The Cow-Pie Chronicles (7 page)

Tim was still concerned and confused about what his mom had said in the barn the night of the rope-swing adventure, the comment about possibly moving into town. For this reason, he began listening much more closely to every word his parents said to one another. And while there was no more talk between his parents about a life-changing event in their family's future, there was talk about safety—or the lack of it—in Tim's daily activities.

One day, when his parents were discussing their son's many mishaps, Tim heard his dad say there were plenty of equally dangerous activities for city kids. He didn't mention what they were, but the next thing he said was that playing in organized sports would be good for Tim. This last comment caught Tim's attention, because organized sports were something city kids did, not farm kids.

For all the
athleticism
required in working on a dairy farm, it wasn't a very good place for practicing traditional sports, like baseball or soccer. However, there were sporting events special to farm life that filled the same competitive urges enjoyed by many city kids.

When most people think of farm sports, they think of
rodeo
 
events like calf roping or bull riding. If they do, they will be wrong. Rodeo events fall into the ranching category. Anyone who has ever watched a Western knows that a farm and a ranch are as different as a swamp and a desert. Farm sports are way different from rodeo sports, especially the ones Tim invented.

About a week after the rope swing was put up, Tim's dad walked into the house at lunchtime and found his son sitting at the table, eating. “Come outside with me. I've got a surprise for you,” Dad said.

Tim finished his sandwich then followed his dad outside and down to the edge of their huge vegetable garden. There were two metal rods sticking up from the soft garden dirt, spaced 40 feet apart, with a short wooden wall set up behind each of the rods.

“What're those for?” Tim asked.

“
They're horseshoe pits. I'm going to teach you to play
horseshoes
so you can compete with the other kids at the fair,” Dad said.

“Okay,” Tim said. He watched his dad pick up three rusty metal horseshoes. He held two of the heavy horseshoes in one hand and one in the other—this was the one he would throw first.

“The rules are simple,” Dad said as he held up the lone horseshoe between his thumb and two of his fingers. “We each throw three horseshoes at the metal rod over there. If the open end of the shoe lands around the rod, that's called a ‘ringer.' It gets you three points. If the shoe lands so part of it's touching the rod, that's called a ‘leaner.' You get two points for that. If the shoe is within one shoe-width of the rod, you only get one point. I don't know what that's called. First one to 11 points wins.”

Sounded like an easy game to Tim. He picked up a horseshoe from a pile on the ground and looked it over. “This thing's a lot heavier than a cow chip,” he said.

“Yeah, well you only have to toss it 40 feet. We'll take a few practice throws before playing a game. Watch me,” Dad said.

Tim watched his dad throw three shoes at the metal rod. None of his throws were ringers, but one horseshoe was a leaner, touching the rod and one was very close to it.

“That totals three points. Close only counts in atom bombs, hand grenades and horseshoes,” Dad said, walking down to pick up the ones he had thrown.

“That's stupid,” Tim said, teasing his dad.

“You try now.”

Tim stood next to one metal rod and focused his attention on the other metal rod. He wasn't sure what 40 feet was supposed to look like, but was pretty certain the other rod was a lot farther away.

The horseshoe felt heavy in Tim's hand and he worried that he would never be able to throw it hard enough to make it to the other side. Not wanting to let his dad down, Tim raised his hand, holding the horseshoe as far up behind him as he could, and then threw it with all his strength. To his amazement, the horseshoe went high into the air, twisting and turning as it sailed over the distant metal rod, across the driveway and through the back window of his dad's pickup.

Crash!

Tim stood silently, waiting for the punishment he knew would be coming. But Mr. Slinger didn't say a word. He calmly pulled the rods out of the ground, picked up the horseshoes and carried everything into the barn, where they stayed for good.

* * *

Tim knew his dad was disappointed, but he didn't feel too badly about failing at horseshoes. There were other athletic activities on the farm he was very good at. The “dinner run” (also known as the “time-to-eat run”) from the back 40 tested his endurance and speed and the “survival sprint” came in handy after throwing a cow chip at Dana. Then there was the obstacle course used to escape angry parents who caught him doing something stupid. Tim was always running away from, or after, something. Mom called him “the dusty blur” because most of their farmland had knee-deep mud or dust and farm kids always ended up covered in it, especially Tim. In other words, it was a kid's heaven!

Tim also had special skills when it came to a sport few
urban
dwellers
had ever heard of—“cow skiing.” No, he didn't put a cow on skis. Nor did it involve a cow sliding in any fashion or a cow even being harmed. Cow skiing is similar to water skiing. In this sport, the cow is the speedboat, her tail the tow rope, Tim's shoes the skis and the knee-deep dust (or mud), the water.

The technique goes like this:

1. Drop a handful of hay in the barnyard so a cow will stand still for a minute to eat it.

2. Slowly walk up behind the cow and reach out for her tail without touching it.

3. Once you're close, quickly grab that tail with both hands and scream, “Yee haw!”

4. Hang on for dear life as the cow bolts across the barnyard, mooing and bellowing in protest.

The first time Tim tried cow skiing was exciting. Thinking back, he remembered that day—the thrill, the speed, the dirt in the face, the danger, the rock pile straight ahead of him! Realizing he was in danger, Tim let go of the cow's tail at the very last instant and tumbled against a big stone in that pile. The cow paid no attention to Tim and trotted back to eat the rest of her special treat.

Most adults didn't like cow skiing very much. Tim's father hated it, worried his son would get badly hurt, and told him so.
Yeah, right. Like making a 10-year-old drive a 200-horsepower farm tractor wasn't just as dangerous?
Tim thought.

One day, Mr. Slinger spotted Tim cow skiing and chased after him. Tim saw him coming, let go of the cow's tail and headed for his obstacle course, which included a small
briar
patch
. Tim quickly crawled under the bushes, with his dad not far behind.

Tim knew his dad wouldn't come though the briars after him, so it was the perfect escape route. When Tim made it safely through the patch to the other side, he looked back at his dad, who was now angrily shaking his finger at Tim. “If I ever see you doing that again, I'm gonna whoop you good!”

Tim loved cow skiing—it was his new favorite thing to do on the farm and no one was going to stop him. But before he tried it again, he had to make sure there was no way his dad could catch him.

The next day, Tim went inside the barn to see what his dad was up to—he was talking to Tim's mom. “I need to finish spraying the cornfield today,” he said to her.

Now's my chance!
Tim thought. He followed his dad out of the barn and watched him climb onto the tractor and drive away, around the silo. But farm dads aren't like city dads—they don't go to work in the morning and come home in the evening. Farm dads can pop up anywhere, anytime, on any day.

Thinking his dad was in the cornfield working, Tim slipped into the barnyard, found an innocent, hungry cow, went through his four-step cow-skiing setup, and then took off flying. He had no idea his dad had stopped the tractor behind the silo.

Mr. Slinger's timing was perfect. He walked around the silo just as Tim went skiing past. He grabbed Tim by the shirt collar with one hand—nearly strangling him—tossed him over his shoulder and headed for the barn for that promised punishment.

From that day on, Tim decided his dad was right. Cow skiing was too dangerous!

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Chapter 9

Tim's butt was sore for a week. And Tim wasn't happy.

Tim was upset because his dad told him that he got in trouble because, once again, Tim was putting himself at risk by doing something unsafe. The funny thing was that a few days later, Tim's father did something that put the entire Slinger family in danger, something which, to Tim, was even worse than cow skiing.

Farmers rarely throw anything away because someday, there might be a use for it. Later, that item could become a used part that would save paying for a repair or buying something new. Plus, back then, there was no place to throw away farm junk if you wanted to.

The Slinger's 50-year-old barn had secret treasures hiding everywhere. There were old broken tools piled in the corner, tractor parts hanging on the walls and boxes jammed high on beams that supported the second-level flooring. There were also ropes, tarps and many other things in the barn that Tim couldn't identify. He never found a human body, though it wouldn't have surprised Tim if he had.

Dad was digging through all the junk in the lower level of the barn, looking for something to fix or replace the broken manure-spreader blade. Tim wasn't being very helpful, because having a broken manure spreader meant he didn't have to shovel a mountain of poop into the machine every day. That was fine with him!

“Pull that tarp down back there,” Dad said to Tim, pointing to a dark corner of the barn.

“Yeah, sure,” Tim said. He walked to the tattered piece of canvas and saw that one end of the tarp was hanging down from the beams holding up the second floor. He stared up at it for a moment, wondering why anyone would put manure-spreader parts under a tarp. What harm would it cause for a poop spreader to get dirty?

As Tim pulled the tarp down from the rafters, dust, dirt, mouse poop, bird droppings and rusty nails fell to the floor. With the tarp now on the ground, a wooden box, with large red letters painted on it warning about the contents, sat exposed.

“
Oh, it's just another
dynamite
box,” Tim said.

Finding a dynamite box in the rafters might seem a bit alarming to city folk, but old, discarded dynamite boxes were pretty common on farms. Because the boxes were strong, they were ideal for storing old bolts, screws, tools and other heavy things. Tim's dad had several of them he used as storage bins in the toolshed. And Tim's uncle had one full of marbles—his collection of
cat's-eye boulders
was awesome!

Mr. Slinger walked over, looked up at the box and frowned. “Won't be anything in it we can use to fix the broken blade, but we may as well find out what's inside.” He got out an old metal box to stand on so he could reach above the beam easily, but the box wouldn't move. Then Mr. Slinger tried to pull it out from between two beams. After a few attempts to retrieve the box, he was successful.