I’ve been working on my novel in progress Cinnamon: a dairy cow’s path (and her farmer’s) to freedom and thought I would post this excerpt. I was influenced by many things, including the Unitarian church that I attend. I was thrilled when I found out about the Unitarian Universalist Animal Ministry that encourages people to express their faith through compassion to “farm” animals.
I wrote this novel at the same time that I was becoming a vegan, so it mirrors my conscious raising and evolvement. Two and a half year later, I am going strong and feeling great.
A Rippling Tradition
Growing up, I would occasionally come to this church with Mama. Papa sometimes came along. Usually, he stayed home. “The newspaper is more interesting than the minister,” is all he would say when Mama asked him to go to church. Eventually, I preferred to stay home and read the newspaper with Papa. After a while, Mama started staying home too. At first, she said the house should be clean for the Lord’s Day. She often spent the morning cleaning–dusting the dark tan drapes and the rectangular teak coffee table. But after a few weeks of dusting furiously, she said she reckoned that the house was clean enough. Then she said that the Lord knew she meant to clean. She started sleeping in. I grew up thinking that Sunday was the Lord’s Day to let your Mama rest while you and your Papa read the newspaper after the farm chores were done. I can’t say that we were a religious family.
The church had a new minister–a young handsome man who was smart too. I’m sure that’s why many of the women were there–even the older ones. Probably more than a few of the men were there for the same reason. But who’s to judge? I was glad the church was there. I enjoyed the singing–especially the Sundays the choir was there. I didn’t know most of the songs. But when the soloists sang and looked heavenward, it warmed my heart. On beautiful days like today, it was as if God rode on the rays of sun shining through the stained-glass windows. On dreary days, the church felt like a haven. It felt like the shelter that it was–but more so with all the people gathered.
My favorite service was Christmas Eve when light rippled from one white candle (that was handed out to each person) to another. Before you knew it the darkened sanctuary became bright. Maybe the light was a metaphor that signified that the days would get longer again, that the sun would return. But to me the candlelight was just light—a rippling tradition–and I loved it.
Maybe it was all about the people. In truth, I rarely thought about the baby Jesus, or the Holy Ghost, or even the Holy Mother. I just liked being a part of something so much larger than me. Going to church was kind of like standing in a field and listening to the voice of God speaking through the beaks of shiny eyed crows, the long moos of cows, and the high-pitched whinnies of nearby horses. It was like breathing life into the stretched taffy clouds in the sky. It was like coming home and finding a hundred people cheering you on. You can do it, they would say in a collective voice, adding, it’s fate, or it’s meant to be. Just put your mind to it. Or pray on it, the more religious ones couldn’t help saying. Then we would eat together. It was called fellowship or breaking bread. People would bring their most yummy dishes to share after the service.
My stomach rumbled.
I guess it was the community that kept me coming. The food was part of the community.
I was surrounded by my neighbors and the church gave us something to talk about–even if it was only “wasn’t that an inspiring sermon” or “I loved that song.” That gave me a conversational opening to learn about my neighbors. I was relieved that I didn’t have to talk about baking pies (it seemed that I alone among the other farm women had no interest in it–even though I do like to eat pie!) and selling fruit and vegetables along the road in our farm stands. I did the latter, too, but how interesting is that for a conversational topic?
A woman farmer is unusual around these parts–maybe everywhere–and sometimes I felt the sting of rebuff. Just the other day at the vegetable stand, a customer asked me if I was the farmer’s wife and I replied no and told her that I was the farmer. I added that women can farm, too. So, I may have been a little defensive in my reply which never helps. At all costs, I didn’t want to appear like a woman who was looking for a husband–for love or to increase my land holdings. I’ve heard of people getting married from different farms and ending up with twice the amount of land. It makes you wonder what the motivating factor is–love or greed? That’s always my first thought. But my second thought is–and sometimes I have to remind myself–who am I to judge? I kept my opinions to myself.
The bottom line is that women are frequently competing over men, and I wanted no part of it. I had Ainsley, of course. But we kept a low-profile since we had an unconventional relationship. Also, I didn’t want to spend time with the male farmers. It wasn’t that I didn’t like them. I just suspected we didn’t have much in common. I had overheard a few conversations about who had the biggest tractor and the most advanced milking machine. I just wasn’t that kind of farmer. I was content with what I had.
But I had faith that once my neighbors got to know me, they would warm up.
Usually, the sermons were pretty good. But today there was a guest minister speaking–and his sermon lulled me to sleep a few times. Suddenly, I became aware of how uncomfortable the pew was. I guess that is what Ainsley doesn’t like about going to church–you never know what you are going to get.
The topic was why it is important for us to go to the memorial services of loved ones and friends. I agreed that it was important for us to give people a proper goodbye–even if they would be in our hearts forever, like the fresh air we breathed. But I couldn’t help thinking that since most of the people who came to the church were over sixty (at least!) and there were more memorial services–that attendance (to both church and the memorial services) must be dropping off. As soon as I figured out that the guest minister (an older man who was a colleague of our younger minister who was away) had an agenda, I lost interest.
I probably would have fallen asleep longer instead of just nodding and jerking back awake, but Ainsley had made me an extra-strong cup of coffee (just the way I like it!) that morning before I left the house.
My mind started to wander when I noticed that the minister’s robe was almost the same shade of brown as my cow Cinnamon. I wondered if Cinnamon could come to church, would she? I imagined her walking down the aisle on her four legs and sitting up like a human in the pew. The pew would strain and creak under her. The people around her would hold up their hands to whisper as they made eye contact with each other. Some of them might stifle laughter. A few might even hold their noses in anticipation of the fact that she might have an “accident.” Poor Cinnamon. It wasn’t like she was purple. I mean she did fit in with the other cows. Besides, the sign outside the church said that everyone was welcome. Didn’t that mean that cows were welcome also?
Who could deny that she was a holy being? She had her own personality. Her own way of thinking and being. She was obviously intelligent (even if she thought I had no idea that she was spying on me). I strongly suspected that she had emotions. She loved to run and play in the pasture, and she had special cow friends that I saw her with. The saying “sacred cow” didn’t come out of nowhere.
My Bible knowledge has always been scant. But I do remember hearing something Biblical about animals being made to serve man. What about women–where did they come in? But I also heard that the Bible said that animal cruelty is a sin! That must be true. We had a beagle named Sparky when I was growing up, and I never ever thought of being cruel to him. I loved Sparky and let him jump up on me. Sometimes, he knocked me over. But I didn’t care. I let him lick my face with his pink doggy tongue. In fact, when I heard there was such a thing as people being cruel to their pets (that’s why the SPCA was created) I was incredulous and exclaimed, “People actually do that?!” I was still very young and remember the first feeling of being flushed with indignation.
Farm animals are animals too, just like my dog had been. It seemed like they would come under the Biblical definition of men having dominion over beasts–but they weren’t really beasts. In my mind, beasts were scary and threatening. With the exception of the other day, when Cinnamon snorted at me for having a leather purse, I have never felt threatened by any of my farm animals. In fact, I have to stop myself from getting overly attached to them. The bleating sheep and the mewing baby lambs that follow them around are adorable, but I have always known–since when I was young and was the one who used to feed them–that they would end up on someone’s Easter table as the main course. But I was never able to eat them. I once heard someone say that the Fatted Lamb was to die for. I thought she meant that she had a heart condition. It turned out that she was talking about a restaurant.
It’s sad, too, when the pigs are sold for slaughter. Baby pigs always make me think of baby humans. They are so pink and pretty. The last pig I sold was almost as long as a short adult and fetched a good price. God knows that I needed the money. Thinking of God, reminded me that I was in church. The guest minister was still droning on. Was it a sin to sell a pig for slaughter if you needed the money? Maybe it was a sin to buy the pig for the smokehouse. What about the brick layer who helped to construct the smokehouse? Was it a sin if he was just doing his job? What if he was doing it to feed his family and his pet sheep dog who he considered to be part of the family? Was it a sin then? He would never think of eating his dog. Was there a difference between farm animals and domestic animals? They are both animals who live with humans and they both rely on humans for their food and shelter.
I thought of the term, “thy daily bread.” Humans need shelter too and regular food. Were we really that different from animals, domestic or not? I realized that I was making myself feel guilty. That made me feel angry. I wasn’t that bad. I was just doing what my ancestors had done. And I tried not to sell off the male calves to the veal farms. We always did have to sell off the dairy cows when they were too old to give birth and produce milk, but I’ve always refused to think about what happens to them.
Whatever it was, something shifted. Suddenly, I could see things for what they were. We always did have to sell off the dairy cows when they were too old to give birth and produce milk, but I’ve always refused to think about what happens to them.
I shuddered. The graphic details of turning a calf into veal were so bad that when I first heard about this as a preteen, I refused to eat veal. I continued not to eat it. Maybe that was the beginning, or perhaps it was when I was a child and started being around the cows when I was doing chores. I would pet them after I fed them and tell them my secrets. I wanted to name them. But Mama warned me not to because they would be gone before I knew it. Now I could see that the farming machinery put distance between me and my old chores. It might have been the fact that the sheep and their nuzzling lambs looked so sweet together until they became … you know. Perhaps it was when I was a small child, and my mother counted my toes and recited the little piggy poem by Mother Goose.
One thing leads to another.
The minister said, “Amen.” The shiny brass collection plates were passed. The clink of coins into them was a familiar sound. I felt reassured. I put in my envelope, smiled at the ushers, and stood with the others to sing the final hymn.
Then I went downstairs and stood near the food-laden table.
“Good afternoon, Jody,” said a familiar looking woman, with curly brown hair and a round face, who greeted me. “What did you think of the sermon?”
Just in time, I popped a delicious meatball into my mouth.
I smiled and nodded as I chewed.
To read another excerpt of Cinnamon: a dairy cow’s path (and her farmer’s) to freedom click here.
To learn more about my novel THEY, a biblical tale of secret genders (published by Adelaide Books New York/Lisbon), click here.
To learn more about my latest published novel — The Unicorn, The Mystery, click here:
The Unicorn, The Mystery now available from Adelaide Books — #amreading #FaithfullyLGBT
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Janet Mason, author 