“Cows give milk, but they also provide an excellent source of comedy.” —Unknown
Text and Art by Ginny Neil
Here we are in the middle of the most productive garden days of the year. It’s high summer and my plants are putting out in all the right ways. As I stand on the edge of my plot, surveying the results of my hard work, I am congratulating myself. My garden has never looked better.
If you understand the literary technique of foreshadowing, then at this point in my story you should be on the edge of your readerly seats whispering under your collective breaths, “Uh oh!”
Is it possible that there is a hailstorm in my garden’s future? That’s certainly happened in the past. Perfect potatoes and tantalizing tomatoes are as rare as the occurrence of a week of perfect hay weather. If we mow hay when there is no chance of rain in the forecast, then an unexpected downpour will occur. If we put off mowing because the weather girl says there’s a 100% chance of rain, we can be fairly certain the sun will shine just to spite us.
I have seen snow fall in August, and a month or more with no rain followed by a month of deluge. But precipitation is not the only foe of perfection. Wind loves to knock over tall, tasseled corn and suck up the remaining moisture in the ground on its way out. I have also experienced a frost severe enough in July to kill tender corn shoots. But still, I persevere because gardening is a lovely addiction which pays off with dopamine highs and delightful meals when it works.
As I stand at the edge of the plot, I am not thinking about the hazards. I am anticipating fresh corn for supper tomorrow. My sister, Meg, who is visiting for the week, is standing beside me and we have agreed. We will get up early tomorrow morning and pick while the day is still cool.
And we are up early. I rise first for a quick, quiet stroll out to enjoy the morning. Minutes later, Meg wakes to a full-scale farm alarm. When she rushes to the window, she is surprised to see me running madly through the yard wearing nothing but a flimsy nightgown and a pair of tall black rubber boots. I am flailing my arms and screaming four-letter phrases. The six cows standing placidly in my garden ignore me and keep on ripping leaves and cobs from the corn.
The tomatoes are well on their way to paste, the peppers are beyond picking, the cukes might be fit for relish. The cows? They are happy and unwilling to leave this produce paradise.
Meg runs down to help. Around and around we go, chasing the cows across the croquet court and through the garden before they finally dodge out the wide-open gate. I must have forgotten to latch it. After the last cow scoots through with a defiant kick in our direction, we sit down for a good laugh. Well, my sister, and My Own Farmer, who woke just in time to shut the gate, are laughing.
And so, there is no corn for supper or for a very long time after that. I am telling you this story as if it just happened. But it didn’t. The now infamous cow calamity happened 20 years ago. Ten years ago, I finally saw the humor in it and now, every time the corn tassels, I chuckle at the memory as I check the gate latch.
If you asked me what it takes to be a successful gardener, I would say it takes a strong back, a hopeful attitude, and a deep need to connect with the soil. While these three are important qualifications, the legendary bovine debacle taught me that a sense of humor is almost as important. That and a gate that swings shut behind you and latches itself.
The story above first appeared in our July/August 2026 issue.
