Bull

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 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, “Geannii hollered BULL and locked me out!”   

Mom looked around the room. I was quiet and as invisible as a ninja.   

“Geannii isn’t even in the house, now tell me what is going on.”   

I peeked over the couch like a guilty prairie dog. Valerie dragged me out by the arm, and I tried to look innocent. Wide-eyed and serious, shaking my head no.

Mom laid down the law: Under NO circumstances was I ever to pull that stunt again.


Dad fixed the window. He bandaged Valerie’s fist.


And I fixed absolutely nothing about my behavior.

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