Beulah The Bull
August 13th, 2013. Filed under: Tuesday's Tempting Reads.Beulah the Bull
By CC Troy
Susan Ann Jones created the perfect, self-sufficient world for herself. She’s organized, unattached, childless, and has worked in the same business office for twenty-two years. She’s the only child of devout Catholics, but does just fine without spirituality. It’s when her life hits a wall—her company is outsourced the same week she turns forty—that she concludes she’s disappointed herself and everyone else by not extending herself more. In a depressed mood late one night, she goes against well-ordered character and lowballs a bid on five acres of vacant ranch land in her native state of Arizona. Times being what they are, she’s shocked a few days later to learn her bid was accepted! For the escape she throws herself into “the mistake” and decides to go camping. Yet, it’s here that God will tell her how much she means to Him by sending a unique angel: Beulah, a British White Bull raised by a little girl who died of cancer and whose father became a minister after her loss. With a funny and touching style, Susan tells her story of blossoming faith in herself, in others, and especially in things known only to the soul.
ISLAND BREEZES
She loves her lists. It’s a good thing. Susan has done something very out of character, and she needs multiple lists to get through it.
Being downsized from your job can be either a blessing or a curse. After about a week long pity party and an accidental purchase, Susan began to see the blessings. Even if her mother does think she’s having a nervous breakdown.
A week or so into her new venture, Susan discovers she can’t even make a list anymore. She’s changing. I wonder if Brady and Beulah noticed the change.
Susan acquires a couple new families (one especially “interesting”), and her life is radically changed.
I read this book in one go at it, and didn’t want it to end. Thank you, Cindy Troy for touching my heart so.
C. C. (Cindy) Troy was born in Michigan, raised a family in Connecticut, and now resides in the Southwest.
Hobbies include Writing, Quilting, Gardening, Home Repair, and GRANDCHILDREN! You can find her on Facebook as Cindy C.Troy. Her website can be found here.
Here’s the first chapter for you to enjoy (and get hooked on the book ;p)
Chapter One
Warning: I am a list lover. I love to make lists and can’t function without them. Look at any spot around me — on the fridge, by the bed, in my bathroom, car, and purse, and in more than one corner of my workstation — and you’ll find a tablet with a pen. Lists are such a part of me this story wouldn’t have taken place without them. In fact, I’ll start relating my time with Beulah from a day planner.
Monday, 5/21: My coworkers and I got verbal notice our jobs had been outsourced to a location so overseas we couldn’t find it on a world map.
Tuesday, 5/22: We said goodbye to our boss, who departed with a single brown cardboard box, escorted out by one of the new company owners from the unknown land.
Wednesday, 5/23: The notorious escort announced that once we got our severance check, we were expected to depart the premises immediately. By the end of the day, I’d said more goodbyes than I thought I could bear.
Thursday, 5/24: The excruciatingly slow roll call continued. I could scarcely remain sitting at my desk as I waited for my name to be mispronounced with a foreign accent.
Friday, 5/25: Finally I heard, “Susan Jones,” with, I think, an added, “Please.” I let out a quick sigh and felt both relieved and rattled. My belongings were already packed, so I took the sealed envelope without a word, walked to my cubicle, and tucked it into my box. I glanced around one last time. The escort was beside me, but I didn’t give him another thought. After twenty-two years in the same place, nearly all of it at that exact desk, I needed an extra moment to pay my respects. I patted the worn wood, caressed the uncomfortable, squeaky chair I’d complained about a week ago, and waved to the three souls who were left. They stared blankly and looked numb. They appeared to be awaiting sentencing in which they didn’t expect to do well.
We’d all pledged reunions, letters, e-mails, phone calls… But maybe it was like high school graduation. We would go our separate ways and think fondly of each other, but it was over, and suddenly, we weren’t the same people who knew about kids and cars and home improvements and quirky relatives. We might even avoid each other if we spied someone in the distance, for it would bring back the pain. We didn’t leave voluntarily. We felt damaged and vulnerable. We were scared. The infamous, proverbial rug had been pulled out from under our feet. What’s next?
I made it to the parking lot. My old four-wheel drive vehicle putted away for the last time, and I didn’t look back. I drove home immediately, dashed inside, and pulled the blinds. There, I finally cried.
Saturday, 5/26: I slept as long as possible, even pulling the pillow over my head. I begged my little mutt Brady to be patient. We usually take an early short jog on good days, but I wanted to hide away instead. Eventually I heard him grumble as he curled up again on the bed beside me. I was surprised at how much this felt like a “bad breakup”. To be honest, I hadn’t experienced one, but some of the emotions must compare.
I spent the day in my old pajamas eating delivered food, and I even went out to get the mail in my fuzzy slippers. Brady ran to the first bush in great relief, and though he slunk around as if embarrassed to be with me, he’s obedient and returned immediately. That I didn’t feel bad about it told me a feeling had arrived I’d never felt before: depression.
From this realization, it wasn’t long before I was taking stock of my life. I couldn’t help but begin with my occupation. My only occupation. My former and only occupation! I had spent over twenty years under the same roof, in the same field, with the same boss. What skills did I have that could apply elsewhere? I’d started in the mailroom during a summer job. It was supposed to be temporary. Then I was the “go-fer”, the receptionist, a salesperson — I wasn’t happy with that title, thankfully, it didn’t last long — and then supplies manager and all-around whatever-the-job-needed person. Career-wise, I matured there, and while I had respect from everyone I dealt with, I was so specialized to that one workplace, I didn’t know if I would be useful anywhere else. All my heartfelt devotion added up to make me obsolete.
Nevertheless, I took a deep breath and told myself I was able to hit the “reset” button on my life and start anew. People did it all the time, day in and day out, from exactly my starting point. Why not me? At least in employment, I could set off on a new path…
Personally, I might’ve needed a little more thought, for as I was giving myself that pep talk, my mother called to remind me I was now forty years old. Forty! Forty. No kids, no husband, no boyfriend, only a little seven-pound — most of it hair — rescued dog that seemed to be rolling his eyes at being seen in public with me.
Now I did feel sorry for my dog. All that time I’d thought my life was so perfect. Now I was wondering what I’d done to and with myself.
I sighed. Once inside my apartment, I glanced around in a dejected daze. My home, usually so comforting and my favorite place to be, now added to the downward spiral list. Against years of paternal advice, I live in a rental. Far worse, my father is a part-time real estate agent. Yes, good old me never would’ve had to lift a finger to have a wonderful place I would actually own. In addition, I bought my vehicle from him for far less than book value, with the agreement I would replace it in a year. That was three years ago.
At least no one in my family is a car dealer or mechanic.
So, while I didn’t have any outstanding bills, the lack of any assets or worthwhile accomplishments to brag about hit me pretty hard. What if I keeled over right then — hopefully missing the cowering Brady — and was carted off by paramedics cracking jokes about my slippers? What if my sainted mother had to write my obituary after reluctantly claiming me? What would she say?
“Having died of unexplained causes at her rented home, the spinster Susan Ann Jones, forty years old and unemployed, was found in her old pajamas and slippers, holding junk mail, with the only form of life that could be called her offspring hiding in the bushes by her aged, second-hand vehicle. ‘Eleanor Rigby’ will be played at her wake, if there is any interest. Her grave marker will read, ‘Like her name, her life wasn’t worth a second thought.'”
Ouch! Hopefully it wouldn’t be that bad, but I wasn’t even trying. That brings us to my entry of:
Sunday, 5/27: I happened to be online, letting my laptop go from one site to another nearly on its own. Somehow I ended up on a website that had land for sale. The endless listings started to lull me to sleep. One was like another, though I do remember mumbling one of the descriptions out loud after trying to focus on a few thumbnail photos.
“Beautiful spot for camping, building your dream home, or for investment purposes. Ranches border this parcel, with more cattle than people in town. Five acres for $3,500.00. Always a discount for cash. Bring all offers. Online purchase available with this parcel.”
There were some pretty shots of land and a tree, so I clicked a few times, put some comical numbers in the spaces the listing provided, and spied the clock in the lower right corner of the screen.
It was two in the morning. I never stayed up this late, even as a teenager. All it meant was I was forty years old and one day, but at least I could cross staying up until the wee hours off the Things to Accomplish Yet list.
I paused with a quiet sadness. Of all the lists I had ever written, of all of those I held as so important, I had never once considered a list such as that. I took Brady outside under the cover of darkness, returned home, then went to bed.
The next few days brought a smattering of phone calls from friends remembering my birthday, a walk to the landlord to pay the rent, and a trip to the grocery store since I was tired of eating delivery. Maybe I was getting better. I bought a newspaper and read job openings.
Perhaps the biggest step was that I wasn’t in my pajamas anymore, and Brady was happy to go for a jog with me.
A full ten days passed of not getting up to an alarm clock, and I was in danger of becoming a soap opera addict. About that same time — it’s amazing how one day is like the next when you don’t have anything different to do — I opened my e-mail and nearly deleted a notice I got from a woman named Sheri Williams. Her office letterhead showed she was not far from where I lived in Phoenix.
“Dear Susan: I am thrilled to inform you your cash offer of $1,234.56 was accepted by the seller. You will see it cleared your savings account along with a $195.00 recording fee. Within a few days of this e-mail, your deed will arrive by certified letter, and you will officially own parcel B730-685 in Ash Fork, Arizona. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to call me. Congratulations, land owner! This is a step many dream of, but never make! I’m sure many of your friends will envy you! If they want to become land owners as well, you can tell them how easy it was and how I might assist them. Best wishes!”
I don’t know how many times I read that e-mail. I would have decided it was a scam, but the bid was me, through and through. What other offer would a dedicated list maker come up with?
The next thing that struck me was the name of the town I had purchased land in: Ash Fork. I had lived in Arizona all my life and never heard of it. I should have been grateful I bought in my own country and state, I suppose; but how good could a town be, if a born and bred native of the state couldn’t place it? I shook my head and covered my face. I had just been deeply affected by a site I couldn’t find on a map. What kind of an impact, if any, could this little town have?
I instantly closed out of the message. I deleted it and didn’t give it a second thought until I heard a hard knock on my door the next day. Brady barked, but when I went to look through the peephole, he was wagging his tail with enthusiasm. I’m sure, after the past two weeks, he was so weary of my company he was rooting for a home invasion.
“Susan A. Jones?” the post person asked.
“Yes?”
“Sign here, please.” He held out a pen, and I printed and signed where indicated. He ripped off a green postcard from the back of the thick envelope and gave me the letter. “Good day.”
“Thank you… Maybe?” I said meekly.
It didn’t faze him, and he continued on his route. Brady was disappointed and slumped away as I closed the door.
Inside were several pages of official-appearing papers, with symbols and blots and confusing language that appeared as much a legal document as I had ever seen. They were long pages and of heavy stock. The very last page was a map. There was a big arrow, some measurements, and then the word “YOURS!” printed in an open area.
I gasped. It was true. In a depressed, fatigued stupor, I had bought, of all things, vacant land. My ridiculous offer had actually been accepted by what must be either a broke or wealthy seller with a warped sense of humor. How dare he/she/they! I stared at the “YOURS!” for several seconds. “YOURS!” “YOURS!” “YOURS!” Mine? Mine? Mine.
I flopped to the sofa, and Brady came over to stand his front paws on my thigh. I showed him the documents and pointed at the arrow. “If something happens to me, I guess you’d inherit it. What do you think, land baron?”
He gazed at me and wagged his tail. He sniffed the paper and appeared to be reading what was printed. I scuffed the top of his little head. It appeared like approval to me, and I was glad he could think, for I couldn’t.
All the next day, I shrugged it off. I had made a mistake. It was that simple. I had a beautiful apartment, and I had every intention of finding a new job and staying here. I didn’t need a vacation spot either, as I was perfectly content where I was. No, I would write Sheri and tell her to list it again and just sell it. Was this how I got the property so easily? Did the previous owner regret their bid and also wish to be rid of their error? I was out of work and needed that money. Granted, I always lived within my means and obviously did have savings, but what on earth would I do with land? No pun intended, if it was one.
And then I was bombarded. Suddenly, billboards advertising hiking and wildlife preservation were everywhere. On the radio, I accidently found a talk show that promoted the benefits of an “off the grid” lifestyle. In the mail — delivered by the same sneaky mailperson, I’m sure — came no fewer than four camping catalogs. Had I ever gotten these before? Probably, and I thoughtlessly tossed them out. Somehow I was on a mailing list for which I didn’t have the vaguest interest. Me, camping? Not even when I was a child.
It had taken civilization hundreds, if not thousands, of years to develop solid housing, indoor plumbing, electricity, and blissfully comfortable linens, so how could it be considered an enjoyable vacation to go without them? How utterly backward could that be?
All this was coincidental — certainly not an omen or a sign of changes to come, right?
Wrong. Against my own judgment, visions of tents, sleeping bags, and camp stoves began bouncing around in my head. It didn’t help that I had two job interviews where all of my fellow applicants were hair-twirling, bubble-gum-snapping, high school students. One young man pulled out a jackknife to clean his nails and then his teeth! And I wasn’t called back.
For the much-needed mental challenge, I learned the features and costs of what would suit me. I studied gear and equipment and chose what would work best in northern Arizona. I busied myself with list after list. I went online and learned about the “census designated place” of Ash Fork. It started out in 1882 when a railroad was being built and then stone quarries had their turn. Though the quarries were now closed and the railroad re-routed, three hundred fifty-four hearty souls remained, and now a handful of ranches surrounded the official border. As for my acreage, power poles were two miles away, and I would have to haul in my own water. I was going so crazy with this, I actually began selecting a canoe — and the Colorado River was more than an hour’s drive from my land!
And there was the breakthrough moment. Did you just catch it? My purchase wasn’t a mistake anymore. It had become my land. My land. I was a land owner. A proud land owner! I had no more than six teeny pictures of my land to go by, but I was anxious to go. Suddenly it was the right thing to do.
I began acting on all those lists. I ordered the perfect tent, sleeping bag, stove, cooler, folding tables, a portable restroom, wash receptacles, and all sorts of things I wasn’t sure I could fit in my off-road vehicle. The canoe, though tempting, was out. I even got a doggie bed for Brady to stay in under my cot. Our transition was going to be total and a complete success!
I began to question how I survived with a normal nine-to-five job, in a city, at a desk, doing normal chores. I was no longer boring! My awakening inner self was wild and free and boundary-less. The new, true me apparently wasn’t even going to miss plumbing or electricity. Who needed luxurious linens? I had a plaid, flannel-lined sleeping bag.
To fully break from my customary mold, I considered not even bringing paper and pen. Don’t panic on my behalf. I chose my wallet because it included a lined tablet and a mini-pen.
As I filled my car to the hilt, I knew this new lifestyle was what Brady and I were born for. Thus came my heartfelt proclamation: Don’t fence us in. We would be at one with nature. We would be bohemians of the land! Soon we could disappear for weeks at a time and survive as if hermits of the earth.
I slammed the doors, and off we went. Already we were no longer conventional, think-inside-the-box, safe, run-of-the-mill organisms. We were liberated, off-the-grid, and giddy with our rebelliousness. I didn’t even care about the now-confining speed limit. Get out of the way of Susan and Brady, two beings immune to all such encumbrances.
We were free and wild and untamed by da man, my peeps!