As autumn steadily approaches, the summer people—rusticators, as they were once called—are packing up their cottages and making the odyssey back home. The roads are beginning to have less traffic on them; store hours are changing; shops are closing down and being boarded up. There are two seasons of life and work here: summer and winter. I’ve come here during a time of transition from one way of life to another, and it is fascinating to watch the slow metamorphosis in these tiny peninsula villages.
I went to the Blue Hill County Fair with Sally and Vivian tonight. While they went to the craft show, I made my way to the other side of the fairgrounds to the livestock arenas to pet sheep and goats and draft horses and watch an oxen pull. Actually, I didn’t so much watch the competition as I wandered around petting the oxen and talking with their owners. I spent most of the time petting one pair in particular—Spike and Murdock. The animals are so massive and powerful, yet so sweetly docile. I spoke with the owner for some time and asked a ton of questions. One thing I asked him was what he did with them once they were too old to work. Naïvely, I asked if he put them out to pasture and let them enjoy the wildflowers and the shade for the rest of their lives. He said, I ship them off for beef. Appalled, I said, You mean after twenty-five to thirty years of grueling labor—never complaining, always faithfully following your every command—you have them turned into hamburgers? He had the grace to look slightly ashamed, but replied, Waste of money elsewise. I tried to hug Murdock, but my arms wouldn’t make it all the way around his burly neck. That’s the most horrific thing I’ve ever heard of, I informed his owner.
I’ve decided that once I’m truly out on my own and making enough money to easily support myself and my Irish Wolfhound, I’m going to have an oxen retirement center where those gentle beasts can ruminate over the flowers and bask in the shade for the rest of their years on earth.
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