I always enjoyed listening to Paul Harvey’s stories on the radio.

The best part always came after his catch phrase, “And now…the rest of the story.”

The last bit was always something you never saw coming.

In my own life, I’m just beginning to understand how often I don’t realize, there’s more to this story.

So here’s one of mine.

Growing up as the only sister of four brothers on a farm, I was a tomboy.

I never danced in a tutu, played here comes the bride, or practiced my elbow-wrist parade wave while blowing kisses to my appreciative reflection in the mirror.

My actual fantasy? To be Batgirl.

I didn’t realize someone else had different plans.

When I returned home from high school one fine spring day, I never even saw it coming.

My dad surprised me at the door, a suspicious gleam in his eye. “I just got off the phone with the bank. They want to sponsor you for Dairy Princess!”

I was not exactly thrilled at the prospect.

But Dad didn’t even try to play fair.

“Of course you don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said, tears barely in check. “But you are my only daughter…

Clearly unethical duress.

Which totally worked, since I felt I had no choice but to sign up.  

As did some of my friends under similar circumstances.

And thanks to those with older sisters who’d competed, I got the inside scoop on the contest.

I learned that not only were we expected to parade around in fancy gowns, we had to answer questions about dairy farming.

Rumor had it, there was even a secret weeder question thrown in, to single out those girls who really knew about their farmin’.

Too bad for me, since Dad thought women belonged in the home, not the barn, so the boys did all the dirty work in ours.

Can’t say my brothers cared for this little bit of sexism, but it worked for me.

So when the probable question fell into my lap, I milked the answer out of my family, and memorized it. I guess you could call it cheating. But I figured I owed it to my family to at least appear to try.

The question? Name the six breeds of milking dairy cattle. Anyone?

Exactly.

The morning of the pageant, I packed up my frilly prom dress and headed off to the swanky event venue, my high school.

A couple dozen other girls and I hung up our gowns in the home ec room, then followed our chaperones to a local florist, where we were treated to a riveting demonstration on flower arranging.

It’s possible I may not have found it quite that compelling. But I could see one girl sure did! (Yes, you can consider that foreshadowing.)

Then it was back to school and time to MEET THE JUDGES. One by one, we were sent to face the serious panel of gentlemen seated in the judges’ chamber, or history classroom, as we called it on school days.

When my turn came, almost immediately, my cheating paid off. That’s right, they asked, and I answered. Rattled off the names of those cows as fast as you could please.

Probably disturbingly so, now that I think about it. Almost as if I was expecting it, rather than having to think about it.

Oh well, hindsight.

Pleased with myself for not having put my family to shame, I relaxed, sure that the worst was past.

I can still remember my shock at what came next.

“So, Laurie,” the smiley, chubby man on the end began. “Would you marry a dairy farmer?”

Ohhhh my God.

All of my worst fears about pageants had come true.

This was just a front for farm brides on parade. A regular cattle auction of potential breeding partners.

In spite of my horror, I managed to choke back the immediate “No?” and even the “Hell, no!” that came to mind.

Didn’t dare opt for the saucy, “Are you proposing?” I could see that this was a serious business.

I managed to come up with a passable, “If I loved one, I guess.” Clearly not the enthusiasm they were hoping for, but not the worst answer. That had to have been the girl who admitted, “Well, I’m engaged to a plumber…” There was just no coming back from that one.

I was pretty sure that the plumber’s fiancé and I could just call it a day at that point, but our pictures were already printed on the classy paper placemats decorating the banquet hall, or cafeteria as we usually called it, so we were stuck for the duration.

We all changed into our poofy prom gowns and sat down to supper, pretending not to notice all eyes on our table as we ate. Were they really checking out our teeth? Or our potential breeding hips? Then we headed for the auditorium.

As we filed singly onto stage, the emcee introduced us, and asked a previously discussed question.

I don’t recall what my question or answer was, but I doubt I dazzled. I was preoccupied with trying not to feel like the prize bull at a cattle auction.

I know, I know, calling myself the prize bull is so vain. But I was grasping at straws here.

After introductions, we plopped down into the row of folding chairs set up on stage, expected to sit through the farmer awards portions of the night.

That’s right, it wasn’t all about us girls. We had front row seats to scope out the prize winners of such exciting awards as “highest producing herd”.

After all, if we were going to marry farmers, we needed to know which ones were a real catch.

The awards seemed to drag on forever, but I’m sure it wasn’t actually more than a week.

Finally, it was time for the big moment. Who would wear the crown?

The tension filled the air as they announced the second runner-up, then the first runner-up – who would have to step in for the chosen Princess if for some reason she could not perform her royal duties — and finally, ballot in hand, the emcee announced, “This year’s Goodhue County Dairy Princess, is LAURIE…” oh my God, I’m gonna throw up –

Yeah, not me.

The chosen one was Miss “Oh my goodness, this flower arranging is just the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Who probably said she dreamed of marrying a farmer.

I can’t pretend I was crushed, what with the near-vomiting at the mere thought it actually could be me, if only for a second.

But still, I LOST.

For years, I thought that was the end of the story.

A decade on, I was talked into playing hostess to a new crop of candidates.

At first reluctant, I was pleasantly surprised to meet girls excited about promoting the dairy industry, ready to discuss real issues – the nutritional benefits of calcium, friction with animal rights groups.

I could respect that.

But the tide really turned for me when I met the outgoing Princess, who I’ll call Susie.

After winning the county pageant the year before, Susie had gone on to win a Regional title, putting her in the running for the Minnesota State crown, and the title of “Princess Kay of the Milky Way”. Seriously.

Though she didn’t win, Susie did earn a perk reserved for Princess Kay and the Regional Princesses. She’d posed for a life-size bust of butter, sculpted on-site at the state fair.

Susie told me her sculpture was sitting in her parent’s freezer. “We’re going to have a corn roast this summer,” she said. “I can’t wait to see everyone butter their corn with my head!”

I’ll admit it, I’m sick, but all I could think was, “How cool is that?”

All these years later, and I actually felt the regret. The jealousy. The it-could-have-been-my-head-sculpted-in-butter-blues.

But as they say, that milk has spilt, time to move on. No use crying now.

Too late, I learned the pageant maxim – there’s no crown for those who refuse to butter up the judges. And you can just forget about the corn roast.

Now you might think that’s a good place to end the story.

But not that long ago, after my dad passed away, I finally realized the story twist.

It wasn’t about me. It never had been.

The heart of this story was the man who saw his only daughter as a princess, even when she didn’t.

A fairytale he continued to believe to the end of his days.

And while I was making complaints, for Dad, I was making a memory.

Seeing his little girl, the tomboy, dressed up, parading across a stage, dreaming of becoming a princess.

As I mark one more year missing the irreplaceable man who thought I could do no wrong, now I know, that is the rest of the story.

Happy Father’s Day Dad.

Deep Dive podcast about “The Rest of the Story”