Christmas present, Christmas past

~ by Marie

A row of Apples, not for pie but iMac Pros, are lined up across the front of the couch on laps.  My son sits at the table surfing the net on his iPad as others look on.  My niece sits in the rocker on a Dell laptop.  Others are checking their iPod Touches to share photos.  Later, my brother hooks up his iMac Pro to the flat screen so we can watch a video he put together of Christmases past and the video of last Christmas that my sister put together on her fancy Mac desktop and photo editing software.  We relish the old photos of our ever-expanding family as we grew in age and size.  Cameras are flashing from every direction and I’m scanning the rooms with my Flip Cam as we continue to record this history in the making.  In all, five laptops, a desktop, a netbook, an iPad, an iPod Touch, at least one iPod nano and at least two other Smartphones with digital cameras, a Flip Cam, a Sony voice recorder, seven or eight cameras ... ranging from simple digitals to fancy SLR’s ... are in the double-wide trailer home as we celebrate Christmas 2010 style. 

I remember that it started with getting the tree.  When Dad announced it was time, we rushed to put on our snowsuits, gloves, scarves, mittens and the rubber boots we pulled on over our shoes.  The boys would grab a couple of saucers and a regular sled ... you know, one with steel runners on the bottom and wooden slats on the top ... and a toboggan if the “little kids” were coming, too, so someone could hold onto them.  Dad would get the tractor, sometimes with the manure spreader still hooked on behind.  He’d attach the sleds to either the back of the tractor or the back of the manure spreader, which didn’t smell because it was way too cold for that.  Then the fun would begin as we bounced behind this get-up to the back 40 we could barely see from the house. Past the cornfields and hay fields, past the big ditch and the dirt hole where we liked to play during the summer, was a stand of pine trees.  There we could choose any tree we wanted.  Many of them were too big for our little living room, but we always managed to find the perfect one.  Dad would cut the tree and throw it on top of the manure spreader or tie it to the toboggan. Then came the adventurous ride back. Dad would speed up or drive side to side to give us a thrill.  Joe would sometimes fly off and then run to catch up.  Snow that had been kicked up from the path or blown by the wind would fly into our faces and sometimes stick. We’d come back to the house frosty but happy.  And Mom would let us help decorate.  First we’d cut out and decorate oodles of sugar cookies. One year she bought red bells and wrote our names in glitter on each one. She also let us help decorate the tree.  Maybe I liked that the best of anyone since, to this day I, still love to decorate anything I can. I loved to look at the little collection of angel ornaments and the beautiful glass balls with designs on them.  And the bells, of course.  

On Christmas Eve, the longest night of the year, we kids slept mostly in the same bedroom.  But how could we possibly go to sleep on a night like this?  Someone ... anyone ... would be on the lookout for Santa’s arrival. I remember, on more than one occasion, My brother waking me to announce that Saint Nick had arrived.  Since our room was above Mom and Dad’s, we’d tip-toe out of it and down the long set of stairs to check it out.  We were always amazed at the bountiful pile of gifts all around the bottom of the tree. My brother would try to shake some while I warned him to be quiet.  The only problem was that it was still only 3 or 4 in the morning. So we’d have to wait for Mom and Dad to wake up.  So three, then four and finally five of us would sit at the bottom of the stairs, peeking out from time to time to see if they were up yet and wavering between whispering and trying to make enough noise to wake them. Finally. after what seemed like light years, they were up and we could begin to make our Christmas wishes come true. Later, Mom would gather us around the crèche, as she had so many days prior, to talk about the baby Jesus and review the true meaning of Christmas . 

Christmas for our family has always meant a crowd.  After breakfast, we got dressed and took the Christmas drive to Muskegon to visit family.  At Grandma’s, we gathered around the baby grand in her piano room.  At least two other families of aunts, uncles and cousins gathered with us in the little room to sing Christmas carols as Grandma played. I counted one time.   We had 40 people in Grandma’s small house.  My little German grandma made pork roast for everyone, along with the German anise cookies she’d pressed with a special rolling pin with designs on it. And applesauce, of course.  When I was young, she had a little gift for each of her grandchildren. But when the number of grandchildren grew to 67, she had to give up that practice.  After Grandma’s, we were off to Aunt Lucille’s.   There we hung out and ate leftovers and I checked out all my cousins’ Christmas loot.  When it was getting time to milk Bessie, Dad would say it was time to go. 

We’d pile into the car and head back to the farm, looking forward to some time to play with our new toys before bed.  Memorable Christmas gifts from Christmases past were my brother’s Tinkertoys, my walking doll, my nurse doll, the rocking horse and Joe’s Lego blocks, with which he could build real-looking houses. My parents let him take them to Grandma’s that first year and he let me help him build a house. Then one year I told Mom I’d like a certain hat and scarf set for Christmas. That Christmas morning, the gifts were being passed out.   When it was my turn, I opened my first gift to find the beautiful hat, scarf and mitten set. I loved it.  As the rest of the gifts were passed out, I waited and waited. But there were no other gifts for me. I was disappointed.  Only one gift.  I was a young teen learning for the first time the value of things. Other memories from Christmases past include Mom’s fruity bread braids with icing on top for breakfast, wondering if we’d have a white Christmas, midnight mass, BLINKING tree lights, my youngest brother’s talking robot, My sister’s black doll, ham topped with glazed pineapple circles with cherries in the middle and the little pig bank my brother gave me, which I still have to this day.

Chores

                Summer mornings were beautiful.  I preferred to watch the sun rising over the barn, illuminating the corn, and warming our above- ground pool water from the dining room table.  There I would sit and talk with my Ma about how Grandma was doing, which neighbors she would stopping by to see, or what chores she had to do for the day.  Grandma lived in town and enjoyed a visit from any of her 13 children (make that 11, as two had already passed away,) or any of her many many Grandchildren.  I had stopped taking piano lessons from Grandma, as I was certain there wasn’t a musical bone in my body and that I ‘just didn’t have it’ as far as musical aptitude was concerned.  Instead, of taking up piano like my older brothers, vocals like the older three, violin like my younger sister, or even or guitar like several of my siblings, I would take up ‘music appreciation.’  It was my ‘calling’ to sit nearby the duo or trio and enjoy the incredible sounds that came from the instruments or voices.  I would sit in the stands during the high school talent show, and in the pew during the church service while they sang and played guitar, I attended their musicals, and walked up to receive my diploma after my younger sister played her violin.   Later in life, I slapped my leg to the beat during the barn dances listening to my sister jam on her guitar or dulcimer, and enjoying my young nieces performance of The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald.  During holiday gatherings, I was true to my calling as my siblings picked up their acoustic guitars and rang out the holiday sounds.  I still prefer to listen to my siblings ‘jammin session’ to the best of Tommy Emmanuel.  As to Ma’s visit to the neighbors; Ma’s benevolent heart always attracted and amazed me.  It took me a long time to understand that Uncle Al wasn’t really my Uncle.  He was a neighbor that Ma cared for when he needed an extra hand.  This was something she did often for others; whether it was bringing them a meal, helping them to clean or just sitting across their table listening to stories about their house full of cats or the medical woes that wouldn’t let them back out in their garden.  She was always lending someone ‘less fortunate’ a hand.  I assumed that is what all mother’s did.  I assumed it was part of their role.  When Ma got around to talking about the chores for the day, that is the time I often wished I could squirm away from the table.  It seemed that my Mom’s list of things I couldn’t do, wasn’t as long as mine.  She had all the faith in the world that I COULD/WOULD weed the rows and rows of beans, cucumbers, or whatever else was planted, with the rest of ‘em.  She further insisted that getting an early start would assure that when Dad came home our work we could surely appease his wishes.  As I stared out the window at the sun rising further and further in the morning sky, I knew my ‘do list’ was already written for me. 

***  ****          

Early summer garden chores meant stepping barefoot (because we almost always went barefoot on the farm) into the strawberry patch,  beans, corn, cucumbers etc.  Thank goodness Dad used the tiller to tend to the raspberries.  On a typical weeding day; one of the older siblings called the marching orders, we each were assigned a row.  Stern instructions were given to get ‘every last weed,’ and a reminder was sounded that Dad would be checking.  That always put the fear of God in me as I set about my task.  If I had to go back to the garden, I would miss all my favorite shows; and have to do so while Dad taught me all over again the proper way to weed.  As I stared at the rich dark soil, and saw the bright green weeds poking through I tried not to peer down the seemingly endless row.  To see the length my row was to remind me how much of the day was NOT mine to do as I pleased.  Ma didn’t care how we accomplished the task, as long as we left the crop in the ground and rid her garden of those weeds!  How Ma knew we sometimes accidentally-on-purpose pulled a bean plant from its roots just to save work on the picking & snipping side of things, I’ll never know. 

Out in the garden we did not understand the importance our role played in what would eventually end up on our supper table, or in the pantry of an elderly neighbor.   We just knew we had a job to do.  My siblings & I had much discussion about the ‘best’ way to go about it.  Sometimes we could hoe up the soil, loosen the weed, and then rake it down the way, other times we had to painstakingly pull each weed, especially as it threatened to choke our crop.  Together, my siblings & I worked in the garden.  Sometimes talking, often joking, and sometimes long bouts of silence ensued as we hoed and pulled and raked.  The sun beat on our backs (of course the girls were watching their bikini tan line, while the boys took off their shirts.)  We worked in unison in the rich black soil.   If we wanted to add music to the mundane day, we had to produce it from our own vocal chords;  acapella.  No MP3 player with headset, just each other.  Together we came up with some pretty creative songs about how much ‘fun’ it was out in the garden!

Though we were all considered the distance runners around school, there was one time when our sprinting skills shone; that is when the phone rang.  We could be in garden to the north of the barn near the far end of the field, and somehow my sisters or I would hear that phone ring and even more amazingly get to it before the party on the other end hung up.  We only had one phone.  It was attached to the wall near the kitchen.  There was no phone in our pocket, or answering machine to catch the call if we were too busy.  Either we answered or we didn’t.  They either called back later, or kept it ringing hoping we’d heard the ring from wherever we were.  It took me awhile to figure out that the sibling with the boyfriend usually shot out of the garden the fastest.  One minute our knees were deep in the dirt, and our fingers thick with the moist black gold, and the next minutes one of us could be chattering away while the remaining siblings complained that they were doing all the work.   

As the sun worked its way across the afternoon sky, we finished our chores in the garden.  The rows of vegetables were surrounded by rich black soil again, the wheelbarrows of pokey, choking weeds were removed and taken to a pile near our home-made dump to the south of the house.  Rakes, hoes, and other garden tools were put away.  Looking out the window I watched as Dad walked up the driveway after carpooling to/from work.  We would soon find out if we were actually done in the garden for the day as Dad would indeed be checking our work.  If he headed to the barn the evening would be ours to soak in the pool, hang out in a tree, or the loft of the barn, or watch shows on TV.  My regular indoor chores of setting the table and peeling the potatoes while Ma did her magic over the stove began.  While working inside I listened as Ma shared stories of the work she accomplished indoors, and the plans she had to go see Grandma in the morning.  We often had to clear the table of the sewing project she had begun between scrubbing the floor, doing the laundry, and making supper.   While taking the plates from the cupboard I heard the sound of the milk bucket being removed from its home on the landing.  Dad would head to the barn, and we began to make plans of our own for the evening. 

"Hale Bay"

 

Walking along the edge of the front forty, I avoided the prickly pokes of the freshly cut field.  Not so my preschool age children.  Not so their daddy or my brother, the new owner of the family farm.   “Will you let me up on that Hale Bay?” the youngest one asked her father.

I chuckled at her rendition of common farm vernacular as I watched her daddy’s sturdy hand hoist our youngest atop the large round bale.  She smiled with satisfaction to be up as high as her older siblings; stretching her arms toward the sky she hollered, “Look at me on top this Hale Bay!”  City dwellers that they were, they fit very well into the country scene.  Our oldest was dressed in her plaid button up shirt, comfortable jeans and ponytails; our son looked strong and sturdy, and had the tan of boys who had been baling all week.    All three seemed so very comfortable to be smelling the freshly cut bales alongside their cousins, and walking through the prickly field of alfalfa. 

“How did they make these?” came an inquisitive young voice.  I walked on alongside the road as my brother began his explanation.  “Back when I was your age, our bales weren’t round.”  . . .

My sister-in-law & I continued our stroll down the country gravel lane.  As we watched our growing children atop the bales, she began to outline their plans to renovate the house I once called home.  As I looked back toward the house, my heart stopped beating momentarily at the idea of changing the homestead.   Wasn’t doing so disrespectful?  Didn’t they understand how many memories from years gone by were held there?

***   Baling Time ****

Baling time was a time like no other.  The job was fast and furious and timing was everything.  The timothy or alfalfa had to be cut and left to dry as much as several days.  If lucky enough to avoid the rain, Dad hired the neighbor to bring his baler in; 10 cents a bale for every 2’ x 3’ block.  It always amazed me to see the loose stalks go in the front side and come out the back end a sturdy bale.  “How did that machine get those twines around it so tight?” my young mind wondered.

As soon as bales began to line the field, Dad jumped on the 1960 Deere and hooked our sturdy wagon behind, calling for the boys and some of the older girls out to the field. 

“Can I drive the tractor this time?” I would ask year after year; usually with the same reply.  “You’re too young.  Help your Ma get the meal ready.”  Though I enjoyed the idea of a picnic under the big ‘ole maple tree, and saw cooking as a very ‘feminine’ thing to do, I felt as though I was missing the adventure.  It seemed to me that the boys were having all the fun, while my younger sister & I were stuck back at the house filling an aluminum pitcher with Kool-aid or iced tea.  While I was peeling potatoes, shucking corn, hulling strawberries, or setting the table my older brother got to drive the tractor and get a great tan! 

To the older siblings, being out in the field wasn’t the bed of roses that my young mind imagined.  Lifting  50-pound bale after bale in the heat of the day for hours and hours was downright hard work.  While one worker lifted the bales onto the wagon another stacked them tight at the front.  As the heat of the day tanned the boy’s shirtless skin, the high stacks required the strongest to throw those bales on top of the stack.  The younger balers walked alongside listening to the slow ‘put-put’ sound of the tractor engine until the wagon was full.  Then the engines would speed, and in came the tracker pulling the wagon full of workers atop the tall stacks. 

This was the scene I saw from the picnic table view, once again, seemingly missing all the fun!   The wagon was pulled right up to the tall elevator just outside the barn door.  The bales were hoisted off the wagon, and steadied on the moving belt, making  their way to the top of the loft.  With every wagon load that came in the mound got higher and higher in the barn.  Each man knew exactly how to stack those bales, and when to move to the north corner of the barn and when to begin to stack the next layer.  I didn’t know the difference between straw and hay; I only knew that one was light enough for me to lift, and the other was not.  I also knew that I was still too young to do much of the heartier work.  As the day wore on, the workers in the loft could touch the highest beams in the barn and look out the windows from its highest peak. 

When the sun was high and the air heavy, between their runs to the field, the sweaty team of balers would come rest under the shade of our old maple and grab some Kool-aid or iced tea, and share a few laughs.  I admired their strong arms, and wondered how much sweat the could bleed before calling it a day.  My favorite time was when the crew finally made their way to the picnic table.  Then it was my turn to ‘work.’  For as long as they sat, I played waitress; bringing them ice for their ice tea and making sure they had all the fixings for their grilled steak or burger.  A huge spread was laid out for their huge appetite.  Watching them scarf down all of Ma’s great cooking made me realize that all the corn shucking and potato- peeling was worth it.  We all did our part, big and small.  As they all sat back on the wagon to bring in one more load of hay, my younger sister and & I cleared the table and helped Ma with the dishes.  Then we put on our swimsuits and raced to the back yard pool deck.  As we watched the sun beginning its decent in the evening sky, our siblings’ voices approached the pool at record speeds.  They ran and dove into the pool as if being chased by a swarm of bees.  Screaming about how much the prickly pokes from the field stung as their legs hit the chlorinated water.  Once they cooled off, they compared their war wounds of baling and laughed at the events of the day.  We enjoyed the sunset, the cool waters (of the pool my dad traded with our uncle for a side of beef,) and lingered in the simple moments spent together. 

***   Hale Bay ~ continued * * *

   . . . I turned back to my sister-in-law as she spoke about the changes she and my brother would make to the homestead. Carefully listening on.

“We want to put a porch all the way around the front and side.” She said.  “And wall in the front door. We will put a slider door coming off the dining room, so we have a nice view of the barn, the old maple and the bird feeder in the front yard.”  “We might even put a trampoline where the old pool was,” She said. 

I had to admit the ideas they had all sounded fantastic.  My brother had talked of such a porch since he took over mowing the grass in his late high school years.  It was as if he knew then that his heart would remain forever on the farm.  He & his wife would keep the farm in the family, and allow the Centennial Farm sign to be a family mainstay for at least another generation.  Their renovations wouldn’t end an era, but instead, bring new life to it. 

“That sounds great, Sis!” I heard myself reply.

As I watched my children up on that “Hale Bay” with their daddy and their Uncle standing nearby, I knew there was no place in the world like the family farm.  

What DOES She Do All Day?

Walking down the road on that blustery afternoon, I could not understand the intensity of the pain I was experiencing.  I had never known pain so powerful.  I had my feelings hurt many times, but it was not nearly as piercing as this.  I heard the engine of the bus as it continued on its route around the country block.  This was a routine we did every weekday after school, but today the short trek from the end of Dickenson Road to our driveway seemed particularly long.  Making my way up our long driveway I lagged well behind my siblings.  Once inside the landing, I lifted the lid of the boot bench and dropped my boots inside.  Above the bench was a row of hooks; supposedly enough for each of us to have a place for our coat, scarf and hat.  As was often the case, the hook intended for me was filled with someone else’s heavy farm coat.  The coat room smelled like the barn; like the cattle and the hay; an indescribable scent that defined our home.   Though it was an odor I was comfortable with, I was not so comfortable with the teasing I would get from the school girls about such a fragrance in the school hallway.  By this time I could not hold back the bitter tears; letting my coat fall to the ground I walked up the steps. 

I walked into the kitchen to find my siblings already cleaning up from their afternoon snack.  My sister looked at me surprised and concerned by my sullen mood. 

“What is the matter!?” she said tenderly.  She helped me onto the living room couch, listened intently to my woes, and finally went to get the thermometer.   While mother got the potatoes boiling and finished up meal preparations my older sister took on the role of caring mother, tending to my every need.  She found a pillow, provided me with ginger ale, blankets, set up the pull-out-couch, and quieted others in the house.  Nothing seemed more comforting than her warm attention and resting flat on the pillow.  It didn’t take long to fall asleep.  

What seemed like only minutes later, I woke to observe our large family gathered around the table with talk of “what’s wrong with her?” and “Should we make her come to the table?”  As the medication began to take effect I was more alert to the goings-ons around me.  Life wasn’t stopping just because I wasn’t feeling well; dinner, conversation, dishes, watching the news, reading the paper.  The milk was still brought in after the evening chores. I watched how my older siblings helped each other with their homework, and saw how efficiently they cleaned the kitchen.  I had never noticed before how much my brother liked history, and how in tune he was to the nightly news; neither of which had I really been interested in.  Maybe I should pay more attention.  As I began to drift off to sleep, the noises of house began to be overwhelming; “Happy Days” didn’t seem so happy, my siblings’ talented guitar playing hurt my head, and the conversation about the algebra problem seemed remarkably loud.    My younger sister was the first to notice my teary state.  “Why don’t you go to bed.” She suggested.  Minutes later the dark and quiet of my room, though lonely for a moment, allowed me to drift off to sleep. 

On a normal school day, arriving home I often found Mom resting on the couch.  About the time we finished our snack she was up getting supper ready.  While I found myself wondering just what she did all day, this illness was going to allow me to find out.  While everyone else was either at school or work my Mom was busily working in the kitchen; on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor with a bucket nearby.  She told me she was just finishing and would get me some breakfast as soon as she wiped the last corner.  Sitting at the table I heard a strange ‘click’ sound coming from the warm jars on the counter.  “Why do the jars makes that noise, Mom?”  I asked.

“They are sealing tight.  Then we can put them in the pantry until we are ready to eat them.” She answered.  The row of pint jars filled with freshly made strawberry jam cluttered the counter.  Next to the still warm jam was a batch of homemade bread.  It had already been sliced and seemed to be calling my name.  “Can I have some bread for breakfast?” I said, hoping to hear a resounding ‘yes.’  Mom’s bread was the best I had ever tasted and something the entire family bragged about.  It melted in my mouth as I took my first bite.  The jam tasted so much like fresh strawberries, it was hard to decide which I liked better.  Before I finished my first slice the phone rang.  Mom got up off her knees, answered the phone and kept working in the kitchen while talking away to a church member.  I overheard her responses; something about the funeral, and bringing a dish to pass.   As quickly as she was off the phone she scurried to the basement to pull out some frozen meat.  Our freezer stock of meat was getting low, but it would soon be time to butcher another side of beef.  She did not hesitate to share what she had with others in their time of need.  In addition our family meal she would make another to take to tomorrow’s funeral.   Propped on the couch, with tea and hot soup I watched my mother work.  Never again need I wonder what she did all day.  Her work was non-stop!  In addition to making the jam & bread and mopping the floor (that surely needed it every day!) she washed several loads of laundry and hung them outside to dry.  She pulled the iron out while catching a show, she pulled out her sewing machine and worked on a hem, and began to cut out the pattern for a new blouse for my sister.  She got ready for the 4-H meeting that she was leading.  She called my Grandmother to make sure she was OK, and made plans to help the elderly neighbors with their housework.

No wonder she was resting when I came home most days! It was her calm before another storm of daily chores.

When my siblings arrived the familiar routine ensued.  The snack, the table-setting, milking time and so on.  My brother teasingly handed me a stack of homework from the day I had missed.  My ear ache had subsided and I would likely be back on the bus in the morning.  My sister began to peel the potatoes.  I looked out toward the pasture, Bossy was being beckoned into her stall, my brothers were busy at work.  Maybe I should be as well.

“Do you want me to set the table tonight?” I asked as I folded my blanket on the edge of the couch.  

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.