Days of our week

She came up and spoke in voice barely above a whisper. Soft, gentle voices – my ears can barely register their existence. Too many hours around loud, clashing machines roaring beside my head. I can’t hear gentle voices spoken by gentle souls. The harsh, brash intrusions that tunnel into my ear canal are all too familiar.

“Pardon?” I asked while looking for help from others around us.

She asked her question again. At least I thought it was a question. I noticed a pad in her hands and saw the list of days of the week, her pencil poised to register my response. Ah, she was asking for my favorite day of the week. My brain processed the few words that I heard from her and pieced it together.

I can barely remember was day this was. Wasn’t it just last Monday when I woke up in that quasi-aware, half-awake, half-asleep, semi-dream-world moment in a state of panic, thinking this was Tuesday and I had an early meeting somewhere? I have to process each wake-up call before I can remember the day of the week.

Thinking of her question, my only answer is that I don’t have a favorite day of the week. Each day is its own and I have some days I work here, some there, some outside, some inside. There are days that I can’t work outside because it’s too cold, it’s raining, or the wind and weather prevents me from doing what needs to be done. Some days are spent inside because that is what is needed. The day of the week doesn’t matter to me. The type of day does matter. My life is pushed by the winds.

“Any day I spend in the woods is my favorite day,” I told her. Her pencil did not move as she awaited my correct response. No tic marks were on her list and I was the first she asked. Or maybe I was the first she asked today. Isn’t Today a good response?

I sensed the beginnings of her frustration bubbling up and I told her, “Thursday.”

Why, Thursday?

I don’t know.

Maybe because Thursday happened to be:

                Tomorrow. 

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #23: Write Your Medicine 

 

Easter Snow

While checking the forecast for this weekend’s Easter Sunday, snow is headed our way. Not a lot but enough that could make local travel hazardous. I’m reminded of another snowy Easter when I was fourteen or fifteen (I can’t remember exactly). That morning I counted our heifers and one was missing. She was due to calf but we didn’t think it was that soon and we allowed the small herd to roam the 20 acres that were pastured.

Besides being a holy day and the Sabbath among Christendom, I thought back to the parable of the missing lamb with the shepherd who was willing to break Sabbath rules in order find that one lost sheep. One heifer plus a calf meant there was money missing and money was tight growing up. One or two animals? It was sometimes all the profit a small farm had for that year.

The snow was heavy, wet, almost a foot deep. It stopped sometime before morning and I was fortunate that winds were calm(ish). No Tracks. She decided to sneak off before the snow ended. That wasn’t a good sign because most often, if a cow was in trouble giving birth, she would be in the worst possible place such as down in the creek where no equipment could easily be brought in.

I looked to the western fence and couldn’t see her. The ground was too wet and muddy underneath this new snow, so I trudged along, guessing that she was about a half mile away in the furthest corner of the pasture in among the trees. Cows hide when giving birth, it’s their nature. Mother and calf, a bull that couldn’t stand yet, were waiting for me.

He was still wet and huddled in the snow, a shivering newborn. Mother finished up what cows do after giving birth and allowed me to approach and pick up the calf. Some cows become defensive but she was calm and serene. She softly “mooed” occasionally as she followed me back to the barn, carrying her prize.

After penning them up, my thought was that I should have brought a sled with me, that calf was heavy.

 Linked to Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings 22: Upcycled Words