Perhaps a Cow?

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“What’s the name of that cow?” the little boy asked. He was a city kid. His parents had booked room and board for the summer at our farmhouse. Summer Vacation On A Farm –

That was the advertisement my Grandma had placed in the newspapers and travel brochures in larger cities in Austria, Italy, and Germany.

The extra money was needed. Many other farmers in our village and the surrounding area had done the same, and guests were attracted to the mountain areas. Converting normal bedrooms to vacation rooms had drained most of the savings people had.

I was young back then, perhaps twelve or maybe ten, when we started to welcome tourists into our home. I had to move out of my room for the summer, slept downstairs in the small room behind the kitchen, right beside my grandma’s bedroom, which could be entered from our large kitchen.

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The four upstairs rooms had been turned into bedrooms. They all had now a double bed, and extra small beds and cots for the kids. A table with chairs, a cupboard for the clothes, and in the corner was a wash area with a sink, which, thanks to the new installed warm water heaters underneath that had cost a fortune, allowed our summer guests to freshen up in their rooms.

We all shared the large bathroom upstairs and one toilet. Times were different then.

We had breakfast at a large row of tables in our former living room, which was now, during the summer, used for meals with the guests. The women cooked in my grandma’s kitchen, and the men filled the small charcoal grills outside that they had brought with them. I had my first steak when I was thirteen. I ate a hot dog, something modern from the United States of America, a country so far away.

I was the tour guide of the stalls and stables. I introduced the chickens, pigs, and cows to the kids who followed me around -something I enjoyed a lot. These city kids knew nothing about farming, and I showed off as much as every other kid would have done in the same situation.

“The cow’s name is Bridget.” I pointed to the cow with pride. The little boy laughed and he made fun of me. He giggled and teased me. “You have a cow named after you?” His laughter stung a bit at first, but he wasn’t the first kid I had shown my cow to.

Did they not understand what an honor it was to have a cow named after you?

I have done nothing in my life that could grant me the privilege to have something named after me. I am not rich or powerful enough, and neither do I feel the need to brand buildings or places with my name. I have done nothing special in my life. There were little, short-lived sparkles of goodness, brilliance, and genius now and then, mostly quickly followed by also short-lived speckles of complete and utter failure.

Name a cow after me. It was good enough back then; it surely would be good enough now.

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Daily writing prompt

If you could have something named after you, what would it be?

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