Love is Strength: A Lesson from Great-Great Grandmother Mary

Written by Tovah LaCour

This blog post is close to my heart and roots. My great-great grandmother, Mary Caroline Brittain (maiden name Pfeiffer) had a sad story about life in the foothills of Appalachia and an unwanted lesson she was forced to learn at a young age. My grandmother told me this story often throughout my childhood, and this story I believe helped develop my empathy and my love of animals. I hope you enjoy! 

My Grandmother Mary lived on a farm near Marietta, Ohio. The farm’s main source of income were the cows that my grandmother’s family raised. She had three other siblings, a sister and two brothers. She was the third child born. My grandmother and her siblings helped their father with the cows. Her father was a quiet hard worker. He was known to be a strict authoritarian without an ounce of patience. Her mother was also not a very warm person. She married young and was known to be almost cruel with her daughters. She bore jealousy toward them because she never had the childhood that she deserved. Due to the family being quite poor, animals that were weak were killed. Grandmother Mary’s parents went by the philosophy that if an animal does not serve a specific purpose, then it is a waste of time and then should be turned into something that does serve a purpose—food.  

Late one night Mary’s father woke her up in a rush. He handed her a small candle and told her to follow him out to the barn. His best heifer was giving birth. It was her first baby, and there were pregnancy complications. The cow was bucking and acting a mess. As Mary’s older brother was attempting to restrain the cow, which had the calf’s hind quarters showing.  Mary’s father jumped into the fray and after a few minutes finally got the cow to the ground. Mary then was told to pull the baby out, and with the help of her older sister, they successfully removed the male calf. Mary’s father already had a young bull, so there was no use for the calf. He then said that it was a weak thing that needed shot. Mary, who held the calf, screamed no and after her protest, her brother said to let the calf live. Her father left, and Mary waited in the barn until the mother cow stood up and began nursing the baby.  

The next morning, Mary found out that the mother cow had rejected her offspring. The calf bleated desperately, but the mother cow refused to let her baby feed. Once again, Mary’s father wanted to kill the calf, but Mary cried and screamed that she would feed the animal herself. Her father called her stupid and said that the damned thing would die, but she persisted. Her father relented and once again stormed away. Mary went out every day for the next two months and fed the calf. She was constantly around it, even sleeping with the calf in the field because none of the other cows wanted the poor babe either.  

The calf grew and grew though, much to her father’s disappointment. Pretty soon, the calf had become Mary’s best friend.  Mary went to a small schoolhouse, and as soon as she got home, she jumped the fence to reach her calf. The calf loved her as well; the baby cow often ran after her, constantly on her heels whenever she was doing her daily chores. She made a special cowbell collar out of scrap leather for her calf, so she knew where it was always. Her father’s hatred toward the calf grew as the calf got bigger. Often, he made fun of her cruelly, and her mother said that the calf was wholly useless. Her other siblings often joined in the taunting. Only her older brother was kind to the animal, but he did not really care if the calf existed. Mary assumed that the taunting was as far as the ridicule would go, but it was not. 

One afternoon after arriving home from school, Mary discovered her calf was gone. When she asked her father, he told her that it might have run off into the woods or something. Mary did her afternoon chores then went into the woods and called for her calf. The animal did not respond. Upon returning home, she saw her older brother on her way inside, but he avoided eye contact. She smelled cooked beef coming from the kitchen, which she thought that was odd. Usually, her father scheduled the cows to be killed ahead of time, and usually Mary knew the date a cow would be killed. Mary went into the house where her youngest brother was setting the table. Her mother told her to sit down, and one by one each of her family members filed in and took their seats. Her father sat down and seemed oddly cheerful. He asked her if she had found the calf, she said no. He nodded and said, “I suppose it will turn up eventually.” Mary’s mother then served a rich beef stew with carrots and celery.  While her family dug in, her father stared at her with a smile. 

 Mary took a few bites but had this horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. She found tears begin running down her face. Her father then asked if it was good. She nodded and then he burst out laughing. Nobody else laughed. Her siblings were silent, and her mother was watching her with no emotion. Then her father said, “I told you it will turn up.” Mary began crying harder and she ran into the yard, expelling what she had eaten.  

Mary had allowed herself to get close with something that ultimately did not serve a purpose and was forced to learn that her love for that calf was her weakness. Mary’s heart hardened and, according to my family, she was a cold woman. However, she never again ate beef. She could not even stand the scent of beef, often recoiling in horror whenever someone cooked it near her. Grandmother Mary only told this story to my own grandmother a few times, and with a lot of pain at the memory of her beloved calf.  

I remember hearing this story for the first time, and I felt that heartbreak with my Grandmother Mary even though she died many years before my time. Rather than see the animal as weak or useless, I wish my great, great, great grandfather would have seen Grandmother Mary’s love for her calf not as a sign of her weakness but as her strength. Through this story my grandmother taught me the opposite of what Grandma Mary’s father taught her: that love and caring are a strength, never a weakness. In fact, love and empathy for others and the world around us is the strongest tool we have to fight against hate. I carry that wisdom with me now wherever I go.