This reminded me of a totally relative yet completely unrelated (figure that) tennis story which is probably what the Gilberts need most. Okay...whatever.
My grandfather owned a sizable piece of land in Winston Salem, not a true working farm as far as I could tell, but a farm nonetheless. He was a mechanic at Hanes and had raised three daughters and one son (my mother, aunts and an uncle) in three different homes on the same property.
Although, the second home in the family, a white wooden house was still on the property, I came to know my grandparent's home as a large brick home with a basement of equal size, the homestead preceded by a large fenced-in grazing area from the nearest road to their driveway.
This grazing area seemed quite large considering I don't remember ever seeing more than three to four cows ever in the field (there were many more on the back-forty I learned of years later).
I do remember his favorite cow, Blossom. At sometime in my very early years, I recall always jumping out of the car upon arriving during our visits and running toward the fence nearest the home and looking for Blossom and searching the barn if I couldn't find her.
During one of our next visits, I learned she had had a calf, Tyke. As we lived several hundred miles away, we weren't able to visit that often, but I became attached to Tyke. He was more my size, I didn't have the fear factor and Blossom seemed not to mind me being near him.
On our next visit, as usual, I scurried out of the car and ran immediately to the fence and saw not a single cow. I then sneaked in the back side of the barn and looked for Tyke. All I found was Blossom, which was wonderful because I would always pat her head, rub her ears and fork some hay over to her, but I saw no Tyke.
I expected to find him there, but I wasn't upset. The next sound I heard was my mother calling from the house, "Dinner".
The table was always a large spread of fresh food from local gardens or my grandfather's. We could play in the large backyard near the garden and nearly sense the crop behind us becoming a feast in my grandmother's kitchen.
After saying grace, beginning the meal and the light conversation had begun, I asked my grandfather, "Where is Tyke?".
He looked at my mother (both sitting across from me), and my mother looked back at him as if saying, "You handle this Dad."
He did. My grandfather said, "We are having Tyke for dinner."
My family, living in the suburbs and me not truly knowing the workings of a farm at such a young age, I probably never had much thought about where beef came from, or any other meat as a matter of concern. I guess I was more disappointed in not seeing Tyke again than knowing his outcome and that he was on my plate.
I remember later looking up at my mother and grandfather, with none of the wit I oddly had as a kid, and said, "Tyke is good."
Many years later I was thankful for my understanding or childish lack of concern (if so - who knows?) at the time about this reality when I discovered how many families have and still provide us with the foods we need and still have this love and care for their stock until they have to perform the tasks which brings the food to our tables.
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