by Ingrid Braley
The young man knew every square inch of the poorly painted watercolor hanging on the wall. It was a scene of a handful of black and white belted Galloways grazing in an open field.
“I’m glad they put me in this room with that painting,” his old grandfather said. “Them belties remind me of my herd back home.”
The young man sat in the wooden hardback chair at the edge of the cold metal hospital bed. His dark eyes focused harder on the watercolor.
“Always was partial to the breed,” Gramp continued. “I know them cows don’t grow as big as the Angus, but they got a way about them. Makes a man feel good about himself when he’s around them.”
Without taking his eyes off the painted grazing cows, Jonas slowly nodded his head. As the warm summer breeze blew in through the screen window, the young man blew out a long quiet sigh.
“I still remember the first calf I bought,” Gramp said. “Little skinny thing, he was. But I dreamed of raising beef ever since I was your age.”
Jonas let his gaze fall to the blue speckled tile floor.
“That calf never even reached a thousand pounds,” the old man said. “He was well-tempered though. One good thing about them belties, they got good manners.”
As he studied the cold floor, Jonas swallowed hard. The breeze rustled the plastic bag in the metal trash can under the nightstand.
“Don’t know how my herd grew so strong so fast,” said Gramp. “After a couple years, you could say I was right proud of them cows.” His dry cracked lips spread into a grin.
Jonas sat with his tanned, calloused hands limp in his lap. His broad shoulders rounded down and his back hunched slightly.
“That ice storm in ‘56 sure took it’s toll on them,” Gramp said. “That breed is one of the hardiest around, boy. But I lost about fifty five head that winter.”
Slowly his dark eyes lifted from the floor. Jonas looked helplessly with a furrowed brow at his grandfather. Another hard swallow.
“Never really got my big old herd back after that,” said Gramp. “Sold a lot of them. Guess I never really got much of a fair price either.”
Studying the maze of wrinkles on the old man’s face, a single tear ran down the young man’s cheek. Jonas sat still, motionless.
His grandfather’s pale blue eyes were raised heavenward. “I knew them was strong animals. But I knew they wouldn’t last forever. Even that mean black bull. You remember him, boy? I’ll never forget the day I found him lying out in the back pasture.”
Jonas couldn’t keep his face hard anymore. In the wooden chair where a young man sat every evening, recalling the day’s events to his grandfather, now a sat a little boy. His shoulders began to move up and down. He shifted his scuffed leather boots across the floor. Turning his head, Jonas closed his eyes. He wiped his wet face with his dirt-stained fingers.
The steady beeping of the machine at his bedside began to slow. The hushed mummer of nurses’ voices in the long cold corridor grew louder.
“I loved them cows,” his old grandfather said.
Jonas reached out his rough hand and gently placed it inside the old man’s thin, shriveled hand. Jonas nodded.
Ingrid Braley, of Mapleton, is a 2006 Presque Isle High School graduate. In each column of Rural Reflections, she hopes to bring readers back to the simple pleasures of the County and the country way of life.
