The Storm That Taught Me to Stand Still

Grandchildren, gather round. You want to know about the night your grandmother and I almost lost everything? Well, that story begins with a bull named Barnaby and ends with something I wish I'd learned forty years sooner.

It was 1967, July, the summer we bought the Thompson place. I was thirty-two, full of vinegar and certain I could outwork any man in three counties. Your grandmother was pregnant with your mother, and we'd sunk every penny we had into that farm.

Barnaby was a Charolais bull—two thousand pounds of pure muscle and temperament. I'd bought him at auction, impressed by his breeding papers and the way the other farmers stepped aside when he walked past. That should have been my first warning.

The night of the storm came without warning. One minute the sky was purple with twilight, the next lightning was stitching the horizon together like some frantic seamstress. Rain fell in sheets, hammering the roof.

Your grandmother woke me at 2:00 AM. "The bull's out."

I'd been running fences all week, but somehow Barnaby had found the one weak post—the one I'd meant to fix tomorrow.

So there I was, running through mud in my underwear, flashlight beam cutting through rain, searching for a two-ton prize bull who was likely heading toward the highway. Lightning cracked closer now, turning the night white for seconds at a time. I could hear Barnaby bellowing somewhere in the north pasture, sounding more frightened than fierce.

I found him near the creek, trapped where floodwaters had risen around a stand of willows. He was thrashing, eyes rolling white. Every time lightning flashed, he'd plunge deeper into the muck.

My first instinct was to rush him—grab the halter rope, pull him free, be the hero. I was halfway across the pasture when another bolt hit so close I could taste ozone. Barnaby screamed, a sound I've never heard an animal make before or since.

And then I stopped. Just stopped running, stood still in the pouring rain, and actually looked at the situation.

The bull wasn't just stuck; he was panic-blind. If I rushed him, he'd fight, and we'd both drown. If I left him be, the waters would keep rising. What he needed was someone calm enough to be a anchor.

So I waded in slowly, talking nonsense—"There, there, big fellow, you old muttonhead"—while lightning split the sky and thunder rattled my teeth. I didn't pull. I just stood hip-deep in floodwater, holding the rope steady, letting him find his own footing when he was ready.

It took forty minutes. Forty minutes of running nowhere, just standing in the rain with a frightened bull while your grandmother watched from the porch, umbrella useless in the wind, pregnant with my first child.

When Barnaby finally scrambled free, he didn't run. He stood beside me, huffing, while the storm raged on. We stood there together, man and bull, both humbled by weather and circumstance.

I learned something that night about running. Sometimes, running toward a problem just makes it worse. Sometimes you need to stand still, be patient, let things find their own way out.

Your grandmother still teases me about the sight of me in my underwear, hanging onto a bull in a lightning storm. But Barnaby sired three generations of calves on that farm, and every one of them carried a little bit of that night's lesson in their bones.

The storm that taught me to stand still was the best thing that almost ruined us.