January 11th

THE ANNIVERSARY

by

Kalli Deschamps

         “We’re gonna have a baby in a couple of hours.”

         Ed made the surprise announcement as he unzipped his insulated coveralls and hung his cap on a hook in the mudroom.” I thought you said she wouldn’t have it for a few more days.”

         “The feet are sticking out.”

         “Good thing we remembered the kerosene. She’s a big heifer…shouldn’t have a problem.”

         Her name was Alice. She was a twin. She’d been two years old on the fifteenth of March. She’d be a mother on the eleventh of January.

         It was nine-thirty on the evening of our forty-first wedding anniversary. Drifted snow, broken by the plow, stood in jagged mountains on either side of our roadways. The night was clear and cold with the mercury reading twelve below zero. Frost crystals caught beams of moonlight as they drifted through the still air, shimmering with the grace of gauze-clad dancers.

         I turned back from the magic outside the window. “So what do you want to do?”

         “We’ll wait an hour and check her again. Sure glad we put her in the barn.”

         The large horsestall(the one usually used for storing extra hay and straw)had been stripped of most of its fodder. The one bale of clean sweet-smelling straw we had left was fluffed and scattered over the asphalt floor. Hay in the feeder and grain in a rubber pan completed our makeshift nursery.

         Always nervous during the hours before a birth, Ed threw on a jacket and stuck his head around the corner of our hobby room. “Just think I’ll go out to the shop and see if the space heater’ll start. I’m not sure how much fuel is in it. I’ll try to run it out and fill the tank with kerosene. We’ll need all the heat we can get.”

         Ten-thirty. It was my turn to check. Zip into the insulated coveralls, lace up the Sorel boots, hook the straps on my down bonnet and grab my mittens. No flashlight needed tonight.

         “Well? Wha ja find?”

         “Still a water bag and about an inch of feet, but she’s contracting.”

         “What do you think?”

         “Another half-hour?”

         “Okay. I think I’ll get the horses and tie them in the open stall. They’ll give us a little more heat. Then if you want to sweep the floor in the other box stall and help me drag the space heater through the snow, we can put it there where we can watch it.”

         I took off my hat and mittens, unzipped my coveralls and held my fingers over the welcome heat from the woodstove. Ten minutes later we were at it again. By eleven o’clock we had horses in the barn, O.B. chains atop a pile of towels and the space heater in place. We were ready.

         “Let’s wait until eleven-thirty. If she’s not done we’ll give her a little help.”

         “You want a cup of tea?”

         “Nope.”

         We were too nervous to work on winter projects. It was late so we took off our coveralls and headed upstairs to wait. We didn’t say much. Just watched the minutes tick by, hoping she would do it herself.

         I was remembering other years and other calving seasons. We never had a lot of cattle at one time. Probably fifty or sixty head, but each one was special. Most had no problems, but we always tried to be there. I have never found words to adequately describe the emotion I feel when a calf, that would otherwise have died, springs to life under the ministration of my hands. The only problem we expected tonight was the temperature. We had to keep him from freezing after he was born. This would be a first calf for this heifer. Sometimes their maternal instincts were a little slow.  We would do our best and if all went well we would feel the inner glow of happiness that comes from experiencing the miracle of birth.

         “Remember the winter of 55-56?”

         “On Lolo Creek?”

         “Yup. If I live to be a thousand years old, I’ll never forget the night of January 20^th.

         “Why was that so special?”

         “You remember. Our first calf was born. It was twenty below zero. That’s why I remember the date. We had Grandma (the cow) in a box stall in the big barn and you had an old army blanket. You kind of held the blanket under her and the calf dropped into it. I bundled the blanket around her…that was Nan…and you ran for the house. Snow like it is this year, too. Remember when we kept her on the braided rug in front of the woodstove and Dick read stories to her? You milked out her mom and we fed her from a bottle. And I tried to figure out how to put a diaper on her?”

         I remember the calf, just not the date. That was a long time ago.” He looked at the clock. “Eleven-thirty. Ready to go?”

         Back we traipsed to the barn and a heifer that still hadn’t calved. Ed took the chains and began talking quietly. Alice was scared. She’d never been in the barn before. Horses were snorting. Cats were meowing. What was wrong with her body? She whirled with a vengeance and Ed backed out the door.

         “No sense in getting hurt. I’ll throw a rope on her. You go next door and I’ll hand you the rope through the hole. You can pull slack.”

         “You want me to tie her on the calf rail so I can help you pull?”

         “Better just hang on so you can work the slack. I think the calf’s about ready anyhow. If we help she won’t be so tired.”

         Held against the wall where she couldn’t charge she was in a better position for his help. Again Ed took the chains. Again he started his soothing murmur. He secured the first chain easily. The second was a little tougher. Finally he was ready. As his slow steady pull commenced her contractions started again. Pull with the downward pressure. Rest. Pull again. Within three minutes it was over. Feet first, head between front legs, out slithered the long, dark, wet form. I dropped the rope and ran around the outside of the barn into the stall. On the way I had armed myself with towels to start the drying process and remove any left over membrane from his nostrils and throat. I was lucky. His head was clear, his ears flicking. A sense of relief overcame me as I vigorously began the rubdown. “No help needed, thank you,” said Alice, as she spun around emitting the soft maternal ‘moo’ reserved for the new born. She nudged me out of the way and I quietly left the stall.

         We peered through the half-open door and shared a smile. So far, so good. But we both knew our greatest challenge lay in the hours ahead.

         Ed turned on the space heater. “If you want to keep an eye on this, I’ll bring out the electric heaters. Pull the plug if the flames get too big.”

         “Will they be enough after we turn this off?”

         “It’s all we’ve got.”

         Alice continued to lick her calf and nudge him periodically to coax him to his feet. We would have liked to move him to an inside corner with deeper straw, but she would brook no interference. So again, all we could do was wait…and watch. He needed to stand. He needed to eat. The all-important colostrum was essential to his survival. We had twelve hours. So we watched and waited.

         Ed cleared a bale of hay and sat down. “What are you looking at?” I asked.

         “The wall.”

         I followed his eyes. Hanging in the spaces between the wooden 2x8’s was a varied assortment of used horseshoes. Then came the branding irons and two sets of hay hooks. The calf scale shared space with a couple of used cinches. A lariat and some short pieces of rope filled the remaining spikes. This was not the tack room…just those things you need from time to time.

         “You know what I think of when I see this stuff?”

         “What?”

         “ All these things represent our life. Every item on that wall speaks to me about something we have shared. The shoes remind me of horses we have owned. How many bales of hay have we moved with those sets of hooks? And the brands. We are the Rafter ‘D’.”

         The small crowded space was charged with emotion. I could feel tears filling behind my eyes. I had no words. Only sensations. We smelled the earthy scents. Horses, cattle. Sweet fresh hay. Two white cats and a black one rubbed against our legs. The stall felt warm and cozy. Minutes passed. We were content.

         “I think we can turn off the blower.”

         “Okay. Is this where you want the ceramic heater?”

         “Looks good.”

         “We’re making her nervous. Let’s leave them alone for a while.”

         It was one-fifteen in the morning.

         “I’m not sleepy. Why don’t you go to bed and I’ll write for a while. Then I can check at two o’clock.”

         “Wake me if things look bad. I sure hope we can keep from freezing those ears and tail.”

         Into the coveralls and back to the barn I went at two o’clock. I couldn’t tell if he’d been up. He had turned around, but was still in the same place. Alice had sprawled in front of him and the barn was still fairly warm.

         I headed for the house and the warmth of my down-comforter. It seemed like only a few minutes later when a sound disturbed my frenzied dreams. Ed was stirring. I looked at the digital. Four-thirty. “I’m gonna check.”

         Maybe he’d need help. “Me, too.”

         Our calf was up. He was a little shaky, but up. Alice knew her business. Her baby was almost dry. There was one more hurdle to cross. He was hungry. “Where’s the spigot, Mom? Not there. Maybe if I work my way back. Stand still, would ya? Hey quit kickin’. I’m your kid, remember? Aah, at last.”

         We turned on the spaceheater to blow warm air once again. At five-thirty I made tea. By six-thirty we felt our crisis had passed. We turned off the heater, secured the heave wooden doors and headed to the house for a hard-earned breakfast.

         We plant our crops and harvest. We build our fences and spray. We are part of the land. It is our life. We love it and would choose no other. Deep within that love is a special place; one that brings a shine to our eyes, words of rapture to our lips. In here lie thoughts and memories of the golden Gelbvieh cows and their beautiful babies. Here also will be found the patience and desire to care for them, to give them our all. As the years flow by I will always recall, with delight, the night of January 11, 1993. What a very special anniversary it was.