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Why Did You Run?

Flight or fight response; when you are confronted by a great FEAR.

I have never been in a physical fight . Never felt cornered or threatened to that point. But, I do remember some fear that made me want to run.

Let me take you back to my childhood.

Mom and Dad are gone out and big sis Connie is watching us. She tells ghost stories. We huddle around her, mesmerized by her words, big eyed, wondering what is next. She tells us Joe has stolen a piece of meat and as he retreats, a haunting voice follows, 'Give me back my meat.', and Joe runs, but the voice follows, more menacing, droning, drawn out syllables, 'Giive me back my MEEEEAT.” he runs faster and still the voice pursues him, He's almost to his door, 'Giiiiiive meeee back myyy Meeeeeaaat.” Our hearts are pounding now, eyes big, limbs tense, ready to run. Then she lunges at us, grasping our arms. We jump out of our skins, but then laugh and want more stories.

Nothing is so dark, as a moonless night in northern Minnesota in the 40's and 50's. No streetlights. Never heard of a night light. No such thing as electronic devices with little LED lights.

I lay in bed, eyes studying the darkness, ears tuned to every little creak of the house. The shadows seem to move. I tuck the covers in tight around me. Don't let an arm or leg hang over the side of the bed. Something under the bed is sure to get it.

Another Day. My big brothers are milking cows. The barn holds 4 cows on each side of the concrete walkway. I watch with my back to the big open doorway to the barnyard. There is a door to my left to the house, past the well platform with the big iron pump. Chuck sits on a single leg stool, holding the metal bucket between his knees, both hands moving quickly squeezing the milk out of two teats, right, left, right, left, right, left, the forceful stream of milk ringing in the bottom of the bucket, the tone changing as the bottom is covered with milk, mellowing to a liquid sound as the bucket fills. Lewis is crouching by another cow, his experienced, long fingers brushing loose bits of bedding from her udder, preparing to milk her. A cat is watching from the walk. Lew squirts a stream of milk to her. She instantly opens her mouth, tilting her head sideways, tongue lapping as fast as she can, milk splattering all over her face, which she then washes with her bent paw, as Lew has settled down on his stool, pail between knees, rhythmically harvesting the white liquid, already foaming up in the bucket. I watch, and listen. At that moment, the bull bellered from outside the open door, directly behind me. I bolted for the house. Lewis later told me, as he clapped his hands together twice, “the barn door and house screen door, went bang, bang.”

Fast forward to 1962. Chuck and Lew are out in the world doing what young men do. Ricky has also left home, joining the Navy right out of high-school. Milking cows has fallen to Dee and I. We don't mind, as Dad has built a new barn with electric milking machines. There is no bull.

Mom and Dad took all of us to a neighbor's house, where the Triangle Farmer's Union club was meeting. While the women fixed lunch, the men were visiting. Elmer was saying, “It sounded like a woman screaming.” “Yep,” Phil said, “”That's a Cougar. It screams like a lady in distress.”

In all of my young life I had heard stories of bears in the woods and wolves howling out behind the barn, but the pioneers had tamed the land. There weren't supposed to be Mountain Lions in northern MN.

Next morning Dee and I had to be up early to get the cows milked before catching the bus to town for school. It was dark, so of course we turned on the yard light. It didn't take long to walk out past the garage/shop and turn the corner down the lane, where the yard light didn't reach. We walked side by side between the tall trees. It was cool and damp fall weather, and I shivered, hoping the cows weren't too far away. I couldn't get the previous night's revelation out of my mind. I can't tell you what I heard. Maybe a Bob Cat, or maybe it was just a Screech Owl. But I turned and bolted for the safety of the house. Stopped by the clump of Oaks by the house with dry heaves, gasping for breath. Dee was right beside me, and in a small, innocent voice, asked, “Why did You run? “

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