived at the farm, I followed my father down into the bacteria-filled barn. He led me down the steps and around the corner to the calf pen. I gazed at all of the sleepy calves, casually mooing for their mothers. That was when I first noticed her, the only calf standing up, with what appeared to be a white freckle on her enormous wet nose. She was a young Holstein twin, born only a few days earlier than that afternoon. I instantly knew which calf would be my show animal.

After a few weeks, I returned to the farm for one-on-one training with my newly named calf, Freckle. My dad had already harnessed her with a rope that was required to lead her around. He struggled to keep control of her, with her consistent tugging and pulling.

“I’d say it’s about time that you should try leading her,” he commented with a hint of sarcasm.

I shook my head and asked “Are you crazy?” But as the sun-stricken summer progressed, she appeared to be more tame and controllable. She followed him, rather than sprinting in the other direction. I soon started to forget who was really going to be leading her around the crowded ring.

As the days passed, I finally had faith that I could lead this once fearful-fickle calf without much trouble. Like always, my dad harnessed her with some old frayed barn twine, but instead he handed it to me. I looked up at him with a frightened expression across my face. He gave me a reassuring smile, and handed me the rope. Once my hand touched the rope, it was as if Freckle could sense that I feared her. She started jogging around me as if she was in control. I started having what seemed to be a tug-of-war contest with her, and she was winning. Right before the rope slipped out of my hand, my father instinctively grabbed it. Over the remaining weeks, Freckle began to respect my authority and faithfully followed me like an old-devoted dog.

The frightful day of the show had finally arrived. Early that morning my mom and dad drove me and my new companion to the fair. We washed and groomed her so she would look her absolute best for the spectators. Once she appeared somewhat pleasing to the eye, I received my number in which I would show her.

The lights brightly shown on the center of the ring that immensely hot afternoon, with the large announcer standing promptly in the center, announcing and asking the exhibitors about their calves. After a seemingly endless thirty minute wait, I finally led Freckle into the spotlight. She timidly tugged on the rope trying to flee, but all I could think about is what the announcer was going to ask me.

“Well here’s Erin ****’s calf named?” he gruffly asked.

“Leroy,” I nearly screamed.

“Hm, that’s a weird name for a girl calf,” he remarked.

Embarrassment shot through me like sharp-pointed arrow through a flimsy sheet of paper. I hadn’t heard the question correctly. All I remembered hearing was “What’s your dad’s name,” instead. I quickly blurted out “Freckle, her name is Freckle. My dad’s name is Leroy.” The entire audience laughed, and after I finished, I quickly led her by all of the finished exhibitors like a lost child in a department store.

A few years later, I began to wonder what happened to my old friend. I went up to my father one day and casually asked him about what happened to her. He told me that she happily had a few calves and was milked until the day she died just like everyone does eventually. This put my curious mind at rest because I knew there would never be a calf quite like her.