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

Rhythm of the baler

 “You busy this weekend?” my brother asked. He really wasn’t interested if I was busy, it was his way of asking for help. My dad asked the same question the same way. We all did.

My brother’s weekends started on Friday morning. He was baling hay and I’d help him.

I didn’t mind baling hay with that old International baler he bought from Dad. It only had one pace: its own. Too slow or too fast and the bales wouldn’t tie. We could work with only two people all day long with one driving the tractor and the other stacking the bales on the wagon. Being the youngest meant I stacked on the wagon. We never took much of a lunch break and I gulped down water switching wagons and ate a sandwich while hauling the load to the barn. It was steady work, if you followed the rhythm of the baler.

We kept at it until the dew started setting in on the hay about an hour or so before sundown. By the time we brought the equipment in from the field along with the last wagon full of hay we saved for unloading the next morning, the sun sunk down too far. We didn’t have lights in the barn.

Calling it a day, I shuffled my dusty and sweaty self into my car to head home in the dark. My solace was the radio station broadcasting a St. Louis Cardinals baseball game. That is, unless they were playing the Cubs in Chicago. At that time, Wrigley Field didn’t have lights either but I was lucky. That night I had the deep voice of Jack Buck calling the game and the wind through the open window as company.

The gravel dust seeped into the car through the open vents as I drove back from my brother’s farm on the hilly roads. Ozzie Smith started another double-play as the car dipped into the valley and I wished I had remembered to put on a dry shirt with the air cooling off.

After getting home, I missed the rest of the game. Sleep was a little more important as we had more hay to bale on Saturday. 

For those wishing to see a baler in action (not my video)

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United: Friday Writings #19: Of Age and Aging and Such…

Rainy Day Remembrances

I stepped into the café that late morning and wiped the rain from my work shoes. Dad was in a booth with three other farmers drinking coffee. He was probably on his third pot of the day. No sugar, no cream. He enjoyed his numerous cups of black coffee from 5am until sundown.

“Parts came in,” I said as I pulled up a chair to the booth. I wouldn’t share in their coffee and conversation that took place on these rainy days in the café. When planting season starts, we may not see these guys taking a break for morning coffee for weeks.

“You got the new starter on the tractor, then?” Dad asked. 

“I was hoping you’d give me a hand.”

“Kids,” Dad said to the guys in the booth who nodded and harrumphed in affirmation.

“I had to help you get the old one out,” I said. “I thought I’d help you bolt the new one in.” This wasn’t a job for one person who would have to contort their arms around the frame of that old Allis Chalmers tractor to hold the starter in place, plus getting the first bolt tightened. After that, one person could finish (me) while Dad had another cup of coffee.

“I’ll give it a shot,” I said as I stood to pull back the chair to the group of tables. This allowed the waitress to come by with a fresh pot of coffee for those in the booth.

“No,” he said as he slid his mug for a refill. “Why don’t you help Dale bring his cows in?” Dad framed it as if I had an option. I really didn’t. He lent my labor out to neighbors all the time. “Lent” wasn’t the right word because I never got paid. I think half my jobs baling hay the previous year were for free.

“You can borrow my boots,” Dale said to a chorus of laughter. He wore a size 18 and I could probably put both of my feet into one.

“I’ll grab mine and meet you at your truck.”

At least this would give me another day that I didn’t have to think about her.

Linked at Poets and Storytellers United: Friday Writings #18: Moments of Joy