Farm Chores

Funny how things don't dawn on you when you are young, at least not me. It never occured to me until after I blogged this week that there was such a clear demarkation in our home on women's work and men's. Even before my brother's comments on my Dreamin of a White Christmas blog, I woke up that morning thinking about how Dad never did ask me to help with barnyard daily chores. I must admit that it never crossed my mind either. My contribution was to wash the milkers, when our herd was small.  Of course, harvest was another story, every one was supposed to pitch in during harvest. Who could ever forget my help driving the stick shift on the hay truck turning those corners or pole vaulting over a bump sending the hay or straw load to the ground? I recall many gentle words of encouragement yelled from the back of the truck bed from my brothers.  Words that my brother Steve could not repeat when he went on a mission.   However, Dad must have thought my speciality was picking potatoes, sorting potatoes, or cutting seed potatoes for planting. Also, I earned my VSW.  I became a Very Special Weeder, pulling weeds that took two hands and all my body weight to get out. You know, the ones that got the most water at the end of the rows. I can't recall why some got so big, but my guess is that Dad started to tell me to get out there and get weeding those potatoes, but I had better things to do at the time. I do remember hoeing, but the memorable ones were the big pig weeds. I do not recall hearing the word allergy until I moved to this dry southern area, but do I remember having it during weeding assignments! I just did not know what to call it. I would be so red itchey eyed and spoltch swollen, I thought I could not take another minute and the row had seemed to grow to at least a mile long.   Of course, it did not help that I wore shorts and something sleeveless, so I could get a tan. A "Penny tan" where my freckles on my naturally pale skin would blend closer to one another.   There was dumb and then there was dumber.  Now I am an adult, I call it learning "line upon line, precept upon precept".  If I am allergic, I don't go out in the stuff.  If the sun is baking, it had better not be my cancer- prone skin.

I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas

   The weather man said that it would snow in St. George Utah last night into today.  It rained.  I thought it would get cold enough to turn to snow during the night, so when I woke up at 4 a.m. I excitedly peeked outside to see the snow.  Nothing.  Don't get me wrong, I like where I ended up with this southern man I married, but December has to have some white stuff.  My favorite non-religious Christmas song has always been (since I moved here)  I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas.  Walt has often reminded me that a warm and dry Christmas is better.  The kids can play outside with their presents, but most importantly, husbands can do "man things" in the afternoon like go shooting. 
   I was raised in snow country on a farm southeast of Rexburg Idaho. Every Christmas I experienced had a blanket of white.  I remember looking out a large window in our living room watching the snow fall soft and gentle or sometimes sideways and hard against the glass.  Some years the snowy roof of the barn dissappeared seamlessly into a huge drift at its side. The farm animals, mostly cows, seemed to breathe white frosty clouds as did my father and two brothers as they dutifully did the chores morning and evening in the cold dark winter.  I felt sorry for them, when even on Christmas, the cows had to be milked, calves and live stock fed.  Mother would always have a hot delicious meal waiting to serve just as soon as they peeled off the layer of winter gloves, boots, and coats. 
   I knew people who did fun winter sports like skiing. I could only think of one word to describe them back then...what was that word?  Oh yeah, rich.   We could never afford the skis let alone the lift charges.  Our winter sport was to dig  a snow fort into the drifts, or when we had a horse, hook a rope from a sleigh to the saddle horn and slide through the field.  The farm had belonged to Grandpa & Grandma Arnold, before Daddy bought it from them, so I have many very early memories of playing in the snow.   The snow clothing then were not superior as now.  My indicator of when it was time to go into the house was when I was totally wet.  I remember standing by Grandma's coal stove and seeing steam come off my clothing.  After such a snow adventure, hot cocoa was ladeled right out of the pan where it had been made from scratch with whole fresh milk and cream.  Hot Cocoa is the first recipe I was taught to make when I was about 8 years old.  No powdered mix in those days.  So today, perhaps I will make a cup of hot chocolate, watch the rain, and dream of a white Christmas.