Senior Writer
Senior
United States 🇺🇸

Robyn I

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Bio

Robyn has worked, for the last three years, as the senior journalist for a newspaper serving a community of 42,000. She has covered everything from city government to two school districts; new businesses to interesting people who make up our city; and haunted houses to events happening around town. Three of her personal essays have been published in “Chicken Soup for the Soul,” and she’s had a short story printed in a literary magazine. She earned a bachelor’s degree in English Literature, and reads almost anything with words printed on it!

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As a Story Terrace writer, Robyn I interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know our writer better by reading the autobiographical anecdote below!

The Taming of the Steer

My brother Scott and I were in 4-H together for eight years, members of the Goshen Gladiators. One of the most painful experiences while in 4-H came the year I was fifteen and Scott was thirteen. I had one steer that was particularly difficult to train. He was an 800-pound steer, and his favorite trick was to stand perfectly still, except for the ever-swishing tail, not responding to me at all. Let’s call him Stomp.

It was getting close to our county fair, where we would show our 4-H projects off and be judged against the other kids in the community. Dad was supposed to help us that night, but as it got later, Scott and I decided to work with Stomp ourselves before we lost all of the daylight. We managed to go around the pen we kept the cattle in, quite fine for the first four trips. Stomp was, for once, behaving.

Since we would use the leather halter when actually showing him, Scott and I decided to swap out the rope for the leather. When I started tugging for Stomp to follow me, he refused and nothing would change his mind. Frustrated, I switched places with Scott. He took the lead and I got behind Stomp intending to motivate him to move. One trick used with cattle is to twist their tail upward. Which I did.

Stomp had apparently had enough of us humans annoying him as he kicked out with both feet, striking me mid-thigh on both legs hard enough to knock my feet out from under me. I literally landed on my face and the air was knocked out of my lungs. Shocked, Scott let go of the halter and Stomp took his chance to run.

Stunned, I couldn’t move. Except I could hear my baby brother’s panicked voice asking if I was alright. Gasping, I rolled over onto my back. When I dragged in a couple of deep breaths, sat up, and saw huge, hoof-shaped bruises already taking shape and swelling on my thighs. Scott reached down to help me stand. Pain lanced through my legs and I nearly fell again. Dad pulled up at that point, helped me into the house, and iced the hand-sized injuries. They hurt like bloody hell for several weeks.

I was more careful on how I tried to encourage Stomp after that.

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