Rustic Prints 5

This framed print of cows and a stream defines the word bucolic, a word with Greek roots meaning “cowherd” and “cow.” Bucolic has a synonym in pastoral, a word having multiple layers of significance relating to “pastors,” or “shepherds.” I suppose that one of my most important memories of growing up on a farm in Indiana is the peaceful sight of soft-eyed cows wading in sparkling creeks on sultry summer afternoons.

Framed Rustic Print of Cows and a Brook

That sight was repeated around every bend of a country road. When I was a youngster, most farms were far smaller than they are today, and they were diversified in old-fashioned ways that now seem quaint. By diversified, I mean that farms raised crops but a wider variety of crops than they now raise and that farms raised livestock—which many farms no longer raise. I recall fences. Lots and lots of fences. They were necessary to discourage cows and pigs and sheep from straying into the gravel roads. I recall hardwood trees amid the fences bordering the edges of fields; today, most of those trees have been removed to enable huge farm machines to till the soil as close to the edge of the roads as possible. I recall chickens, ducks, geese, turkeys, and guinea hens, some of which did stray into the gravel roads. … but most cars and trucks traveled at slower speeds back then, and most drivers were more alert to the possibility of encountering chickens in the way.

Oh, such courteous and civilized drivers as there were in those days! Friendly drivers, who waved at you, and you waved back. Kind drivers, who left a respectful distance between their front bumpers and your back bumper. … but I digress.

When my family drove anywhere, our car passed several creeks, often ornamented with cows, which I have always considered especially sculptural. The bodies of cows are graceful, and their tranquil eyes can melt the hardest hearts.

A chore that I enjoyed was encouraging the dairy cows to come to the barn for milking in the evening. I think back to summer evenings steeped in a golden haze. I strode to the east of the barn along a curving dusty path that the cows had made. To both sides were meadow plants, which, in the heat of the day, had the fragrance of a rich tea. I found the Holsteins gathered in the shade of an oak. Chewing their cud and casually switching their tails at flies, they looked at me expectantly. Soon, the lead cow, who had assumed the dignified station of leading the rest, came toward the serpentine path on which I stood waiting. One by one, the other cows fell into line in an order that they recognized among themselves. I brought up the rear. As the cows and I walked back toward the barn, I gazed ahead. The black-and-white hips of the cows gently swayed from side to side, and I heard the muffled beat of hooves in the thin dust. When the parade reached its destination, my father guided the pets into their stalls, and the milking began. I used the word pets just now because my father treated his dairy cows as pets, and they were as coddled and affectionate as dogs.

Accordingly, whenever I see this rustic print, all such reminiscences—and more—flow back to me. No wonder I appreciate such illustrations from earlier eras!

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!”