This is an original essay by Lillian Crook, Dickinson State College English seminar writing course required submission for Senior Level Course credit (1981).

This had been a bad year, lots of snow and ice and that terrible cold wind. More new calves than ever had died, and if he had to watch one more not pull through, Maggie knew she would cry. She could see in his face the wear, the nearness or breaking. He was getting old and that terrible cold wind. He was getting old and this farm was beginning to be just more than they could handle with the strength of purpose they used to have.

Yesterday, in the cold twilight, Jacob and she had driven the hills checking for newborns — that persistent, every two-hour chore in March — and they had found a cow stiff-dead with her leg jutting toward the snowflakes and the too-big calf half out of her. Just too much for this first time mother. Maggie had watched Jacob’s face carefully, scared of the pain and frustration she knew she would see. He was a close-mouthed, high-strung man — sometimes she would hide all of the guns. Just too much pressure.

He had slammed his hands on the pickup steering wheel and swore. “That’s it. Forget about the profit on those damn cattle this year.” She knew it was more than profit to him, but, if just for a moment he would succumb to his grief and weakness, that would be it. No turning back. No talking about it. Stoney silence to deal with emotions. She flinched from the tension, tried to quietly start a conversation, and gave up.

They had pulled many calves together; she had reached into cows to find those slippery hooves so often there was no more hesitation. During the night they would take turns getting up, going out to check on the laboring beasts. They were so far from a vet; problems had to be handled on their own. From the start, they had shared most tasks because it was just too much for one to handle and they enjoyed the quiet togetherness. The only thing she ever wished to get out of was summer fallowing. She hated that miserable, dirty job.

Tonight, while standing at the sink, she had looked out the window and watched him drive off on the tractor to feed the cattle before darkness. Darkness arrived so early on winter days. Hard to adjust the body to it; fights all winter that lack of light. She knew it was bitter cold on that open tractor, no protection from the driving Dakota wind and snow. She hated to look at his face when he would come in, days like these. The pain was too much, day after day.

She could imagine him, in that snow, as he disappeared over the rise and wound his way through the hills to find the cows in their sheltered places.

She began to worry when he didn’t return, although she told herself that much time hadn’t passed. Give him another hour — three is the most it has taken him. After two, she began to imagine him — finding a calf and cow in an open field. The cow in her pained confusion had failed to choose a shelter and had dropped the calf in the snow. Jacob has taken the ice cream bucket with vaccine and needles and ear tags from the box on the tractor and walked to them. The calf, still covered with sticky afterbirth, is wet and cold. Just a shot won’t do it and he sees that the cow is not going to lick her newborn; he must suck the afterbirth from the throat and nose and spit it out. But it is just too damn cold and he decides to carry the calf back to the place, to the barn and a bottle. He has done it before, she knows, saved a calf that later will get scours and die in a mess of excrement.

All the fears she has, all the calamities flood into her mind and she sees his boot sticking from a snowbank in the next mornings’ bright sunlight.

She jumps for her coat and her hands tremble buckling her overshoes. Laughing weakly at herself, she glances at the clock and closes the door. The blinding snow whirls about her as she trudges a few yards, then she senses him, looks up, and he is there. Asking her what the devil she is doing out in this damn storm — no calf in his arms. For a moment, she stares at him dumbly and then he hustles her into the entry. Maggie quietly takes off her outdoor things and moves into the kitchen to prepare him a meal and a hot cup of tea, while Jacob sits by the fire and broods.

Slope County, ND Silbernagel/Crook farm kitchen, 1981.