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Authors: Janette Oke
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us to get back at the harvest; we’d work a few hours, and then another storm would pass through, delaying us again. In my frustration I would go to fence-mending or repairing the barn or cutting wood for our winter supply.
I went to bed worn out every night and slept soundly until morning. Then I got up, checking the sky for the day’s weather before I even had my clothes on, and started in on another full day.
It was late November before the district threshing crew moved in for the last time and we got the final crop off. Because of the rain, it wasn’t as good a quality as we had hoped it would be, but at least it was in. Our hay crop of the year had been scant and poor, also.
Grandpa relaxed a bit then. The lines seemed to soften on his brow. Grandpa had too much faith for worry, but he was a little less concerned than he had been with the crop still in the field.
Uncle Charlie seemed to feel the lessening of tension, too. For one thing, I knew that he was relieved to have his kitchen back to himself. We’d had a neighbor woman and her daughter in helping to cook for the threshing crew. Uncle Charlie needed the help, we all knew that, but he sure was glad when the last dish was washed and put away and the women went home.
I turned my attention to other things—cutting wood, fixing door hinges and banking the root cellar. And I talked to God some more.
I had thought I might be ready for His call at the first of the year, but now I realized that I would never be caught up enough to turn the farm back over to Grandpa and Uncle Charlie that soon. I needed more time to get things back into shape. God seemed to agree. I did not feel Him nudging me to hurry on to other things. Instead, He seemed to give me assurance that my job on the farm wasn’t finished yet.
And so I worked feverishly, trying to get as much as I could done before the snow came. When it did come, it came with fury. The thermometer dropped thirty degrees overnight, and the wind blew from the north with such intensity that it blew down several trees. The snow swirled in blinding eddies. I was thankful that I had repaired the chicken coop and lined the floor with fresh warm straw. I was glad, too, that the barn was ready for winter. But I still hadn’t gotten the pigpens ready. I worried about the pigs, especially the sow that had just given birth to eight little piglets. I struggled against the wind with a load of straw for bedding.
It was useless even to try. The wind whipped the straw from my pitchfork as soon as I stepped from the barn. After trying several times, I tossed my fork aside and gathered the straw in my arms. Even that didn’t work well. As I fought my way toward the pigpen the wind pushed and pulled, pulling the straw from me. By the time I had reached the pigpen I had very little left.
I tried again, over and over, and each time I arrived at the shed with only a scant armful of straw.
At last I gave up. I was winded and freezing as I bucked the strong gale. I hoped that the bit of straw I had managed to get to the pigs would help to protect them against the bitter storm.
I spent most of the day fighting against the wind, trying to ease the discomfort of the animals. Several times Grandpa and Uncle Charlie came out to assure me that I had done all I could, that the animals would make it through on their own. But I wasn’t so sure, so I kept right on fighting.
When the day was over and I headed for the house with a full pail of milk, I was exhausted.
The kitchen had never looked or smelled more inviting. The warmth from the cookstove spilled out to greet me, making my face sting with the sudden heat after the cold. The aroma of Uncle Charlie’s hot stew and fresh biscuits reminded me of just how hungry I was.
Grandpa took the pail from me and went to strain the milk and run it through the separator. I didn’t argue, even though it was normally my job.
Pixie pushed herself up against me as I fought with coldnumbed fingers
I went to bed worn out every night and slept soundly until morning. Then I got up, checking the sky for the day’s weather before I even had my clothes on, and started in on another full day.
It was late November before the district threshing crew moved in for the last time and we got the final crop off. Because of the rain, it wasn’t as good a quality as we had hoped it would be, but at least it was in. Our hay crop of the year had been scant and poor, also.
Grandpa relaxed a bit then. The lines seemed to soften on his brow. Grandpa had too much faith for worry, but he was a little less concerned than he had been with the crop still in the field.
Uncle Charlie seemed to feel the lessening of tension, too. For one thing, I knew that he was relieved to have his kitchen back to himself. We’d had a neighbor woman and her daughter in helping to cook for the threshing crew. Uncle Charlie needed the help, we all knew that, but he sure was glad when the last dish was washed and put away and the women went home.
I turned my attention to other things—cutting wood, fixing door hinges and banking the root cellar. And I talked to God some more.
I had thought I might be ready for His call at the first of the year, but now I realized that I would never be caught up enough to turn the farm back over to Grandpa and Uncle Charlie that soon. I needed more time to get things back into shape. God seemed to agree. I did not feel Him nudging me to hurry on to other things. Instead, He seemed to give me assurance that my job on the farm wasn’t finished yet.
And so I worked feverishly, trying to get as much as I could done before the snow came. When it did come, it came with fury. The thermometer dropped thirty degrees overnight, and the wind blew from the north with such intensity that it blew down several trees. The snow swirled in blinding eddies. I was thankful that I had repaired the chicken coop and lined the floor with fresh warm straw. I was glad, too, that the barn was ready for winter. But I still hadn’t gotten the pigpens ready. I worried about the pigs, especially the sow that had just given birth to eight little piglets. I struggled against the wind with a load of straw for bedding.
It was useless even to try. The wind whipped the straw from my pitchfork as soon as I stepped from the barn. After trying several times, I tossed my fork aside and gathered the straw in my arms. Even that didn’t work well. As I fought my way toward the pigpen the wind pushed and pulled, pulling the straw from me. By the time I had reached the pigpen I had very little left.
I tried again, over and over, and each time I arrived at the shed with only a scant armful of straw.
At last I gave up. I was winded and freezing as I bucked the strong gale. I hoped that the bit of straw I had managed to get to the pigs would help to protect them against the bitter storm.
I spent most of the day fighting against the wind, trying to ease the discomfort of the animals. Several times Grandpa and Uncle Charlie came out to assure me that I had done all I could, that the animals would make it through on their own. But I wasn’t so sure, so I kept right on fighting.
When the day was over and I headed for the house with a full pail of milk, I was exhausted.
The kitchen had never looked or smelled more inviting. The warmth from the cookstove spilled out to greet me, making my face sting with the sudden heat after the cold. The aroma of Uncle Charlie’s hot stew and fresh biscuits reminded me of just how hungry I was.
Grandpa took the pail from me and went to strain the milk and run it through the separator. I didn’t argue, even though it was normally my job.
Pixie pushed herself up against me as I fought with coldnumbed fingers
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