The Yell County Free Fair

        by Pat Gillum

     From my earliest years, all my sisters and I were very excited when we saw the huge searchlight moving back and forth across the night sky each September. We knew that meant the Yell County Free Fair time had arrived, and we could hardly contain our excitement.

     On School day, Dad would give us 30 cents each, or maybe fifty cents on a good year, and we would board the school bus to cross the mountain to Danville, thirteen miles away. The big parade, the only one I ever saw as a boy, was exciting. One year, I entered 10 ears of corn from my own acre in competition, and won first place! A blue ribbon, and even more importantly, some cash! The next year, I was really pumped. I went through the whole corn crib, ear by ear. I worked for days to find the very best ten ears on the farm. I didn't even place.

     The Scramble, on Danville's football field, was a really exciting night. I had watched it every year since I was a small boy. Someday, I wanted to do that.

     The girls were in the Chicken Scramble. One girl from each school. Chickens were released on the field. The girls chased them with abandon. If they caught one, It had money attached. The younger boys chased greased pigs. Catch it, and carry it off the field, and it was yours.

     When I was in the 12^th grade, my time finally arrived. I was entered in the Calf Scramble. I had watched these for years, and I realized this was hard. I had watched many boys, larger and stronger than I, try to out-muscle their calf they had their hands on, and just totally wore themselves out. They were never able to get their short lead rope they carried on it, eventually losing it.

     I stripped down to my genes and track shoes at one end of the field, along with the other six boys. Two calves were released at the other end. The gun went off. I quickly shot out to a lead. When I neared the calves, I noticed one was small, as usual. The other was a nearly grown heifer. Figuring bigger is better, I grabbed the tail of the large one with both hands. I knew immediately I had made a mistake. This one looked almost like a grown cow, and I was a very skinny kid. I reasoned quickly that brute force would never work. I was very short on strength, longer on endurance. I figured that if I just held on, let the calf do most of the work, it would eventually wear itself out. So, around and around the football field we went. On about the third lap, the calf made a quick turn, and down I went. Now it was dragging me. I was determined to hold on, no matter what. This was a high dollar calf. As the calf finished one lap of dragging, I began to realize with horror; my genes were slipping down. Farther and farther. Soon, they would pass the point of no return. The crowd, seems like everyone in Yell County, began to realize the drama that was being played out before them, and the noise level picked up. The moment came when I had to make a terrible decision between my modesty and my calf. In 50 years or so, most of these people would be dead, and most of the others will have forgotten. I gritted my teeth as I made my decision. Whatever happened here to me tonight, I was taking this calf home. Most of these people didn't even know me. I could just go home and pretend I was very sick, stay home from school awhile. Maybe my school mates would forget.

     Right as the critical moment arrived, the calf hesitated. Just for a second or two. Just long enough for me to regain my feet, and pull up my pants. The crowd let out a disappointed “ ooooooooooh!” Then we were off again, leaving the football field far behind as we ran through back yards, eventually reaching a big field. Right in the very middle of that field, the calf could go no more. When I, at long last, led MY calf back to the football field and over to our truck, the lights were off, and the crowd had gone home. My dad told me later that he had heard a spectator say, just at the peak of the action, “That skinny kid will never hold that calf!”

     The man next to him shook his head, and said, “That kid is a Gillum, and a Gillum would give up his life before he would give up a hundred dollar calf!” Those guys knew my Dad. Guess I’m just a chip off the old block.