Growing Up Hurt and Humiliated. Part 1

Its occurred to me that in this particular point in my life, I don't have anything to really complain about. I've got a girl, dog, cat, house, and some whiskey in the freezer. I've grown tired of complaining about shiz I can't change; crappy musicians, politics, bad grammar. As I used to be able to go on these rather entertaining rants about what I was pissed off about at that moment, which you can read right at www.myspace.com/mike_henderson (which I haven't posted to in over a year, and the only reason its kept active, is that's because of where I met my girlfriend six years ago).

So here's the thing, I've had the itch to write about things, but can never really get it going. I've done a few game reviews for a site, and that was fun, but then they stopped publishing said reviews. I thought "what could I write about that would be entertaining?" And it suddenly dawned on me...why not tell the stories that have been making my friends laugh for years? The stories of me in various adventures either getting destroyed or completely downed in front of people. I'll start from the earliest age, or what I can remember and move up through the years. Should be a fun ride.

The year was 1981. I was three years old. We lived on a cattle plantation in a small small small town called Greenwood, Mississippi. We didn't own the plantation, this old guy named Mr. Ben did. I often thought at a young age that he was related to Uncle Ben from the rice box, except...white. At any rate, my dad worked on this plantation, as the main cattle hand. He would make sure the cows had food, water, and so forth. Every once in a while, dad would take me with him to tend to the cattle. This never suited me much, as I would have rather stayed home, and dressed up as batman, or read Sesame Street books. I reckon he wanted me to learn about cows, so he would still take me against my will. What can I say, I was three. Which sometimes going could be exciting, as he would let me sit in his lap, and pretend like I was driving. Only through the fields mind you, not on the actual roads.

Mr. Ben had a bull that had his own barn and pen. As you didn't want him on his own, impregnating all the female cows...for some reason. More cows equals more money I would think. Who knows. So, this bull has his own living quarters, and Dad had to go feed him separately. For some reason, call it Bull vs. Me destiny, Dad decided this was one of the times that I needed to come along for the trip. We pulled up to the gate where the bull stayed. Dad says "I'll be back in just a minute, so stay put." Yes, my dad was leaving a three year old in a truck in the middle of a pasture by himself, but these were simpler times...or it was bad judgment. I'll let you dear reader figure that one out. He got out, and went through the gate, and into the barn. As soon as he left, I began to count. OK, so I know what you're thinking three years old, and counting off minutes...you don't believe it. Well, my mother was a firm believer in teaching me how to read, spell & count from a very early age. I continue counting and get to about two minutes. Which was exactly one minute longer than he said he would be. I climb down out of the truck and go to the gate. I start to call for my dad, but I get no answer. Which had made me a little nervous, as he couldn't have been more than 100 feet away in the barn. I decide to climb through the fence, and walk towards the barn, still calling for my dad. No answer...well, no answer from the mammal I was calling out for. Instead, what I got was over a ton of horned anger walking from behind the barn. Even though I grew up on a cattle farm, my knowledge of what bulls do was limited to Bugs Bunny cartoons. Which meant they'll probably charge, and knock you over the fence. Things to look for in an angry bull, as per Bugs Bunny: 1. Bull, Check. 2. Someone in their way that's not a bull, Check. 3. Digging one hoof into the ground to alert you of a charge...check. All these things added to me running as fast as I could, with a bull hot on my heels. Luckily, I wasn't too far from the gate, and was able to get through before he caught up to me. I got to the truck, slammed the door, and locked it. The bull eventually walked away, at which point Dad came out from behind the barn. Came through the gate, and got in the truck. He asked me "what the hell's wrong with you?" I explained what happened, to which I'm not for sure if he believed it or not, but his response was "Well, I told you to stay in the truck."

To this day, I'm not for sure if Dad and the bull had some sort of agreement, that if the bull took me out, would Dad provide him with some hot cow ass, or if it was just a misunderstanding on the bull's part. But what this does, is kick off a long string of events that leaves me either hurt, humiliated or both at the hands of my dad. Next time, I'll tell the story of why it isn't good to eat a Cadbury Bunny Egg when your dad tells you to watch him clean a deer.