No bull by John C. Street

Many, many years ago when I had just reached the level of independence necessary to go fishing by myself, the courageous age of about five if memory serves me right, I was introduced to a stream that held some incredibly stupid fish.  I cast this aspersion on their character because, knowing the skill level I must have had at the time, I remember catching an awful lot of them.

The stream ran through the lower pasture of an old Swedish couple’s farm that had somehow gotten into the modern era - this would have been the mid 50s - without having either electricity or indoor plumbing.  Their family name was Nelson and mostly what I remember of them was that she was an extraordinary cook and he smoked big, King Edward cigars.  Constantly.

I especially remember Mrs. Nelson’s cooking because she participated in a culinary conspiracy to eliminate the carcass of a nasty goose that died under mysterious circumstances - premeditated murder by home made baseball bat, if you must know - for nipping welts on the buttocks of a certain five year old.  This might have been the first time I ever heard the expression, “cooked his goose,” but I knew what Mrs. Nelson meant when she gave that response, and a wink in my direction, to her husband’s inquiry, “what’s for diner?”  

The stream I was telling you about was far enough away from the house that, in those halcyon days, it seemed like a real adventure just getting there.  Dad had accompanied me the first few times but then he got busy putting in plumbing and electricity for the Nelsons so I was cut loose to come and go on my own. 

In hindsight, I suspect that most of the fish I dragged out of that creek - remember, this was before “catch and release” became de rigor - were suckers and chubs because I’d notice a funny odor coming from the vegetable garden from time to time.  But I think some of them must have fallen under the classification of “game” fish because Mrs. Nelson occasionally cooked fish for our supper.

Regardless of the species, this sensitive, understanding woman always made a big fuss about what a good fisherman I was and made me give her a running account of every one I caught.  She always seemed to know - to my undying gratitude as you will understand in a moment - just the right way to ask to make a guy feel important.

As streams go, there really wasn’t much danger there for a young fisherman.  There were pools that had some depth but, as I learned on one of my first solo trips, they were only waist deep to a little boy.  About the biggest problem I had to deal with were the recycled piles of pasture grass left by Mr. Nelson’s cows when they came down to water.  Actually, to a bare-foot kid, they were kind of fun until the afternoon I tried to walk into the Nelson’s house with remnants of these odorous leavings stuck between my toes.

One evening when the fishing was particularly good, I stayed on the creek until the shadows began to hint at full darkness.  I knew that Dad, who had already put in a full day’s work before coming out, would be anxious to get headed home so I took the short route back to the farm.  

There really wasn’t much difference, in crow flight distance, between the two routes.  The shorter path meant only that it was quicker because there was just one fence to cross - in other words, less time was wasted untangling shirts and pants from the barbed wire - and as I neared this fence, which ran all the way up to the barn, I remembered to check carefully for Mr. Nelson’s bull.

I was already familiar with the disposition of this boss bovine and wasn’t particularly interested in finding out which side of the hay mow he’d gotten out of that morning.  For several weeks, however, Mr. Nelson had him “visiting” other farms so when a quick inspection didn’t reveal his presence, I assumed he was still acourtin’.  That, as I discovered about half way across the enclosed field, was a most erroneous assumption.

I’ve never been known - and I certainly wasn’t then - for being real quick on the uptake but I learned two awfully important things that day in the space of about as many heartbeats.  First, a five year old boy can’t outrun an angry bull.  Second, through a fortuitous near fall when a small ditch deflected both my trajectory and an untimely encounter with disaster, aforementioned angry bulls can be outmaneuvered.

Using this newly acquired knowledge, I was able to elude my bellowing pursuer all the way up to the stand of sugar maples that Mr. Nelson had left standing near the barn for shade.  With the sound of closing hooves pounding in my ears, I made what I hoped would be my final juke before reaching the safety of the gate.

I didn’t get a chance, however, to enjoy any sense of relief as that four-legged nightmare shot past.  Intent on mayhem, he was unable to get stopped before running full tilt into one of Mr. Nelson’s trees, the tremors of the collision reaching me as I scrambled over the gate.  When I was safely across, I looked back to see that old bull lying on his back with his feet straight up in the air, apparently - from the uncontrollable twitches running through his body - in his death throes. 

For several long moments I stood there in abject horror.  This was no goose that could be covertly taken to the woods and plucked for dinner.  This was Mr. Nelson’s bull, all umpteen hundred pounds of him and, regardless of the case for self defense, he wasn’t going to fit in Mrs. Nelson’s oven all at one time. 

You might just imagine my elation, therefore, when I looked back a second time at the scene of my crime and saw that the bull, although obviously woozy, had regained his feet and was shakily making his way back out into the field.  The whoop of joy, however, froze in my throat when the grownups who had been standing just inside the barn door the whole time stepped out so they could watch the departing bull.

There was a brief moment when I thought they hadn’t noticed me.  They were, as I said, keeping a close eye on that bull.  When they finally turned to face me, I could see their expressions were a mix of either concern or anger and it was anybody’s guess which of those emotions were prevailing.

And then that dear Mrs. Nelson asked, “Soooo, how was the fishing?”