JUNE 2017 • COUNTRY LIFE IN BC


41 How Henderson came to be at the end of his rope When we left off last time,


Ashley had just been escorted home from the barn by Edna’s young and handsome nephew to find Henderson tangled up with a bawling, wild-eyed Holstein calf. He was quite literally at the end of his rope. Part 87 of Woodshed Chronicles continues:


Chronicles by BOB COLLINS


The afternoon had gone horribly wrong for Kenneth Henderson. After his trip to town for a tarp to cover the year’s supply of sawdust that had been delivered to the front of his barn, he mustered the wheelbarrow and scoop shovel and started to wheel bedding into the veal calves. At first, the calves retreated to the far corner of their pen and eyed the procedure suspiciously. After the third trip, the calves were still welded to the far end of the pen and Kenneth realized that as long as they were there he needn’t struggle to open and close the stall door every time. When he left after the fifth


load, the calves stepped gingerly toward the fresh bedding. After a few tentative sniffs, they dropped to their knees and attacked the pile with relish. All four of them snorted and bulldozed their way through it arriving at the open stall door in high spirits. They paused briefly,


regarding the opportunity. Suddenly, the biggest,


blackest calf of them all – the one Christopher named Wilder because he was – launched through the doorway like Secretariat leaving the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby with his stall-mates bunched tightly behind. At the precise instant the calf passed through it, Kenneth pushed the wheelbarrow into his flight path. The impact was spectacular. The wheelbarrow spun 180 degrees and landed upside down. Kenneth pitched face first into the sawdust beside it. The following calves soared over the hazard like derby mounts at the Grand National. Wilder regained his legs and lunged over Kenneth in hot pursuit of the others.


Kenneth was uninjured but


his cuffs, collar, and boots were stuffed with sawdust. He crawled onto his knees spitting and wiping his eyes. The flakes had even found their way into his ears. The calves raced exuberantly across the driveway into the garden and


Woodshed


all the way to Tiny’s pump house where they seemed to lose their focus. They started shying and jumping and darting madly in short bursts in all directions. Kenneth’s head was bowed and he was digging sawdust from his collar by the handful. Just as he lurched to his feet, the heavens opened and a bone chilling rain started pelting down. He staggered toward the truck and the new


$140 tarp. He humped and twisted his shoulders as he went trying to work the sawdust out of his shirt. Halfway there, his hips started to hula as he felt the first flakes of sawdust work their way into his underwear. By the time Kenneth got the tarp to the sawdust pile, rain was pouring off the barn roof like a waterfall. He gripped one corner of the tarp and started floundering clumsily up the face of the pile. He sank nearly to his knees with every step and his chest was heaving wildly by the time he flopped onto to top, where rainwater from the roof sluiced over his scalp and ran down his neck. It took him 20 exhausting minutes to cover the pile.


The cold rain had taken most of the starch out of the calves who grouped together and stood staring back up the hill at the barn. Somewhere inside each of them, a little bovine dinner bell began to chime. They started stepping furtively toward home. Kenneth saw them coming


and dared to imagine they might return to the pen all on their own. He stepped away from the barn and started a slow and careful out run around the little herd. The calves moved on cautiously and in minutes, Kenneth was behind them and they were almost at the barn door. They were stopped by the big blue tarp which they didn’t remember seeing on the way out. They took its full measure, then moved gingerly toward the door. Kenneth was closing on


them from the rear, ready to slam the door behind them. Just as they were about to step inside, a gust of wind snuck under the tarp. The tarp filled like a schooner’s jib sail and wafted onto the barn


roof. With their darkest suspicions about the blue tarp confirmed, the calves wheeled and sprinted back to the pump house. Kenneth cursed them loudly as they went.


When he finished


bestowing his entire vocabulary of profanities on the calves, Kenneth sought shelter from the storm in the barn. As he stood wondering how the whole exercise could possibly get worse, he spotted Tiny’s old lariat coiled and hanging on a nail beside the little window in the end wall. He lifted it down and started playing it out. It was as stiff as steel cable and it ran roughly through his hands. There must have been some sort of magic in the strands of the old lasso. It made him forget his soaked clothing and the sawdust that was tormenting every nook and cranny of his body. It replaced those woes with a John Wayne fantasy and a grim resolve. He coiled the rope back up and stalked off toward the calves. At first, Kenneth tried to


twirl the rope above his head. The calves watched intently as the erratic orbit decayed each time and the rope came snarling down around its thrower. Eventually, the twirling ceased and the calves were treated to another go-round of profanity. Kenneth regrouped, made a loop, and started throwing it toward the calves like a discus. The calves mocked his


efforts by ducking and skipping nimbly away from each throw that neared them. Profanity turned into the sound track for the whole


performance. Eventually, the law of averages tipped in Kenneth’s favour. The calves had become complacent and an especially large loop came to rest on Wilder’s shoulder. The remainder of it fell over his head and landed on the ground at his feet. Wilder shied and stepped


through the loop and Kenneth hauled on the rope like he was hand-lining for halibut. The loop tightened around Wilder’s rib-cage and the whole herd stampeded back toward the barn. Kenneth stood his ground. The rope sang painfully


through his clerical palms all the way to the knot in the end. It was a doomed equation:


Wilder’s mass, velocity, stability and traction overwhelmed Kenneth who had no velocity, stability or traction at all.


He did pick up substantial speed once the knot hit his hands. If there had been anyone watching, they’d have to hand it to him: he did hang on.


He managed to water ski


halfway across the garden before his left foot jammed on a rock and he fell over. By the time Wilder had dragged Kenneth half way up the slope, he was winded. He stopped just past the maple stump beside the driveway. Sensing slack in sideways motion he danced all the way around the stump then turned to face his adversary. Kenneth rose to his knees. Man and calf were gasping in desperate unison.


To the rescue Thus it was when Clayton


Garrison turned into the Hendersons’ driveway


bringing Ashley home. Ashley ran to her father. “Daddy! Are you okay?” Clay was right behind her. Deborah came running


from the house. She’d heard Kenneth holler, “Whoa, you- son-of-a-bitch,” and seen him skid the last few yards to the stump. She dialed Newt and relayed the emergency as she ran.


Kenneth’s eyes were the


size of bread and butter plates. His hair stuck out in all directions. His chest was heaving. He was soaking wet, stuffed full of sawdust like a cheap teddy bear and covered in mud from stem to stern. “Looks like you got ‘em catch-as-catch-can,” said Clay. “No shame in that. Can I give you a hand?” Clay grabbed the rope in one hand and gently pried it out of Kenneth’s grip with the other. “Who the hell are you?”


asked Kenneth. “Name’s Clayton Garrison,


sir. Pleased to meet you.” Clay unwound the wrap


that Wilder had made around the stump then gave him just enough slack to turn and start off to the barn.


Kenneth became aware of


the excruciating pain in his left ankle. “Are you alright?” asked Deborah.


Kenneth looked up at


Ashley. “Who the hell is that,


Ashley?” “Yes, who is that?” asked Deborah.


They all watched as Wilder


and Clay disappeared into the barn.


“He’s Clay,” said Ashley.


“Isn’t he great?” To be continued ...


AWMACK


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