What the Bull Taught Me

That old black bull, Buster, stood stubborn as a stone wall in the south pasture, rain sheeting down his massive shoulders. Daddy'd been trying to move him for hours, but Buster had planted himself like he was defending the very ground beneath his hooves.

I was twelve, watching from the porch, when Daddy finally gave up, marched inside, and turned on the TV. The cable had just come to our valley that month—a miracle of copper wire strung across mountains that brought the world into our living room. March Madness blared across the screen, swimmers cutting through water like they were born to it.

'That's it,' Daddy muttered, eyes narrowing. 'Next summer, you're learning to swim.'

I never questioned the logic. That was Daddy's way—connections nobody else saw. That bull taught me more than stubbornness. He taught me that sometimes you plant your feet, and sometimes you yield, and wisdom knows the difference.

Now my grandson stands in this same pasture, smartphone in hand, surfing through more information than I ever dreamed existed. 'Great-granddaddy's bull,' I tell him, pointing to the old oak where Buster used to stand watch. 'Taught me something worth learning.'

He looks up from that glowing screen, and I see it—that same stubborn set to his jaw, that same determination to hold his ground. But he also knows when to dive in, when to swim with the current instead of against it.

The cable that brought us television is gone now, replaced by invisible signals. But some connections never change. Like the way a stubborn animal can teach you patience, or how swimming through something difficult makes you stronger for it.

I'm seventy-four now, and I still think about Buster whenever I need to hold my ground. But I also remember what Daddy showed me that rainy day—sometimes the best way forward isn't through force, but through letting yourself flow.

'Great-granddaddy,' my grandson asks, 'you ever gonna tell me what was so special about that bull?'

I smile. 'Oh,' I say, 'that's the best part. He wasn't special. He was just stubborn. But sometimes that's exactly what you need.'