The house was cold on mornings like this. Dad got up first, dressed quickly in the unheated sleeping room, then took the ashes out, started a fire in the coal range in the kitchen/living room and went out to milk the cow. Mom and I grabbed our clothes and scurried out to dress by the fire. Morning was well on its way when she got the coffeepot boiling and Dad came in to breakfast.
Somehow, that pattern from childhood has reversed. On these frigid February mornings, I’m the one up first to build a fire in the wood stove and dump ashes. Not sure how that happened—oh it’s probably because we don’t have a milk cow.
I know Mom worried when it was below zero and Dad harnessed the team and set off on his rounds of hauling hay. He was dressed warmly but there were no coveralls back then and some days it took him until nearly dark to finish feeding. After putting up the horses, he came to the house for a teakettle of warm salt water to bathe their feet, which by then were bleeding from the hard snow they had to walk through.
Somewhere it must be written that moms are meant to worry. After a lifetime of ranching, I still can’t settle in when the weather is bitter. I wonder about my sons and grandkids who, even with warmer clothing and trucks and tractors with heated cabs, have to get out in the cold. Equipment can fail and any weak spots in tired iron will show up when the temps hit zero. I’ve paid some dues doing feeding duty and have always maintained it’s easier to be the one battling the elements than the mom in the house wondering if they are ok.
Years ago, we left the house to feed on a sunny winter day, with six miles of deep snow to cover before finding the herd. There were four of us, my kids’ dad, a hired man, a grown son, and me. Four outfits. The biggest tractor got stuck in a drift halfway to our destination. We left it and went on; one four-wheel drive pickup, a snowmobile, and a smaller tractor. Another mile, and the snowmobile threw a track. Left it and continued.
Feeding done, but dusk was falling fast and the tractor had no headlights. On the first hill toward home, the tractor got stuck in a drift. We all dug madly but without success. The clutch had gone out of the pickup and it was stuck as well. Finally, my son and I decided to walk home and get another vehicle. It wasn’t a bad night; there had been a thaw, the moon was out, and no wind, but we were still looking at a five-mile hike. We could see the lights of home, with about a mile to go, when we heard a motor. The guys had managed to dig out after all, and the hired man was leaning out of the cab with a flashlight, directing my husband around the drifts and hoping they wouldn’t roll it off in a drifted over blowout. My son and I elected to keep walking, after all there was no place to ride on the tractor. The cattle were fed though, and that was the important thing.
My heart breaks for the poor critters, dependent on whatever help we can give them, which seems little enough. We are going through a ton of bird feed. Those little feet look so cold when they scratch around for the feed that fell in snow. Some folks are probably calving, and I don’t even want to think about what that means for man and beast. But we caught a break today. The wood box is full, sun is out, snow has stopped, and it’s six degrees. Above zero. And that darn groundhog is snug in his hole, oblivious to our struggles.