Bull
BULL! Val had a real fear of bulls. It wasn’t her fault. It was Mom’s. When Val was about two, Mom took her for a peaceful Sunday walk in the pasture. Birds chirping. Sunshine made a rare appearance in Western Washington. Dad was on the other side of the barbed‑wire fence, watching this wholesome moment. Suddenly he spotted a bull pawing the ground like "Ready or not here I come." Dad panicked and hollered, “BULL!” Now—my mother was many things. An Olympic hurdler was not one of them. Except that day. She took a running leap and cleared a barbed-wire fence in a dress, no less. And there stood tiny Valerie… on the wrong side of the fence. Alone. With the bull. I knew I was dead. I thought she was reaching for me—nope, just the bolt. That’s the last thing I saw before I dove like a feral cat behind the couch to await my fate. Mom stormed in. “What is going on in here?” Valerie, crying and furious, yelled, “Gean...