Sister sun is on her way back. It’s still light out at five pm now—well, not real light, but at least you can see your way to the house from the shop. And somehow, for me, light translates to hope. We made it through December, and none too soon, because I was about ready to pull the covers over my head and stop speaking to anyone.
January. That old gummer cow you kept last fall because she was bred—and you knew better, sure you did—but she always brought in a good calf, so maybe one more year… Darned if she didn’t lie down and die last week. Just couldn’t make it to green grass, we say. That goes for people too. I’ve lost a couple of cousins recently, and the list of obituaries in local papers are more proof that it’s “give up” weather. This is the month when underground pipes freeze and sewers back up. When the diesel gels up and your old equipment gets tired iron syndrome.
Some years back, Stephanie Davis wrote a song about “the ones the wolves pull down.” The first lines are: “January’s always bitter but, Lord, this one beats all. The wind ain’t quit for weeks, and the drifts are ten feet tall. I’ve been all night driving heifers closer in to lower ground, and spent the morning thinking about the ones the wolves pull down.” Garth Brooks’ recording of it gave his career a boost, probably because many of us relate to the theme of trying to outrun the wolves. The song tells of the ones too weakened by weather and worry, who couldn’t make it to green grass. Not only four leggeds, but the rancher who has to sell out and move to town, and anyone else who is too worn down by the struggle to notice the light coming back.
We speak of the wolf at the door when our resources are so slim that we can’t imagine a way out. America is on the edge of that place right now, and a lot of us can hear the wolf scratching to get in. Little Red Riding Hood was deceived by the wolf, and another one succeeded in destroying the houses of two little pigs. It was only when the third pig built a sturdy brick home that safety was achieved. The story doesn’t say, but I wonder if the cement that held those bricks was mixed with faith.
There aren’t ten-foot drifts but some years we do have them, and there’s a lot of winter left. We all know the wind never quits out here. Momentarily, we’re concerned with the chance of fire and the likelihood of ongoing drought. Wolves hunt relentlessly.
And yet, there’s that hint of new light in January. We’re on the downhill side, even if the going is still difficult. A chinook might come through any day now, and we will wake to the sound of howling wind and dripping water. I don’t keep track but, more years than not, we get a January thaw, and when it comes, you know green grass is on the horizon. We might just make it, after all.