By Shelley Aadoson
First Place
Actually, it all began over a cow my older sister, Donna, had trapped inside the barn and intended to turn into her personal riding horse. Betsy was less than enthused about becoming a steed, and so when Donna’s best friend, Julie, took it upon herself to climb on the cow’s back, things did not go well. Careening down the center aisle of the tie stall barn, Betsy busted through the partially open door at the far end, unceremoniously dumped Julie in the barnyard and fled for the open fields beyond. Donna was infuriated that Julie had not only tried riding her cow but had also been responsible for her release from the barn and the two girls became embroiled in a screaming match.
Each of us children gathered at the scene of the disturbance and began shaping our own opinions as to who was right and who was wrong. Forces were quickly formed. Given that Donna’s legendary scrappiness had flared, most chose to side with Julie, for Donna always promised a good fight. Hurling childish insults to one another, the argument soon escalated into pushing with the odd punch thrown. It was Donna who threw the first fistful of manure landing it on sister Debbie’s boyfriend’s cream coloured jacket. Justice for this heinous act had to be meted out immediately and pandemonium ensued. Kids were rolling around in the barnyard and tussling in the barn. Little kids, big kids, Smith kids, neighbourhood kids. Manure was flying everywhere – old, dried manure that burst into powder as it hit its target and fresh, sloppy manure that splatted and ran against its victim.
Not one of us, it seemed, remembered that our parents who had gone into the city to pick up our visiting grandmother from the train station would be returning soon. Only our dog’s barking alerted us to the sound of the car crunching on the gravel as it entered the laneway, but the warning came too late and our parents’ car pulled into the yard as manure flew. Pandemonium turned to panic. Quite suddenly most of the fighting ceased and we began frantically brushing manure and debris from clothes, and trying to straighten our dishevelled selves.
Roaring as he exploded from the car, Dad made his displeasure clearly known. Seven Smith kids, two of whom – Donna and James – still pummelled one another on the ground, and several neighbourhood kids, all a filthy shambles appeared before our parents. Though it was many years ago, in my mind’s eye, I can still conjure up the look of utter dismay on the faces of Mom and Dad as they stared upon the manure-bespattered group.
Uncharacteristically for Grandma, she did not greet her grandchildren with big hugs, but lowered her head and hustled into the house. Very likely, knowing Gram’s great sense of humour, she thought it prudent to disappear and conceal her mirth.
Washing the manure from ourselves turned out to be Mom’s and Dad’s ingenious and slightly inhumane punishment, for we were not afforded the luxury of hot baths, but had to endure the indignity of washing outside beneath the cold, cruel stream of the garden hose.
X-rays later that evening would determine that Donna would suffer further indignities for her part in the brawl as her hand had been broken by its repeated contact with Jame’s face and would require surgery and wires to realign the shattered bones.
Youth was a few years ago for my siblings and me, but, though each of us has a slight variation to our memories of the great manure fight, the story has been enthusiastically told and retold . Zealously, of course, and with much laughter we each defend our own version, but we all agree it was an epic battle – a real s**t disturbance.
