In the Blue Ridge mountains of Virginia, the rains have come. The grass is already turning green and the birds are singing before first light. It’s the middle of March, and though it’s been over thirty years since I lived in Canada, I still remember a snow laden landscape under sullen gray skies that lasted far into April. Even May could see late snowfalls and June could produce killing frosts.
We lived on a farm in south-western Ontario and many were the mornings I made my way to the barn through five-foot snow drifts. Sleeping in a warm bed past six am. was a luxury reserved for those who had no chores to do or livestock to feed. It was a short walk to the barn but my face, hands and feet were already cold before I reached the paddock. A westerly wind blew off Lake Huron sending a blast of winter chill that always felt colder when you weren’t fully awake.
Mornings were still, and the ground always insulated with a soft white blanket of snow to protect the land from the forgetfulness of winter. The squeaky crunching of ice under my rubber boots was the only sound to pierce the bleakness of a dark winter morning.
The farm was settled sometime in the eighteen fifties. I wondered about the other men who had made this trip from house to barn countless times throughout generations. I thought about the families that lived here before electricity or even running water to the house. Men who had cut down the old growth forest and hand hewn the great beams that frame the huge barn. I marveled at the thought of them hauling the heavy stones from the fields and the masons who fashioned the two and a half-foot thick walls of the first floor.
This was a building to be proud of. Still standing after more than one hundred and fifty years and not much worse from the wear. There was family history here but of whose I did not know. The ghosts were silent and revealed no secrets. Often, I would imagine a long dead settler leaning against a tree with his hands in his pockets, chewing on a stalk of grain, observing and critiquing my efforts, and shaking his head at my ignorance of tradition and apathy for lost arts and trades.
Maple trees surrounded the barn. Ancient trees, gnarled and twisted. Winter trees now, dark and silent. A mass of brown leaves high in bare branches where squirrels made their nests and below tracks of small animals criss cross in fresh snow. The wing feathers of an owl had left their imprint and tiny drops of red indicated where a life had ended.
My entrance into the barn was always anticipated and welcomed with much activity and noise. The pigs, jumping over each other, maneuvering for the best feeding position at the trough. The cows playfully pushing each other while trying to fit their heads in the manger. Cats rubbing up against my legs, chickens under foot, and “Gator” our German Shepard always at my side following me on my rounds. Each group, in their way, showing appreciation for the one who took care of their needs. Not till all had been fed and watered did I pull up a stool beside “Treella” our Jersey cow. Gently I would wash her udder and talk to her while I massaged a gallon and a half of milk into a bucket.
The barn was warm from the body heat of thirty plus cows and the sound of them chewing contentedly on hay while I milked was somehow both soothing and relaxing. I was never in a hurry to leave. The bucket of milk was left overnight in the fridge so the butter fat would rise to the surface. Then it was ladled off to make sweet butter for our morning toast. Our milk, eggs, meat and bread all came from that barn. We took care of them and they took care of us. There was something so profoundly right about that life. To those who have never lived that way I can’t explain. To those that have… I don’t have to.
Behind the barn, beyond the pasture and the hay fields, stood the forest. I would go to retrieve firewood or sometimes Gator and I would just go for a walk to visit. The woods in the winter had an air of strangeness and mystery. Bare branches rubbed together in the wind sounding like shrieks and mournful wailings. The caw of a distant crow added to the grayness. Other times my imagination played tricks with the silence and stillness of the winter woods. Following fresh tracts would tell a story of nature’s many passion plays, leaving me with an endless curiosity and reverence for the winter woods and all its inhabitants.
The winters in the south are different. The land does not sleep so soundly. Rarely does snow cover the ground for more than a few days and there is always a hint of spring just around the corner. I prefer this… now that I’m older. But I am grateful for the sound of ice crunching under my boots, the smell of a coming storm that fills the air, the deafening silence of a land covered in snow three feet deep, and the welcoming aura of a barn filled with life.
I am thankful for winters that were well lived.
Nice one, Robert. The story pulls the reader right in, eager to feed livestock & milk the cows,