Merry Christmas to all of you from Autumm, Hattie and I.

Here are the words to the short story I wrote about farming at Christmas:

All across America today people are waking up with a special feeling.  A feeling that they can remember from childhood.  The excitement, reassurance and peace that a crisp, Christmas morning brings never goes away.  Most Americans, except our public safety workers and military have a well deserved day off to spend with their families.

The pocket knife given to me by my grandpa for my 10th birthday.

 

There is another who will work today.  He or she will not punch a time clock.  They will not have a supervisor give them an assignment.  They will not envy those who do not have to work.  That somebody is an American farmer or rancher.

 

Somewhere in Idaho, Nebraska, Virginia or in any other state a farmer crawls out of bed before day break, warms up the house and pours a cup of coffee.  He checks the thermometer and sees that Christmas Day will start in single digits.  He will look outside and see that a fresh blanket of snow has fallen, and continues to come down.

 

Layer by layer, the farmer gets dressed for the morning chores.  Long underwear, wool socks and a wool sweater goes on.  Bib overalls, snow boots or packs and an insulated jacket follow.  A warm hat and insulated work gloves that will have to be removed many times to unlatch gates, cut baling twine or untie feed bags are next.  Once the ensemble is complete he steps outside.

 

There is something different in the air on this Christmas morning.  The first breath outside the house is clean and refreshing as it chills his lungs.  It takes the farmer a few steps towards the barn before he notices that something is different.  He is not sure what it is, he is only aware that something has changed.

 

Something about the normal morning routine is not routine at all, and it causes him to stop in his tracks and take notice.  Standing there, the peace of this morning becomes almost palpable.  The normal hum of motorists who have to start their commute this early is absent – they are home in bed on this special morning.

 

It’s not just the lack of vehicle traffic that has changed though.  The new snow on the ground and the falling snow above creates an insulation.  Sound travels differently during a snow storm, and everything seems quieter.  Even the cows notice this peace.  Instead of calling their normal bellow when they know the hay is coming, there is faint murmur from just one.  Almost a “good morning” and “Merry Christmas” rolled into one.  The livestock can tell that something is different this morning as well, and they want to acknowledge their farmer without disturbing the peace of this special day.

 

The farmer is still standing there, using all his senses to understand what is different about this wonderful morning.  As the snow clouds above him begin to gray with the first light of day he can get a good sense of the snow falling around him.  He notices the flurry of activity in every direction absent of sound.  he notices that all of this turmoil of snowflakes falling and settling makes him feel peaceful.

 

Now, fully aware of the differences he has been trying to identify, he lingers even longer.  Absorbing the silence, the chaos and the peace.  Standing still, allowing the weight of this day to rest on his shoulders, he thinks about the meaning of Christmas.  Quickly…. silently there is a bow in his head and a quick prayer of thanks and perhaps, happy birthday, is sent.  Thoughts of loved ones who have passed enter the mind and a quick Merry Christmas is passed to them, hoping they can hear it.

 

The farmer is suddenly aware of the life that he has been blessed with, the land of which he has been made steward and the animals over which he has been given dominion.  Joy follows this epiphany.  The kind of joy that starts deep down in the stomach and raises the shoulders, straightens the back and lifts the chin.  The knowledge that all that is needed for the farmer’s happiness is happy livestock, to be in touch with nature, to commune with the weather and to survive through the most ancient of professions.  The farmer realizes that he has all he really needs both mentally and physically.  The farmer finds contentment, standing in a snow storm on this morning.

 

The insulation of the snow storm brings the farmer’s senses to life.  Every footstep is heard clearly as he continues the walk to the barn.  When the barn light is turned on he wakes the goats who are nestled into their straw beds, warm and comfortable.  It seems that they want to sleep in on this special day as well.

 

Hay is forked into the manger, but the goats do not rush to be the first to eat this morning.  They casually get up and walk to the stanchion knowing that their farmer will not forget them, and there will be hay for everyone.  They begin to eat, pulling up flakes of leafy alfalfa, still a vibrant green from good management when drying and baling.  The farmer has never understood why, but is keenly aware of how pleasant an experience it is to watch your livestock eat.  He takes another moment, surrounded by the warm orange glow of a solitary light bulb shining on the barn wood, and watches the goats enjoy their hay.

 

A peak at the pigs gives no surprise.  Pigs wake when they want to wake, and that is never before day break.  They are snuggled together, the soundest sleepers on the farm, snoring and grunting, dug deep into their straw beds.  Lined up in almost choreographed perfection they are warm and comfortable exchanging body heat with each other and sleeping soundly in the knowledge that they are all there together.

 

Almost sad now, the farmer believes that he has to break the peace of this morning.  The hay truck has to be started and warmed for feeding the cows.  The cows don’t want to wait much longer and the farmer knows it…. but wants this moment to last even longer.

 

Ever vigilant in his responsibilities the farmer walks to the flatbed, turns it over, gives it a pump on the gas pedal and fires it up.  Stepping from the cab, expecting to be shaken back to reality, the farmer is amazed to find what this insulating blanket of snow has done.  The engines purr is there but muffled in the storm.  It is almost rhythmic and comforting as the farmer can almost hear each cylinder working in unison and perfect timing with the others.  The farmer is reminded of how it sounded as a child, his head on his dad’s chest, almost asleep and hearing dad talk.  It was more the feeling of the vibrations of his dad’s voice than hearing the words that he remembers.

 

The farmer starts to load hay on the flatbed now.  Somehow the bales feel lighter this morning.  There is almost no noise as they land on the bed, which has a cushion of snow to absorb the weight.  As he pulls down a new stack the odor of fresh alfalfa that has been preserved is in the air.  A wonderful smell that only people of this world get to know.  The farmer breathes a little deeper, taking in a reminder of summer before is floats away.

 

After the hay is loaded.  The lights come on in the truck, exposing the beauty of fresh snow on gates, wire and fence posts.  The metal latch seems silent this morning, and the cows do not rush the gate.  The farmer makes his way into the paddock where he wants to feed.  The cows saunter behind, differently patient on this special morning.

 

The truck is turned around at the end of the paddock, ready to feed back from the direction which it came.  The farmer climbs on the flatbed, taking off the gloves and removing a pocket knife that was given to him by his grandpa on his tenth birthday.  Another silent prayer of Merry Christmas is sent.

 

The twine on the tightly packed bale is cut.  As the knife severs the twine there is a reward, a strange reward that only farmers know when cutting twine on a tight bale.  There is a pop.  It is almost musical as if the twine were guitar string and the knife was a pick.  However, the note is not held and the reward is short.  But it is a reward none the less.

 

One by one all the bales are cut, all the twine is collected and a couple of perfect flakes (another reward only a farmer knows) are tossed to the waiting cows.  The farmer climbs down, puts the truck in low gear and lets out the clutch.  The truck moves slowly forward in an obediently straight line this morning.  The farmer climbs back on the bed and drops a perfect line of hay in the snow until the bed is empty and the cows are lined out, contentedly eating.

 

Back in the cab, the farmer puts the truck in neutral and steps out.  It is getting close to full daylight.  He steps back onto the flatbed and enjoys just one more moment.  He Enjoys the purring of the engine against the snow, the vibration of the bed against his feet and the sight of his cows eating.  One by one he counts them.  All are accounted for.

 

Warm from the defroster the farmer starts to drive back to the gate.  He realizes that he hears a familiar Christmas carol in his head.  Then realizes that he has been humming the tune, first subconsciously and now out loud.

 

As he parks the truck and begins the walk back to the house the song is louder now.  The storm is the perfect sound studio, and he is the performer.  Wanting to linger longer with the livestock, he knows he cannot.  Soon there will be little ones waking and eager to open gifts.

 

It is at that moment he realizes what a great gift he has received.  He is a farmer….the singing stops and he hears himself whisper……..”thank you.”