Sharon Kennedy: A sad assumption day
August has a special feel to it unmatched by any other month. The lazy dog days melt seamlessly into one another until it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. At least, that’s the way it was when I was young. Cumulus clouds filled the sky, the last of the hay was harvested, vegetables were ripening and ready to can, and Mom shopped for our school clothes at Montgomery Wards or JCPenney.
The 15th is the day Catholics celebrate the Assumption of Mary into heaven. When I was growing up, we always went to mass to mark the miracle. But there’s another reason why that date is memorable, and it has nothing to do with religion. It has to do with a Hereford named Broken Horn.
The other cows had freshened in early spring, but this one wasn’t due until August. Mom regularly checked on her to make sure everything was okay, but she hadn’t seen her for a few days and was convinced something was wrong. On the 15th, we combed the pasture and the woods behind it where our Herefords summered. I don’t remember how long we walked, but I never forgot what we saw when we found Broken Horn. She lay on her side with her dead calf next to her. If you’re like me, some scenes from your childhood are permanently etched in your mind’s eye and no matter how hard you try, you can’t remove them. There’s no “delete” button to erase the memory.
Dad walked home for the tractor, a utility trailer, some rope and a shovel. He and a neighbor buried the calf and somehow managed to get Broken Horn on the trailer and bring her home. Mom had called the vet, but when he saw her he said there was nothing he could do — she was too far gone — and the kindest thing would be to put her out of her misery. I was at the barnyard and watched Mom pick off maggots and bathe her eyes. Then I went to my playhouse and cried. That’s where I was when I heard the shot from Dad’s rifle.
Whenever the 15th rolls around, I remember that warm August day of so long ago. The field where the calf died has become a forest filled with maple, birch, spruce and tamaracks. My brother’s home is nestled among the trees that overtook the pasture. The path once leading to the gate is now his driveway. The fences are gone. The beavers dammed the river so not even a stream remains, and the ground will never again grow hay. Farmers know how hard it is to lose a good animal, but to lose a strong Hereford and her calf is doubly hard. It’s lost money, and in the 1950s, as today, money was hard to come by.
Mom never forgave herself for not insisting Broken Horn be put in the pasture near the barn where the milk cows were. That way she could have checked on her throughout the day. Sometimes a cow needs help giving birth. My parents knew the two deaths could have been avoided.
Whenever I write this story, I see Mom leaning over her favorite Hereford and Dad reassuring her it wasn’t anyone’s fault. The scene still brings tears to my eyes because we knew what Dad had to do, and we knew that Broken Horn knew it, too.
— To contact Sharon Kennedy, send her an email at authorsharonkennedy.com. Kennedy's latest book, “The SideRoad Kids: Tales from Chippewa County,” is available from her, Amazon, or Audible.
This article originally appeared on The Sault News: Sharon Kennedy: A sad assumption day
