Author Archives: Kathleen Fox

Are there certain people who have a gift for frightening small children? Not deliberately. I'm not talking about abusers, bullying teachers who shouldn't be in the profession, or neighbors who have OD'd on vampire stories and take Halloween to terrifying lengths. I mean people who might be warm-hearted, helpful, and kind to small animals, but who have mannerisms that little kids shy away from.

Or maybe it was just me. I was the kind of child who would have preferred to peer out at the world from the safety of my mother's skirts and who found most grown-ups intimidating.

There were a few neighbors, however, who scared me even beyond my normal tongue-tied shyness. One was a tall, quick-moving woman with a quick, sharp voice and a habit of blinking constantly in a quick, sharp way. I didn't consciously make the comparison at the time, but looking back now I realize she reminded me of a chicken—a large, fierce chicken. Given my prejudices against fowl in general and chickens in particular, it's no wonder I was suspicious of the woman, even though there was nothing unkind or fierce in her behavior.

Then there was the hard-working, ambitious man who owned more land than anyone else in the county. I remember being with my grandmother once when he stopped to talk with her, and he commented on my pretty brown eyes and said he'd like to take me home with him. I thought he meant it and was wary of him for years after that. As an adult, I learned that he had asked my divorced grandmother more than once to marry him. My first reaction even then was relief that she had said no in spite of all that land.

Then there was the good friend of my father's who had a loud laugh and did a lot of joking and teasing in a loud voice. In addition, there was something wrong with one of his bright blue eyes so it didn't quite track with the other, and it wasn't easy to tell whether he was looking at me or not.

I don't remember this, but I'm told that once, when I was three or four, he was at our house for dinner and I was too scared to sit at the table with him. Mother let me eat in the living room, where I was safely unseen and unheard—mostly—except to ask for, "More mashed potatoes, please."

One thing at least can be said for being a shy child. While you're hiding out of sight behind your mother, around the corner, or safely in the living room with your own private mashed potatoes, you get a chance to listen to a lot of conversations. It may not be much fun at the time, but it's great training for a future writer.

It was the kind of summer evening to inspire city dwellers with wistful thoughts of moving to the country to enjoy the peace and quiet. About a dozen cats decorated the back step and sidewalk, paws tucked neatly under them and eyes half closed as they contemplated their own essential catness. Two or three stray hens scratched industriously if illicitly in the pansies. The dog was stretched out in a cool patch of soft dirt for some well-earned rest after keeping track of everyone all day.

Suddenly, faster than you could say "Scat!", cats shot in all directions. Yellow, orange, or white blurs streaked for cover up the elm tree, beneath the cars, or under the front porch. The hens squawked, fluttered in panic, and set out half-running, half-flying for the safety of the chicken coop. The dog, looking guilty but determined, suddenly remembered he had urgent business on the other side of the house.

Within a few seconds, the only signs of life were a couple of wary feline eyes peering out from under the pickup.

What could turn serenity into chaos so fast? My father, coming out of the house with a rope.

A cat, a dog, or even a chicken only has to be roped once or twice to learn the wisdom of staying out of reach of the lariat. It's hard for a heeler to get the practice he needs when the livestock won't cooperate.

In team roping, the header has the more dramatic half of the job, lassoing a running calf or steer around the neck or the horns. The heeler's task is to get a loop around the back legs. Heeling, as I remember my father's explanation, requires rolling a flat loop in front of the steer's back feet. When the steer steps into the loop, the roper has to be quick enough to jerk the rope tight before it steps out again.

This requires finesse, which requires practice, which requires something to practice on. It isn't a good idea to disturb the calves who are supposed to be placidly eating and gaining weight in the pasture. It isn't practical, either, to go saddle up the horse when all you want is to spend a few minutes with the rope after supper on a quiet summer evening.

That's when a heeler is inclined to take advantage of convenient targets of opportunity, like cats and chickens. After they have all learned to make themselves scarce, it's time to resort to more cooperative critters—the kids.

We would trot across the hard-packed dirt of the yard, waiting for the loop to snake across in front of us so we could step into it and let ourselves be caught. Then we'd willingly do it again, and again.

It's possible, I suppose, that we were simply more gullible than the cats or the chickens. I prefer to believe that we had a higher motivation. To us it was a game. Most little girls jump rope, after all—this was just a variation that our father was willing to play.

Maybe we were easily amused. Or maybe, sometimes, love means being willing to jump through a few hoops.