Saving Pa

"Hand me that feed bag,” Grandpa hollered from the cattle trough.

I reached into the bed of our pickup and lifted out the heavy burlap bag. There was no mistaking Pa’s voice. Even at his age, 75, it was commanding.

Any other Friday afternoon, I would have been in school. But the flu was going around real bad that week, and in our small town, it knocked out enough people to give us a day off. A day off for most kids, anyway.

I might have been hanging out watching TV or going fishing with my friends. But not with my grandpa around. Pa lived close by and came to our farm nearly every day to help take care of our cattle. Today he had me and my little sister, Jordan, as extra farmhands, so he was putting us to work too. It was better than seventh-grade math class, I guess.

You get used to the chores on a farm. Feeding the cattle, keeping the troughs filled, taking care of our dogs, mending fences. I loved hanging with Pa. I learned a lot from him. Like when he taught me to drive—even though I was only nine years old at the time. “Right foot gas, right foot brake,” he explained to me, pointing down at the pedals my feet barely reached. “Not too hard; don’t gun the engine. And both hands on the wheel at all times.”

He even let me take the truck for a spin once in the field sometimes when we worked hay. I always asked him if I could drive again. “Wait until you’re older,” Pa would tell me.

I hauled the bag of feed to Pa and he poured it slowly into the trough. “Keep an eye on that bull,” he said. That would be our newest addition to the farm, a 1,400-pound Angus bull. He was grazing at the far end of the pasture, but Pa wasn’t taking any chances. We’d only had the bull for two weeks. The entire time he caused problems: busting down a gate, charging at tractors, butting our truck.

Pa finished loading up the trough and we walked to the truck parked on the other side of the fence, about 20 feet away. Suddenly, Pa stopped. “Did you feed the calves?” he asked. Jordan and I had bottle-fed the smallest one earlier, but hadn’t filled the feeder for the others. “You two wait by the truck,” Pa said. “I’ll do it.”

Pa trudged back through the gate. I felt bad about forgetting. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a black streak crossing the field. The bull, running, picking up steam, and heading straight for Pa.

“Pa!” I yelled. Too late. The bull hit Pa full force, flipping him into the air like a rag doll. Pa hit the ground, hard. Oh, Lord, he’s killed him, I thought.

But Pa rolled over. Before he could get out of the way, the bull dug its head underneath him and slammed him against the trough. Pa flailed his arms. He tried to push the bull away.