The "winter that will not die" are the words on everyone's lips. Places unaccustomed and ill-prepared for heavy snowfall and subzero temperatures continued to be blasted, although we are into March, the month of daffodils and balmy breezes. I admit it, those of us up in the north sometimes give a little chuckle when our southern friends cry at having to wear a sweater, but this year, even we are crying "uncle." Enough is enough. Away with the snowsuits and Baffin boots. We want spring. We want green.
The forecast is for temperatures to soar above freezing next week, but we need to keep our scarfs and long-handle underwear handy. It's not over yet, nor will it be for some time yet.
“Winter is not a season, it's an occupation.” ― Sinclair Lewis
Despite the wickedly low temperatures, work must go on. There are cows to be fed every day, though the tractors and men groan and whine. Did you know that steel is weakened by the cold? So, it's a time for breakdowns and breakage of even non-mechanized machinery like feed wagons and balebusters, right when they are desperately needed to be up and running every day.
It wasn't so long ago that all work was done "by hand." With teams and wagons. Going out on horseback to check for newborn calves. To find lost cattle.
This poem is a tribute to those men and women who
have braved the winter to do their jobs, then and now.
STARTIN' OUT
When you have to start out on a cold winter day
The wind blowin' cold and the sky is dull gray.
You blow on the bit till you take out the frost,
Then you put on the bridle and saddle yore hoss.
He squats and he shivers. He blows through his nose.
The blanket is stiff for the sweat is shore froze.
Then you pick up yore saddle and swing it up high,
Till the stirrups and cinches and latigoes fly.
The pony he flinches and draws down his rump.
There's a chance he might kick, and he's likely to jump.
He rolls his eye at you and shivers like jelly
When you pull that old frozen cinch up on his belly.
It is cold on his back and yore freezin' yore feet,
And you'll likely find out when you light on yore seat,
That you ain't got no tropical place fer to set.
It is likey the saddle aint none overhet.
But a cow boy don't pay no attention to weather.
He gits out of his bed and gits into the leather.
In the winter it's mighty onpleasant to ride,
But that's just the time when he's needed outside.
...by Bruce Kisaddon (1878 - 1950)
When you have to start out on a cold winter day
The wind blowin' cold and the sky is dull gray.
You blow on the bit till you take out the frost,
Then you put on the bridle and saddle yore hoss.
He squats and he shivers. He blows through his nose.
The blanket is stiff for the sweat is shore froze.
Then you pick up yore saddle and swing it up high,
Till the stirrups and cinches and latigoes fly.
The pony he flinches and draws down his rump.
There's a chance he might kick, and he's likely to jump.
He rolls his eye at you and shivers like jelly
When you pull that old frozen cinch up on his belly.
It is cold on his back and yore freezin' yore feet,
And you'll likely find out when you light on yore seat,
That you ain't got no tropical place fer to set.
It is likey the saddle aint none overhet.
But a cow boy don't pay no attention to weather.
He gits out of his bed and gits into the leather.
In the winter it's mighty onpleasant to ride,
But that's just the time when he's needed outside.
...by Bruce Kisaddon (1878 - 1950)
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| Moving Cattle in February |
I know I labour on about winter, but it is a part of our lives. To be dealt with, faced up to, endured, and survived. Much like life itself. There are unpleasant bits that cannot be avoided, not if we are to grow and truly be alive.
“If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome." [Meditations Divine and Moral]”
― Anne Bradstreet, The Works of Anne Bradstreet
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