The door creaked as I opened it in toward the dimly lit barn. The chill of the night softened as I stepped over its threshold, listening & looking at the familiar sights around me. Night time excursions to the barn were normally reserved for my older siblings. Ma said it was time I too learn how to do the evening chores. With the dim lights hanging from the highest beams I could see the straw and hay stacked nearly to the ceiling on both sides of the barn. I could hear the grunts from the steers in the back of the barn. Though they likely didn’t enjoy being cooped up and crowded inside, it did keep them from the bitter cold elements of a Midwest winter. Just then, the cats came running from the milking room, hoping to be fed with scraps and remnants of the family supper. Finding no food they ran back through the narrow door. Through that door I could hear the sound of milk hitting the bottom of the metal bucket which my father was using to milk "Bossy." Walking through the door, around the half wall I sat on a stool near dad. The cats followed into the room and huddled around. It was then that I began to do what little ones do best.
“We sure get a lot of milk from Old Bossy, don’t we daddy?” and “Those cats sure like you when your milking!” “If it keeps snowing like this we might not have school tomorrow, huh daddy?” “When is my sister coming home again?” “Why didn’t you ever sing with us, daddy?” “Are we going to take down the Christmas tree soon, daddy?”. . . just then the cats scampered toward the door but then suddenly stopped. I watched in amusement as the cats licked the freshly squirted milk off their fur. Dad turned those ‘milkers’ toward the cats again with a smile on his face and shot a line of milk across the room. This time the cats did not scurry away. They took the milk-attack courageously, licking up the milk wounds and coming back for more. This was a rare playful act I witnessed my father engage in. When the pail was nearly full and the cow utterly empty (pun intended), Dad got up off the old milk’n stool. Intentionally looking for a way to be useful, I set to have the door ready for him to carry that white liquid gold to the house. Because there was much more to do and the night air was cold he summoned his young lady back to the house with the bucket.
“Oh no! I am supposed to help you with the chores, Daddy! Ma says I am supposed to help you in the barn.” I replied.
The heart of a young child cannot possibly understand what goes through the mind of a father at a moment like this. To take an inexperienced ‘helper’ through the routines of the nightly chores on such a frigid winter night, when he had already worked a full day. . . well it wasn’t the way he planned on spending his evening. I knew only the rigors of the after supper routine with my sister in the kitchen; clearing the table, putting the food away and waiting for the boys to get in from their chores so we could take care of the milk and eggs. I did not understand all that a day required of a mother and father of eight. I knew nothing of their financial pressures as he waited to hear if he would ever be called back to work or the changes the older ones being off to college brought. I only knew that my mother had called on me to help in the barn. While he carried the weight of all these grown-up burdens in his silence; he led his daughter through the routine of scooping the corn feed and pulling apart another bale and distributing it to each of the cattle through the small windows off the main part of the barn. He showed me how to collect the eggs in such a way as not to not startle the chickens. I tried to act and feel grown up as I squeamishly copied my daddy’s lead. With eggs and milk in tow, he then sent me on my way to finish the indoor chores.
The snow was falling heavily as I walked back from the barn. I lifted my feet attempting to clear the knee-high snow. As I neared the house I regretted not listening to my mother who had always told ‘us kids’ to wrap our feet in old plastic bread bags so our socks and pants wouldn't get wet. I could feel the cold as it slowly melted and the wetness penetrating my jeans which were tucked inside my boots. Just inside the breezeway I put the milk pail on the top of the steps and shouted “milk” just as I had heard her brothers do. I took my wet boots off, and directed my musing about the winter-wonderland and other such things toward my sisters. As they finished the dishes and pasteurized the milk I listened as my older sisters explained about the winter wonderland being a state motto and about the fact that dad was too busy to sing in our singing group. The playful side of life faded momentarily as my sisters and I finished the chores together. But soon, I was again out the door with my siblings enjoying the evening snow. As any young girl would do, I peered upward toward the night sky, watching the flakes fall toward and around me. They looked like little white planets racing by. I collected a large ball of snow and threw it at my brother; understanding in a very real way that life on the farm in the deep of the winter truly was a winter wonderland.
