There was this one certain day, when the kids and I arrived at the farm stock auction and we sat down beside a new guy, named Joe. He had a strong accent, but he was easily understood except while taking bites of the cucumbers that he’d brought in a sack. We chatted in short spurts, between the times when animals were in the arena.
He and wife, Mary, had moved down from Chicago. He said she was as American as apple pie and had been a secretary, but was at that moment interviewing for a job in the diner. He had worked almost 15 years in a meat-packing plant, with many other Hungarians. But his wife needed a warmer place to live, so they mored.
Now they sought work and a place to stay. I was looking forward to meeting his wife, when our new friendship nearly took a wrong turn. It was odd how it happened… the auctioneer announced there would be a surprise, and urged all to please stay in their seats and remain calm for a moment. We wondered what was about to happen when, suddenly, the entry gate flew open, and out galloped the cutest little thing.
It was a young buffalo bull calf, and it stopped center stage in the arena, as if to take a bow. Budding horns, danced like curved arrows atop his distinctive, round head. My kids held their breaths, though the youngest still drove toy cars around my feet. “Look at that!” I whispered, “It’s a baby buffalo!”
The little guy danced a bit ‘round the arena, raising and lowering his head as if to focus his view. I’d not been close to a buffalo before, and wondered what his hefty price tag would be, surely far more than the twelve calves we were currently raising at home, then I had a new thought. What if I add a buffalo to our growing menagerie? Maybe we could branch out into… what was the crossover called? Beefalo!
The little guy batted his eyes as if he just awoke, the poor little guy. He was so adorable, how could I consider switching from beef ? Still, I tuned in to the bid and realized it wasn’t being called out in dollars, like for the young or small animals, but in cents per pound, like the big ones, and that made me glance up at the screen. The only time I’d bought an animal by the pound was one time last year.
It was a beautiful, dappled gray Welsh pony, with a shimmering silver mane it loved to toss and a thick flowing tail that swished along the ground. All that he lacked was an overdue hoof trim, but the oriental meat buyers were bidding, his beefy Welsh body would produce a lot of steaks and they were dominating the bids. When I finally figured how to tally the bid, and upgrade it according to the haggling of pennies, over this gentle pony, that we had been petting, knowing it was now selling for about $20 for meat, no less,
I’d raised my hand to bid, too. When my six-year-old daughter saw my hand go up, saw the pony in the ring, which shone like pure magic as if it turned into a glowing unicorn, she threw her arms up and squealed in delight to her brothers, “Mama’s buying us a pony!” and suddenly all bidding stopped.
Who would bid against that mama who wanted a pony for her cowgirl, who wore a red cowgirl skirt with white fringe and her hair in long braids? The pony went for $23, and two cow punchers followed us home, and brought us our Charlie Horse in their otherwise empty horse trailer. Now, I stared again at the screen. The little bull looked light on his feet, but he was way heavier than he looked.
Still, quickly estimated the cost, using the figures called out, multiplied by the weight
on the screen, then shook my head. That couldn’t be right. I scribbled the numbers on my auction card while the bidding continued, and saw I was right. It appeared that the little buffalo was about to sell for a about $5. Again, I saw a sweet image of this guy on our farm. The bidding slowed, and I still hadn’t joined in.
I wasn’t worryied over how to get him home, not with dozens of horse trailers outside, though I probably should have. I saw the the auctioneer raise his hammer; no time left for contemplation. Again, I sucked in a big breath, anticipating to call out a bid. Wait. Didn’t I do that already? Then, it happened again. Joe, this Hungarian, was bumping my arm.
And he began again, talking to me and waving his hands, a thing you ought not do at auctions. But Joe’s eyes never strayed from my face; nor once looked toward the auctioneer’s team, but kept talking about something, about nothing, I couldn’t make heads or tails of. “Going once, going twice…” I took another big breath, then this Joe leaned in and, shaking his head, gently took hold of my hand.
“Missy…” he said, as the gavel banged down. “SOLD!” Then someone gave a shout. “Look out!” All eyes pivoted to the arena, where the little buffalo, his head down, was charging toward a tall, bulky helper, who jumped sideways, lodged his bulk behind a thick, sturdy wall, built for that purpose. The little bull rammed his round head against the wall, then spun around and charged after the another guy, the brother of the first one, and he also jumped out of the way.
These two were used to this, and both men cheerily waved to the crowd, now hooting with raucous laughter. The auctioneer pointed his gavel to the exit, as if the buffalo could understand. But when the buzzer sounded and the gate swung open, the little guy quickly sped away, kicking back heels skyward on his way out, and we all heard the diminishing bawls.
Then I turned in my seat and glared at Joe, and I know that sparks flew from my eyes, but I was still too surprised and angry to speak… how dare him to interrupt my bidding?
“Missy, Missy,” he said. “I save you. I did. Dat little fella be too much trouble.”
Then, the auctioneer called out that he needed a break. He got up from his seat and left, and the digital scale lights went dark, but Joe told us something darker, then shook his head at the memory.
“Years ago, I buy dis leetle baby buffalo, t’ree months old, same size like dis one and handsome. We load him up and get him home. But when we unload him in the corral, he move so fast and strong, nobody can stop him, though we tried. Dat leet’l guy run two miles straight; tore t’roo ever’ fence on his way. He must‘ve found wild place to hide or maybe he’s just kept on going, for we ne’er did find heem. After dat, I have to mend ever’ fence he tore down. So, you see, Missy? I save you today, from many and much troubles.”
He was absolutely right, and my face broke into a slow smile. My new friend, Joe, the Hungarian, just saved me a boatload of trouble that day, in money, in time and who knew what else, and guess what? It wasn’t the last time he did so. Joe and Mary came to live on our farm; staying in an unused bunkhouse, even long after they found various jobs in town.
In return, that grizzled, old Joe kept a close watch over me and the kids, especially when my husband was off traveling (though he rarely told us where he was going or why, nor did he say goodbye). But, Joe made sure my husband towed a narrow line whenever he was home. And sweet Joe, the Hungarian kept finding time to repair any fences on the place.
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P.S. Eventually, said husband went off the deep end; and I got distressed and collapsed. I was hospitalized and then and was determined to live, so my father came to retrieve the children and me, and took us to his home, while Joe and his wife, Mary, continued living at the farm. Then they sent me a letter, in hopes of finding me well.
They said that Poco was doing fine; we’d left him in their care.They sent a photo of Poco’s new playmate, Kiskutya, which meant little puppy in Hungarian. I wrote to them saying I wasn’t sure if or when I’d return. They wrote again; said my husband left without saying where he was going.
Joe wondered if I wanted him to sell the remaining stock. I told him that was a great idea; that I didn’t know where my husband was either, though I figured he was likely with the woman who traveled with him, or maybe he was staying with his mother. Joe sold the last of the livestock, sending a money order to me.
I didn’t see Joe or Mary again, nor did I receive another letter. I do hope they’ve been doing well, and I imagine that wherever they are, Joe might still be mending fences. Perhaps someday, Joe or Mary will see these words and respond for old times’ sake. I hope so. Though I’ve no more fences to be mended, maybe we could find one. I
have missed Joe and Mary, and Poco when he howled at the moon.
