Jackson Free Press

I keep getting asked why I don't eat red meat. Not to be an Oprah, but I actually do worry about Mad Cow Disease. There's a story, too—the real reason I don't include red meat in my diet.

As a child I resisted every effort on my father's part to introduce me to farm life. A big man from a small town, I am sure he was more than just a little put off by his very "citified" son. He nevertheless tried at every occasion to inundate me in the rural traditions of his early life. My one concession at age 10 was to adopt a motherless calf I cluelessly and thoughtlessly named, "Hamburger."

Maybe it was against every city ordinance in town, but my father let me keep this calf in our backyard. While we had a farm in central Mississippi, we didn't actually live on it (my mother wouldn't hear of it—thank God for small favors). But every weekend my father would take me in his big red truck for our weekend "on the land."

I felt especially close to this animal, because I was there at her birth; it was a kind of spiritual moment for me (think out-of-body) as I found myself up to my armpits inside the mother cow helping with this complicated birth. I was terrified for some reason that her womb would suck me in, as opposed to ejecting her calf. Image being 10 and sticking your arms into the birth canal (meaning gaping cow vagina) of an animal 10 times your weight. There was afterbirth everywhere (meaning slimy), and my dad was grinning more broadly, the more disgusting I became. It is an experience I still hold on to today (meaning night terrors). Sadly, the mother died because of a breached birth, but Hamburger came into this cruel world as a healthy cow.

Because she was an orphaned calf, my father decided that the most logical form of care would be for me to adopt her as a kind of pet and have her early years spent in our backyard in town. You can't imagine the look on my mother's face when the situation was explained to her. She regarded farm life as something my father nostalgically held onto from his upbringing—and that was fine as long as it stayed 25 miles or more away from her daily life. But by the time my mother was let in on the plan, I had actually become attached to this small life that I had helped bring into the world. The pleading look in my eyes combined with the shine in my father's eyes—happy that he had finally made headway with a son determined to abandon any form of farm life—finally convinced my mother that this was a battle she would not win.

Unfortunately, no one noticed the look of terror in the eyes of this newly born calf. Motherless and now farmless, Hamburger would not adjust well to life in town. You can imagine the look on our neighbor's faces when they were awakened from sleep at 4 a.m. by the loud (and sad) mooing of this orphan calf.

As months went by and Hamburger grew, it became apparent that our former dog pen, now acting as a "cow pen," would not be able to hold her for long. And I must say that getting up in the wee morning hours (something I have yet to repeat in 21 years) to carry a feedbag weighing more than I did—trekking across the yard in winter to feed this life dependant upon me—was a responsibility weighing more on me than the feed sack. (I also totally understand the concept of "free range" animals because of this experience).

When we determined that Hamburger had outgrown her pen in town, we transported her to larger accommodations. Things become a little bit hazy after that. Eventually, a few weeks had gone by, and one day after school I asked my dad how Hamburger was doing. The time spent in town with us had not made Hamburger a docile animal, he informed me. She had kicked at my dad several times and had managed to get her leg caught in a gate. My father looked grim, but said nothing else. I swore to myself that I would go visit her soon, but thought nothing of it as I went out to our deep freeze to get something to stick in the microwave; the deep freeze was stuffed to the top. Again, I thought nothing of it.

But when I came back inside, my mom had pulled out some buns to make my Dad—yes, you guessed it—a hamburger.

I asked my mom, "Hey what's all that stuff in the deep freeze?"

My mom looked at me and stoically said, "It's Hamburger."

"Gosh, all of that is hamburger meat? That's a lot."

"No, honey," she said taking my hands, "it's Hamburger" (My mother is not one to mince words).

I had a sudden loss of breath (my first panic attack at 10 years old). "Oh, my GOD!" I screamed, running to my room as the meaning penetrated my brain. I didn't come out until time for school the next morning; my mom handed me my sack lunch. I checked it. It was a cheese sandwich.

So the next time you eat that big, juicy steak, think of the tragic life and death of Hamburger, the cow.

P.S. Yes, that was me you saw in the Krystal drive-through line at 2 a.m. Sheesh, I'm only human. But does that count as red meat, anyway?

Trey Mangum is a columnist for the JFP. He is a graduate of Millsaps College, Mississippi College and the University of Texas at Austin.