Page 19 - BoringStoriesPolyKidswArtwork_Neat

It was not perfect growing up next to the dairy farm. There was this one,
small problem. Besides the dairy cows that were pastured right across the
gravel road in front of our house, there was also a monstrous, black bull!
Just picture the worst bull that you have read about or seen on movies or
television. This one was just as ugly and twice as mean. To go anywhere
outside our cottage you had to walk the gravel road. Either way you would
walk would take you right by the field where they kept the cows and the bull.
This bull would rant and rave all the time. He would bellow and blow. He
would paw the ground and snort! He literally scared me to death!

Everyone would tell us, “Oh, he won’t bother you. Just pretend you do not
notice him as you walk by. Don’t make eye contact!” Well, I tried that and it
did not work! I would walk by, my head down and firmly fixed on the ground
in front of me as I passed by the bull. Nevertheless, I could hear him
snorting and pawing the ground, just a few feet away behind that
insignificant barbed wired fence; the slightest push would bring it toppling
down! My heart was in my throat all the time. I would break out in a sweat. It
was all I could do not to start running and dash for the house, a very long
thirty yards away.

The bull would often bellow all through the night. My bedroom window faced
his enclosure and I could hear his ranting all night long. It was my recurring
nightmare that, as I walked by on the gravel road, the bull would charge,
trample right through the wimpy fence and chase me towards the house. I
can still see me dashing for the garage opening on the bottom level and
racing for the stairs. I was not sure if a bull could climb stairs or not, but in
my dream I never made it to safety. I would always wake up in terror as he
chased me up the steps! Sixty years have passed, and I can still vividly
remember these dreams.

Since we lived at the far back of the campus and the war rationing had made
it very difficult to buy gasoline, my father purchased two bicycles, one for
him and one for my mother. He then rigged up a way of carrying the two of
us. He built a wooden platform for me just behind his handlebars and a seat
for Edda just behind my mother. In this manner, our family was able to travel
all around campus. Although I was less than four years old at the time, I can
remember riding in this wooden contraption on the front of the bike.

With gasoline rationing limiting the gasoline we could buy, my mother was
often forced to ride her bicycle all the way into town. Once she was to go to

13