Storms' Raging . . .

            Her eyes opened slowly as she noticed the bright room all around her.  Startled by its light she abruptly sat up in her bed and peered all around trying to make sense of the scene.  School days began in the cold, dark morning; far earlier than she would like; not with daylight peering in her window!  Looking out for the usual nest of pine trees and the open field beyond, she saw nothing but white.  As the daze cleared from her mind she realized that in the dark silence of the night an angry winter storm had settled over the farm again.  As she got out of bed the chill of the morning was painfully cold.  “Why can’t Dad just turn up the heat!” she thought as she peered out the window.  From that window she could look to the north and see the condition of the road.  Many mornings she looked out just in time to see her dad driving away toward work.  This morning as she peered north she saw nothing but white.  Instead of snowflakes playfully falling toward the ground, they seemed to be moving horizontally across the sky; this wind-whipped storm was mean and aggressive making her usual morning gaze out at the back 80 acres impossible to see.  From under the bedcovers she put on another layer of clothing, so as to make her trek down the steps.

Like most children she loved to have a day off of school, surely the storm had granted her that.  Walking down the steps she began to consider what outdoor fun this snow day might hold.  Perhaps her older brothers would take them on the tractor and pull the toboggan, or maybe they would clear the flooded pasture of its snow again so they all could ice skate.  As she opened the door at the bottom of the steps she heard concerned voices speaking in low tones.  The whispers were not that of jovial scheming about the great out-of-doors; instead she heard a certain concern in their voices.  She walked into the kitchen to find her mother peering out the north dining room window and her sister busying herself in the kitchen.  Usually it was the kids watching out that window for the bus to come, and mother in the kitchen. 

“What are you doing, Mom?” asked the confused young lady.

“I’m watching to see if Dad’s ride is coming.” She answered nervously.  “They were supposed to meet him at the end of the driveway, but I can’t see past the bushes.”  She said with a worried voice.  With the realization that that silent but angry white flurry had swallowed up her father, the young lady began to feel the rush of panic settling in her chest.  “How would they make it all the way to the shop?” she thought.  “Surely they will end up in a ditch.” she mused.  “or what if he couldn’t even find his way through and was lost out in the storm forever?” 

Walking close to the window she helplessly wiped off the frost trying to peer down the long driveway toward its end.  The snow continued its brisk sideways motion, so much so that not even the barn was visible.  Just as the fear was creeping up into her throat she saw a dim silhouette of a man struggling his way toward the house.  Was it the sheriff with bad news about her father?  Was it a neighbor who was stuck in our ditch?  As the silhouette came closer she recognized his gait.  Her emotions couldn’t keep up with the events of the morning as anticipation turned to fear, and now  fear turned to joy. Her father’s stride was strong as he got closer to the house.   Soon she heard the call for “Mah” from the bottom of the landing steps. Conversation in whispered tones followed, ending with the familiar three-peck kiss her parents exchanged as he headed out the door. 

“Where is dad going?” asked the inquisitive young voice. 

“He is going out to the barn to check on the animals!” Mother replied.  “and to make sure the water isn’t frozen solid.” She continued as though nothing was wrong.   

While the storm raging inside her heart settled, the one out-of- doors did not.  Her determined father tended to the animals and then spent the next hour or more trying to clear the long driveway of its snow.  The John Deere failed him in the bitter cold so he took to the shovel.  He called on the boys to come help him with the shoveling.  As the day went on, the wind’s deep howl intensified.

“Even with all of us helping we made very little progress on clearing a path.  The drifts were as tall as we were and the ones we shoveled soon began to drift right back in our path!” he explained to his wife once back inside the house. 

“There is no-way I am making it to work today.” He concluded.  The wind-whipped cheeks of the boys welcomed the break from the fierce effects of the storm.  Her father got on the phone to check on his driving partner.  . .  “You got stuck where?  . . . . Didn’t make it to 80^th street before you got stuck in the drifts?”  he repeated.  “I knew you’d never make it down our driveway” and “ I’ll be darned.  This is one of the worst storms I’ve ever seen. . . . No, I ain’t trying again to make it out in this storm today!” he retorted with the smallest of smiles he hung up the phone. 

While the men trudged through the morning storm, her Ma and her sisters work feverishly in the kitchen.  Flour and milk, butter and salt. . . . warming the milk with butter, and watching to make sure the yeast would ‘take.’  Stirring and kneading, rising and kneading some more.  While her older sister worked next to their Ma, the young lady did what she always did; sat by and watched.  “Someday when I got older, I too would make bread” She thought.  “But why not start today?” She thought. 

“What can I do to help?” she asked hoping to get to make some bread this time.  She listened to the response and said “Dishes again! I already know how to do that!” 

“And as soon as you learn how to do that right, maybe we will let you help make bread!” her sister replied. 

            She chose not to argue her point.  She recalled many times of working in the kitchen with her sisters, thinking the dishes were done, only to be called back and shown yet another thing she didn’t quite get right.  She accepted her role as an apprentice dishwasher for now and waited for the boys to finish their job outside.  As she washed the dishes she looked out the kitchen window she saw her brothers struggling with the wind and the snow and the shovels.  It was a battle they didn’t seem to be winning.  The white-out conditions didn’t startle her as they did earlier because they were out there together.  Soon the dishes were done, the bread was in the oven and the boys were taking their winter boots off in the landing below.  The ice skating and tobogganing would have to wait for another day.  This angry winter storm had not made its way inside.  Inside was the warmth of family and the simplicity of all being together; Dad, and Ma and all ‘us kids.’  Sitting down at the table she enjoyed sharing the moments and the fresh baked bread with Ma’s homemade strawberry jam.