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Topic: Mountains (09/20/04)
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TITLE: A Cow-licked Lesson By Thomasina Laskar 09/23/04 |
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This was the third and final retreat I would experience with my Sunday school classmates. In a few short weeks we were due to be confirmed by our church; we were required by our church leaders and by the demands of our parents to attend, leaving us with no opportunity to change our minds. Past retreats left me familiar with a few classmates that I felt connected to on a deeper level than most. We were a diverse group of teenagers, ranging from Miss Priss and Mr. Popular Jock to the overachieving schoolgirls and skater-dudes, the rocker want-to-bes and, like me, everyone in between. It was early spring, when in the mountains it felt like late winter and chills struck at any time. The thought of savoring fresh air, abundant blue skies and being separated from the leisure of civilization should have crossed our minds. Instead an afternoon of dull lectures and lackluster activities that left our minds aching were all we had to look forward to.
I met up with George following dinner that night, after I went to retrieve my sweater from the girl’s dormitory. He was one of those rough looking guys on the surface, whose long black hair, all-black attire (which included a leather jacket, a ragged, sleeveless heavy-metal band tee-shirt and black jeans) aroused the judgement of many adults. The previous year found us carpooling with other teens to this same destination; the light conversation and abundant laughter permitted me to see a softer side of the tough guy I perceived George to be. As with most of my Sunday school classmates we went to the same high school, and sometimes shared the same classes. Yet the time in the mountains revealed George’s vulnerable side that was often hidden from view. It was where I too could reveal parts of my true self without the fear of being misunderstood.
“What is cow tipping?” I asked him. Since we were approaching that cow with the idea already in plan I needed clarity, fast.
“Watch. Do what I do.”
The only indication that cow was alive was her flicking ears. I never knew a cow could be that passive. I was slightly fearful, for immediately the image of a suddenly turned angry cow lodged itself into my mind. I studied that open pasture for signs of a charging bull. I quickly understood what he was attempting as we pressed our hands into soft, spongy flesh. Both of us pushed with our might to knock the cow off her feet. She remained firm as we tried again, and again. I was grateful that no one was there to witness this: I was afraid of what my mother might have thought had we been caught, because to me the wrath of Mom was worse than the wrath of cow.
“At least we tried,” I assured. Humorous smiles were exchanged as we regained our composure.
Slowly we retreated back to the chapel where the rest of our class wandered in. There were more lectures, and I got up to read a short poem I wrote within a five-minute span. I looked at the sleepy faces of my classmates, knowing we still had another unfinished year of high school to go. I was afraid that the bonds forged from years past would be left behind. Change was surely on the horizon.
I did not tell my parents about that attempted cow-tipping incident. I might have been too embarrassed to say that a passive cow knew better than to let two ignorant teenagers topple her over for laughs. I was reminded of an all-too important lesson that day: things are not always as they seem.