Spare Moments at My Folks' Farm 6 (Last Installment in This Series)

Each July, the 4-H fair in Williamsport, Indiana, occupied my family’s fullest attention. For months leading up to the event, we had prepared by training young pigs and cows in how to walk and pose like runway models. For our gardening exhibits, we had grown cabbages larger than our heads. We had made crafts, and we had snapped photographs. Using tweezers, we had even painstakingly selected the largest wheat grains from a bushel of wheat to exhibit—as if all our wheat were that free from chaff and imperfections. As we were enrolled in so many projects, we had tasks to fulfill nearly every day. Finally, when the week of the fair rolled around, we were not only ready but also excited to collect ribbons for our achievements. (Be sure to read my blog about our Holstein cow named Buttercup: http://heartlandbooks.blogspot.com/2014/11/my-friend-buttercup.html.)

Buttercup at the Warren County (Indiana) Fair

We hoped for sweepstakes rosettes, and we received them in such projects as entomology, but we usually had to settle for purple champion ribbons, blue first place ribbons, or red second place ribbons for our livestock.

Wearing My Scrooge McDuck Hat

(Which I Still Have)

While Getting Buttercup Ready

For the 4-H Judging

For me, the most enjoyable of the many enjoyable facets of the fair was the social interaction. By the time that I was in high school, I was working in the Junior Leaders building whenever my township was called upon to provide the crew. Picture a white-painted, square structure in the center of the slightly rolling grounds. Off to the north were rows of brand-spanking-new tractors and farm implements. To the northwest were the rides, lit with colored bulbs at night. To the south stood the cafeteria, and to the east stretched the coliseum filled with animals. We Junior Leaders sold ice cream in cups and cones and soft drinks in various sizes. Our hands tingled from holding the cold scoops to scrape ice cream into “dips,” or servings. We set the icy soft drinks on the counters, which were formed by dropping them down on hinges from three sides of the building. Whenever judging in the show ring ended, we were swamped with business. Fairgoers strolled from the coliseum to our location and lined up around the counters. We flew from the ice cream freezers to the soft drink dispensers to the napkin holders. … and we quickly calculated amounts and made change. While we were at it, we did not forget to have fun. An abundance of jovial banter went back and forth while we worked.

The Way I Remember the Farm

In We Do It Together

Vol. 2, No. 7

Part 3 for April 19, 1959

Throughout the years that I participated in the 4-H fair, I derived tremendous satisfaction from the evening when it was my township’s turn to run the cafeteria. From the time I became old enough to carry a rubber dishpan full of plates and silverware, I kept busy bussing tables. The pace was fast, for the cafeteria did a lot of business, especially during the evening meal—and Adams Township had the dinner on Wednesday evening, which was one of the busiest dinners of them all!

My father and his good friend Don Akers stood shucking sweet corn just outside the back door of the large building on those hot summer nights while I strode briskly from table to table, collecting the dishes, knives, forks, and spoons to carry to the line of volunteers washing the dishes in back. Most of the farm families thought of pleasant things to say to me as I quickly cleaned the tables. I had to listen carefully, as the hum of voices was loud and steady within the spacious cafeteria building with every seat taken at every table.

Only when the hour was late did the lines of patrons diminish, enabling us to slow our pace. Around midnight, my father had finished his clean-up tasks, and we went home, tired but as happy as people can be who have literally served their neighbors.   

My Friend Buttercup

When Buttercup was a newborn, velvety, wobbly calf, my parents, my brother, and I knew she was special. We had a small herd of purebred Holstein cows and were always seeking calves with the characteristics deemed best for the breed. Buttercup had many of those qualities. More importantly, she was full of life.

“Full of life” is a description that I just now chose after first struggling to think of a way to pinpoint exactly what made Buttercup so different. By the expression, I mean that she loved every minute of existence, she felt curious about everything in her environment, she adored attention, and she looked forward to the county fair every year.

My reference to the county fair deserves explanation. After her positive experience at her first fair, when she won a championship ribbon in the coliseum, she understood that she was going to return to the fairgrounds a year later, and she stepped confidently into the pickup truck to be hauled there. The darling of children, Buttercup occupied a corner stall in the dairy barn. She extended her nose and graceful neck toward boys and girls who ran up to pet her throughout the sunny days. She mooed pleasantly and fluttered her long lashes in a pretense of being bashful.

She knew she was divine. Never conceited, though, she would not permit her recognition of her own beauty to turn her head; rather, she kept the common touch, kindly nuzzling the hands of children.

In the ring, Buttercup remained calm. Her poise was remarkable. She quickly developed a rapport with the judge and played him like a fiddle. My brother showed Buttercup, but, really, she showed herself. She had complete knowledge of what was expected of her, and she delivered, posing to best advantage, striding like a fashion model on the runway, winking seductively at the judge. When my brother was handed yet another championship ribbon, Buttercup smiled, as if to say, “But of course!”

I was only a youngster. I wore a purple cap made to resemble Scrooge McDuck, Donald Duck’s uncle. The bill was orange plastic and quacked when squeezed. I spent warm afternoons at the fair sitting in the windowsill next to Buttercup and talking with kids my age who were petting the beloved cow. I was proud of my duck-billed hat, but I was even prouder of Buttercup, whose celebrity status made me feel out of the ordinary.

 

Buttercup, One of Her Calves, and My Father

Buttercup visited the fair for as many years as she was qualified, and she lived for many more years on our farm. She gave birth to calves. We kept hoping she would have a calf just like her, but fate and genetics did not oblige.

She was pampered; of that fact there can be no doubt. Even so, she did not allow herself to become spoiled.

When the pain of old age came to her, we asked the vet to do all in his power to keep Buttercup comfortable, and, when she died, we dug a deep hole and buried her on the farm: a tribute extended to only one cow.

Over thirty years later, I was invited to perform my play on Edgar A. Poe at Berea College. My host on campus was Neil Di Teresa, a brilliant artist. Neil happened to be working on a large canvas depicting a Holstein. The moment I saw the work, I exclaimed, “That’s just like Buttercup!”

“What did you say?” Neil asked.

“I said that your cow looks just like Buttercup,” I replied. The painting so perfectly captured the enchanting aura of Buttercup that I joyfully told Neil the story of my family’s favorite cow.

“I’ve been trying to think of a title for my painting,” Neil said, “and you just gave it to me.”

Then and there, the work was named Just Like Buttercup. I was delighted she had become memorialized in art. I could almost hear her moo, “But of course!”