posing.
“Get your bull calf back into the barn first. He’s been out long enough. You don’t want his hide getting red from too much sun.”
Eli led the calf into his show stall and turned on the fan he and Pa’d hung from the ceiling. He hoped it would keep Little Joe cool enough to get his hair growing. He clawed at Little Joe’s underbelly with his fingernails where the red patches were, forcing them to shed. Blue ribbon Anguses always had black hair that was thick and glossy. He’d have to keep Little Joe inside more during the day and let him out to graze at night so the sun wouldn’t color more clumps red.
Eli turned on the radio dangling from the manger with binder twine so Little Joe could get used to other people’s voices. He’d hear thousands of them at the fair.
“Come on out, son,” Grandpa called.
Eli squinted to block out the sunlight and nearly tripped over the box in front of him.
“Can’t show without a show box,” Grandpa said.
Eli looked down and saw a shiny square box the size of a newborn calf. It was painted bright red. Even though the gold letters were upside down from where he stood, Eli knew they spelled STEGNER .
“Figured your birthday’s comin’ up after the fair andit’s a long ways before Christmas, so it makes sense to give you this early.”
Eli’d seen them at shows before. In catalogs, too. They were expensive. Especially nice ones. This one had leather handles on each end that looked brand-new.
“Go ahead. Open it,” Grandpa urged, swinging the box around on its wheels to face Eli.
Eli unclasped the shiny silver latches and looked inside. There was everything you could imagine in the way of showmanship: Sullivan’s livestock shampoo, clippers and combs and shoe polish to darken Little Joe’s hooves.
“It’s mostly new,” Grandpa began, “the things in there. Like the spray cans of show gloss to make ’em look pretty. The old stuff’s from when your pa showed.”
Eli kept staring, drinking in the notion that it was all his. Spider scurried over to take a peek and hopped inside, wrapping her tail around the edge of the lid.
“This was his currycomb.” Grandpa pulled out a soft brush. “That’s for good luck, you know.”
Eli took the comb and studied it.
This was in Pa’s pocket when he showed
, Eli thought.
When he won the blue ribbons
. He took out the comb that was already in his back pocket and replaced it with Pa’s.
“I’ll tell you another thing that’s ready,” Grandpa said, clearing his throat. He walked to his truck and brought out some bright red fruit. “It’s my tomatoes.”
Grandpa had left a tip from the vine on the one he handed to Eli. Eli plucked it free and took a bite, taking in the peppery smell that clung to his fingers.
Tater bounded over and barked at the show box before nudging his face into Eli’s hand, itching for a taste, too.
“It takes two people to lift that box into the show barn, Eli,” Grandpa said. “Your pa on one end, you on the other. Remember, I’ll be with you in that show ring, whether I’m really in there or not.”
Eli gave Tater the rest of the tomato and looked up at Grandpa. Now his hands were free to give him a hug.
Chapter Thirteen
Poison Weeds!
Little Joe stuck his neck over the fence as far as it could go. He flicked his gray tongue in the air like a lizard, snatching a branch with it.
“Not too many apples down that low,” Eli told him.
A fistful of crumpled leaves fluttered into Little Joe’s face.
Eli rattled a high branch with both hands to get some apples to drop. A few lumpy ones rolled to the ground on his side of the fence. Eli scooped up two and steadied them in his palm. What Little Joe liked most this time of year were sour green apples freckled with brown spots right out of Eli’s hand. Little Joe’s mouth felt like warm rubber grabbing onto Eli’s fingers, but he never bit.
The wind blew heavy, drowning out Little Joe’s crunching. It played shadow
“Get your bull calf back into the barn first. He’s been out long enough. You don’t want his hide getting red from too much sun.”
Eli led the calf into his show stall and turned on the fan he and Pa’d hung from the ceiling. He hoped it would keep Little Joe cool enough to get his hair growing. He clawed at Little Joe’s underbelly with his fingernails where the red patches were, forcing them to shed. Blue ribbon Anguses always had black hair that was thick and glossy. He’d have to keep Little Joe inside more during the day and let him out to graze at night so the sun wouldn’t color more clumps red.
Eli turned on the radio dangling from the manger with binder twine so Little Joe could get used to other people’s voices. He’d hear thousands of them at the fair.
“Come on out, son,” Grandpa called.
Eli squinted to block out the sunlight and nearly tripped over the box in front of him.
“Can’t show without a show box,” Grandpa said.
Eli looked down and saw a shiny square box the size of a newborn calf. It was painted bright red. Even though the gold letters were upside down from where he stood, Eli knew they spelled STEGNER .
“Figured your birthday’s comin’ up after the fair andit’s a long ways before Christmas, so it makes sense to give you this early.”
Eli’d seen them at shows before. In catalogs, too. They were expensive. Especially nice ones. This one had leather handles on each end that looked brand-new.
“Go ahead. Open it,” Grandpa urged, swinging the box around on its wheels to face Eli.
Eli unclasped the shiny silver latches and looked inside. There was everything you could imagine in the way of showmanship: Sullivan’s livestock shampoo, clippers and combs and shoe polish to darken Little Joe’s hooves.
“It’s mostly new,” Grandpa began, “the things in there. Like the spray cans of show gloss to make ’em look pretty. The old stuff’s from when your pa showed.”
Eli kept staring, drinking in the notion that it was all his. Spider scurried over to take a peek and hopped inside, wrapping her tail around the edge of the lid.
“This was his currycomb.” Grandpa pulled out a soft brush. “That’s for good luck, you know.”
Eli took the comb and studied it.
This was in Pa’s pocket when he showed
, Eli thought.
When he won the blue ribbons
. He took out the comb that was already in his back pocket and replaced it with Pa’s.
“I’ll tell you another thing that’s ready,” Grandpa said, clearing his throat. He walked to his truck and brought out some bright red fruit. “It’s my tomatoes.”
Grandpa had left a tip from the vine on the one he handed to Eli. Eli plucked it free and took a bite, taking in the peppery smell that clung to his fingers.
Tater bounded over and barked at the show box before nudging his face into Eli’s hand, itching for a taste, too.
“It takes two people to lift that box into the show barn, Eli,” Grandpa said. “Your pa on one end, you on the other. Remember, I’ll be with you in that show ring, whether I’m really in there or not.”
Eli gave Tater the rest of the tomato and looked up at Grandpa. Now his hands were free to give him a hug.
Chapter Thirteen
Poison Weeds!
Little Joe stuck his neck over the fence as far as it could go. He flicked his gray tongue in the air like a lizard, snatching a branch with it.
“Not too many apples down that low,” Eli told him.
A fistful of crumpled leaves fluttered into Little Joe’s face.
Eli rattled a high branch with both hands to get some apples to drop. A few lumpy ones rolled to the ground on his side of the fence. Eli scooped up two and steadied them in his palm. What Little Joe liked most this time of year were sour green apples freckled with brown spots right out of Eli’s hand. Little Joe’s mouth felt like warm rubber grabbing onto Eli’s fingers, but he never bit.
The wind blew heavy, drowning out Little Joe’s crunching. It played shadow
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