Q: What is your most non-traditional holiday tradition?
A: The Taming of the Beasts
Thanks, Agelakis
The tradition started in 1981 or ’82. At the time, the city of Allen numbered about 4,000 and the land behind our house was a large grass field home to 20 or 30 head of cattle. To keep them from wandering into our backyard, Dad started building a fence.
The rancher, Mr. Whitford, was cut from a mighty oak tree. He rode a giant steer named Buster, and Buster’s coat wasn’t brown, white or black like the other cattle. Instead, he had a brilliant navy blue coat that was almost deep purple when the sun fell on it just right. My brother and I would watch Mr. Whitford tend to his flock every day after school. He sat atop Buster with his arms crossed, whistling high and long every now and then for the cattle to follow.
One day, we came home and found Dad and Mr. Whitford talking out back. Dad said one of the bulls had taken off from the rest of the herd and smashed into one of the fence posts. I looked and saw one of the thick chocolate-brown posts bowed in the middle, a thicket of splinters on the side opposite. Mr. Whitford shook his head and apologized to Dad.
“Listen,” he said suddenly, “let me make it up to you. Why don’t you and your family come over to the ranch for Christmas dinner?” Dad thought for a moment. “Okay. Sounds like a winner.”
I was excited. To hell with the Preschool Christmas Carol Concert that evening, I was going to eat with a bonafide rancher.
Dinner at the Whitford Ranch featured huge slabs of meat. These choice cuts, from Mr. Whitford’s own stock, roasted on giant spits cranked by his three strapping sons over fire pits several yards wide. His sons were about a year older than me and about two feet taller.
After Mrs. Whitford cleared the dishes, Mr. Whitford invited us to follow him outside. In his backyard, as far as the eye could see, his flock gathered in clusters around the hay he had delivered earlier. “I want to invite y’all to join in a Whitford family tradition, one that dates back to when my grandfather drove cattle to the railroads in Kansas.” He curled his bottom lip underneath his large white teeth and let out a long, low whistle. The bulls responded by mooing gently and faced one another. They scratched at the ground, raising a dust cloud that engulfed them. At once, a commotion arose, clacking sounds, moans of pain and the earth suddenly trembled. When the dust had settled, two of the bulls laid on their sides. In the moonlight, we saw their tough hair mottled by a shiny dark black.
But these bulls weren’t maimed terribly. “See here,” Mr. Whitford began, “the herd knows which ones amongst them are the toughest, meanest sons of bitches. And though they are the most respected among these bulls, they’re not above being humbled themselves. Just as all beasts were humbled the day the Lord was born.”
And almost as if on cue, one of the fallen bulls muzzled my hand and beckoned me to get on his back. Since then I’ve rode many horses and none of them compared to the gentleness and ease with which that bull carried me.
We’ve had many Christmas dinners with folks from all walks of life. Bankers, doctors, plumbers and accountants have all eaten at our table. When the ranchers come however, we tell them this tale and a secret bond reveals itself. Then when we visit their herds, late on a December night, we witness the ritual again.