Let the Cow Chips Fall Where They May

I admit it. I’m feeling homesick for childhood again. Happens every so often, usually when the bees start droning louder than my thoughts and the flag starts flapping just right in the July wind. It’s the kind of homesickness that has nothing to do with a house and everything to do with memory—sweaty knees in the grass, sunburned noses, and the sound of unwrapping popsicles with your teeth.

When I was a kid, the 4th of July wasn’t just about fireworks. Sure, we had the parades and the sparklers, but our little corner of the country had a tradition so wholesome and absurd that I still can’t believe it was real–Cow Chip Bingo.

Now, I can’t tell you what outfit held it. It could’ve been the Rotary Club, the Grange, the Lions, the Elks, or maybe just a few bored dads with too much free time and a fence panel. What I can tell you is that it was genius.

Here’s how it worked–someone would line off a grid in a field—maybe 20 by 20, give or take—and each square had a number. Folks would buy a “deed” to a square for five dollars, which, to my childhood understanding, was about the cost of the world. Once all the squares got sold, they’d turn loose a single, well-fed cow into the grid. Then everyone would wait.

That was the whole thing. You stood around, paper plate of potato salad in one hand, hoping a cow would answer nature’s call squarely on your property.

And let me tell you, there was cheering, with hollering you’d hear at a Little League championship, but instead of runs or home plates, the crowd was rooting for digestion. And when the cow finally picked her plot? Oh, the excitement!

Grown men shouted. Grandmas clapped. Kids pointed and giggled, and one lucky person walked away a hundred dollars richer and slightly queasy.

Now, I never won. Not once.

But I came close—square adjacent. The kind of near miss that had me swearing I could feel the vibration through the grass.

Still, it didn’t matter. The real prize was being there, surrounded by neighbors who brought folding chairs and Jell-O salads, laughing under a sky that seemed to stretch forever.

These days, you can’t get away with that kind of thing without a permit, a handwashing station, and at least three lawyers standing by. But back then? It was pure Americana, smelly and sweet and utterly unforgettable.

Funny what we carry with us. Fireworks fade. Sparklers burn out. But the memory of that cow—placid, unconcerned with the crowd’s anticipation—lingers like the smell of barbecue smoke in a cotton shirt.

So yeah, I’m feeling homesick for childhood. Not the place, but the feeling. The freedom of summer, the gentle absurdity of community, and the hope that, maybe just this once, a cow might make you a winner.

And if not—well, there was always next year.