The Bull's Lesson

Seventy years have passed, but I can still feel the summer heat on that August morning when I learned life's most important lesson. My grandfather's farm seemed endless to a ten-year-old boy, especially when Buster — our old farm dog — and I were on the loose.

We were running through the pasture, Buster's ears flopping like wings in the wind, when we came upon old Ferdinand, the bull who'd ruled the south pasture since before I was born. Most folks saw just a dangerous animal, but I'd spent hours sitting on the fence, watching him graze. There was wisdom in those dark eyes.

That day, Ferdinand stood by the water trough, refusing to drink. The water had grown stagnant, algae thick as pea soup. Even as a child, I knew something was wrong. I ran back to the farmhouse where my grandmother was crushing a vitamin tablet into my grandfather's morning oatmeal — the same ritual she performed every day, convinced it kept him strong.

"That bull knows what he's doing," my grandfather said when I told him. "Some things aren't worth consuming, even when you're thirsty enough to consider them." His eyes twinkled. "Like your grandmother's mustard greens."

She swatted him with a dish towel, but she was smiling.

Together we cleaned the trough, filled it with fresh water from the pump, and watched Ferdinand finally drink. The bull dipped his massive head, then raised it to look directly at my grandfather. Two old souls, I thought then. Now, at seventy-eight, I understand what passed between them.

The bull had taught a child that discernment — knowing when to walk away from something that looks nourishing but isn't — matters more than thirst or hunger or convenience. My grandfather lived to ninety-three, and I believe it was because he applied that same wisdom to everything: food, friends, arguments, even anger.

Last week, my great-grandson asked why I always read the fine print on medicine bottles, why I question everything before swallowing it literally or figuratively. I told him about Ferdinand and the stagnant water, about Buster who knew which fields held the sweetest blackberries, about the summer I learned that what you refuse matters as much as what you choose.

Some bulls in fields, some dogs at your heels, some lessons so simple they take a lifetime to fully understand. The old bull's been gone forty years, but I still think of him every time I hold a vitamin bottle, every time I encounter something that looks like nourishment but isn't quite right.

Wisdom, I've learned, comes from the most unexpected teachers.