Winter with Kids on the Farm

“I love cold weather. I love cold weather. I love cold weather,” I repeat to myself while skating across a frozen barn lot with two buckets of feed. 

 

And I do love the cold. The way it makes apparent the simple acting of exhaling so curious that kids ask questions. Or the way we have to bed down huts in the middle of the pasture to provide some protection for new calves. Or the way it covers the land, gates, and bins with frost and makes everything glow in the moonlight. I do love cold weather.

 

But cold weather on a farm with two children may not warrant the “L” word. 

 

My husband travels often for work and January through April is his busiest time to hop on a plane and travel to North America’s ranches. We get through it with a lot of Snapchats of newborn calves “Look who arrived early!!!”, thorough feed instructions, and patient children not afraid of Vaseline.

Bedtime Skincare Routine

With temperatures in the twenties and dropping this week, bundling the kids up to go feed is a chore in itself. We start with a thick and even layer of Vaseline to the cheeks. I get down on two knees in front of them and paint their faces like we’re going into war. And in some ways, we are. 

Chore War Paint

 

“You are strong. We can do this. We’ll be back in the house in an hour,” I tell them over and over, mostly for my own motivation. 

 

Then we layer. 

 

Hooded sweatshirts for the base layer, coveralls so stiff they can barely walk in them, wild rags (silk scarves) to protect their necks and make them feel like real cowboys, Carhartt coats with pockets where they can hide snow, feathers and rocks, toboggans that fall over their eyes, and gloves that will be removed two minutes after stepping outside. By the time I get them both dressed and out the door we’re all three sweating and ready for the chill.

Because they’re 2 and 4 and in the thick of the independence stage (when does this end? And don’t tell me 18), neither allow me to help them through the snow or across the solid sheet of ice that is our barn lot. I walk to the barn and have 10 buckets of feed filled by the time they make it across the lot. 

 

We’ve been outside for seven minutes and Cyrus’ hands are already cold because he has removed his gloves to put tiny snowballs in his pockets and Caroline is licking snow and ice off the side of our farm truck. I warn about germs, but no one takes me seriously because I’m holding a pitchfork with 10 lbs. of afterbirth on it. 

 

We move on and feed the main lot of cows with new calves, then the feeder steers we feed out for freezer beef, then two separate pens of weaned heifers, then the cows who are in a lot close to the barn because I pen them up nightly so they don’t calve out in the pasture. Then we go out and check all the calf huts, counting calves and fluffing straw so the calves are more inclined to sleep there, safe and warm, rather than the middle of a dark pasture where predators and wind may get them.

 

Questions are plenty, and I answer the best I can. Right about the time I was trying to formulate an answer to, “Do you think coyotes come in the middle of the night because they want to drink the mommy cow’s milk when she’s sleeping?” Cyrus began whimpering that his hands were cold. When this banter begins, I know I have approximately four minutes until a high-speed-come-apart takes place. So, I hustle to wrap things up, bed down the barn, feed the barn cats (don’t ask), drain the hoses, throw down hay, and close all the gates for the night. 

 

By this time there are warm tears coming from both sets of eyes, gloves are lost, hands are red, and a change of heart has taken place: both kids are now desperate to be carried to the house. I convince Caroline to walk and hold my hand while I carry Cyrus across the ice and up the hill to the house. She’s having a hard time holding my hand because she is using her wild rag as a Kleenex. Cyrus is so over the chore experience that he’s thrown himself onto the hardened snow, facedown, screaming. I swoop him up as quickly as possible so no one driving by questions my parenting, grab Caroline’s hand and we briskly walk to the house. 

 

I get everyone unbundled, hats and gloves on the register so the snow melts off, frigid hands washed in luke-warm water and tears and Vaseline wiped off cold red cheeks. It was in this moment of thinking, “We got another evening’s work done and we all survived,” that I hear from the living room:

 

“Mommy. Can we have popsicles for being so good?”

 

“Yes, Mommy!” Cyrus chimed in, hanging on my leg with thawing red hands. “I want blue.”

 

 I didn't realize one could recover from hypothermia so quickly. 

Winter On The Farm

Winter on the farm. 

Not a season for the faint of heart, soul or mind.
It's a rare breed, those who can wake up to -30º windchill and still look forward to the opportunity that the day presents before them. Somewhat. 

Winter on the farm. 

It is wondering how in the heck cows can walk across broken, frozen lots in hooves when Mucks boots are barely saving your ankles. "That broad gives a whole new meaning to sound footed," you think to yourself, tip-toeing as though your life depended on the next step. Which, it might. 

Winter on the farm. 

It is defined by the shrieks of pure Christmas morning joy when the youngest opens a new pair of Carhartts or a conditioned show halter. Nothing pink, chargeable or begins with "i". Rather something to be grown into, both in size and spirit. 

Winter on the farm. 

It is staying up late to figure rations on your bred heifers' feed plan, meticulously planned so they don't over gain.... then not thinking twice about the frozen pizza

- Or two frozen pizzas -

that your family just devoured. 

Winter on the farm. 

It's trying to follow tracks in the snow then feeling small when your legs don't quite make length. Winter on the farm is the first place you learn this lesson: Staying on the path is important; each time you stray it shows. 

Winter on the farm. 

It's being certain you'll know no other pain than when snow gets packed between your glove and your coat, convinced the ice will erode your veins. 

Winter on the farm. 

It's all about blame. 

It's about trying to remember who was supposed to drain the hose. 

Because, obviously, no one did. 
And this has ruined your morning routine. 

Winter on the farm. 

It's electric blankets, extra insulation, stacked straw, constant weather watching and chili. It's spending three hours moving snow just so you can get down your long lane in order to go shovel the neighbor's drive. Winter on the farm is losing your head because your husband bought a heated water bowl for the stray cats in the barn. It's slamming the door in his smiling face once you hear his claim that it was 75% off.

Winter on the farm. 

It's bedding expectant mothers nightly. It's pitching frozen manure and spreading dusty straw and- through your sneezes - wondering about the last time you changed the sheets on your own bed?

Winter on the farm. 

It's sitting in the warmth of your own bathroom and trying to teach a newborn calf - half frozen - how to suck. It's exhausting your patience and heart while breaking your back as you force feed a baby who was born early in arctic temperatures. Winter on the farm is talking to God: "I know I ask for a lot, but please, please God place your arms around his baby and warm her up. God, let her live. God, please, save this calf." Winter on the farm is wondering how parents with sick children get through it. Winter on the farm is falling asleep against a washing machine holding a 70 lb. "baby".

Winter on the farm.

Winter is trading fashion for function. It's strategically layering cotton under wool under waterproof. It's being so bundled up that - unless you're going to be in the house for more than two hours - you don't unbundle until you're done for the day. Winter is replacing your image with warmth. 

Winter is also following the BYOHH rule: 

Bring Your Own Hot hands

Winter on the farm. 

It's rolling over to realize you'r husband is gone. 

And for a second you're concerned - but then you wake enough to remember.

Proudly.

You know he's gone to check on things in the barn, too tired to sleep. 

Winter on the farm.
Hay is like gold and it's treated that way. Stockpiled, rationed and  sought after. 

Winter on the farm. 

It's not being mad that the winter weather alert blasting through your stereo speakers interrupted your favorite song as you blow out heifers. 

Winter on the farm is spending extra time in the barn at night because you  know you won't have school tomorrow. Winter is that confident excitement. 

Winter on the farm. 

It's waking to the dark and breakfasting in the dark. 

It's working in the dark.

It's feeding in the dark then sleeping in the dark. 

Winter on the farm is dark. 

But winter on the farm brings great light. 
Fresh snow. 
Young life.
New year. 
Soft beginnings. 
Another notch on the belt if you don't play your cards right. 

Winter on the farm. 

Not a season for the faint of heart, soul or mind.
Rather, one worth bundling and blowing through in order to get to something different. 
Something warmer. 
Something...

Something like spring mud. 

Have you read about the life of 

The Stockman's Wife?

Most Hated Person In America

I've never understood why people complain about the weather. 
Or relationships that they know they should have ended six months ago.
Or delayed flights. 
But mostly, the weather. 
What good does that do?
You do know that your downer, dopey, dumpy words to the public won't change things, right?
They don't warm winds or bring the sun...you know that, right?

Don't get me wrong, it's been a long, cold winter. 
Cold, cold winter. 
I mean, we have cats sleeping on tractor radiators and it doesn't even bother me. Now, the day I have to scrape one out of my engine because it was wrapped up around a serpentine belt, we might have issues. 

Let me say, Old Man Winter is like the most hated person in America right now. 
Not Richard Sherman.
Not Dennis Rodman.
Not even Obama. 
Old. Man. Winter. 

This...is not Old Man Winter.

Rather my Canadian cattle friend Scot who embraces negative zero temperatures with a smile. 

Truth be told, his face may be froze that way? 

I saw him in Denver and he was smiling just as big there.

Winters were created so the old dies off and new life can emerge with beauty and brightness in the Spring.
And it was designed to last as long as the other three seasons. 
We all need our time to prove our value, even Old Man Winter. 

When did it become so acceptable and normal to complain about the things we cannot change, like the weather? None of your words are going to change the situation, so why burden everyone else with a healthy dose of Negative Nancy?
Fact: I despise Negative Nancy and all that she encompasses. 
And her ex-step-brother Negative Nick, while we're naming names. They do nothing but promote a sense of helplessness. 
Neediness. 
Softness. 
Let's face it, generally speaking, folks have become soft. 
Especially in cold weather. 

Embarrassingly, increasingly soft people, living in a world of convenience. 

Think about generations before us. Do you think they got anywhere by waking everyday to complain endlessly about the freezing temperatures and wind?
No. 
They put on their big kid Dickies (same ones they wore yesterday) and threw another log on the fire. Then they went and cranked their tractors and hand-milked cows with their bleeding, chapped hands. The only thing they complained about was the fly in their non-pasturized milk. And even then they just mentioned it was missing a wing that they couldn't find. Probably swallowed it. They went on to school and work in snow and drifts because they found a way to get to the place in which they had an obligation.
They didn't sit at home and wait for a delay or closing. 
They got things done. 

My Grandpa Bowman worked at the Perfect Circle factory, the birthplace of  piston rings. My father recalls at least twice when Grandpa's Hudson Hornet couldn't make it out of the driveway, let alone seven (7!) miles to town where he worked. 
So, he walked. 
He walked 7 miles in snow that his car couldn't survive, to a job that fed a wife and 12 kids at home. 
No questions. 
No snow days. 
No excuses. 
Walked seven miles in the snow. 

What happened to the part of Americans that appreciated something that made us work a bit? 

I have this deep appreciation for winter because it makes us struggle a bit and then starts everything new again. Maybe I feel a strange sense of forgiveness and subtle do-overs. It seems everyone appreciates Spring because it is visually appealing and comfortable, but haven't we gotten too comfortable in how we live and view our responsibility in life? We've learned to take the pretty way, not the right one. There is still peace in breaking water for livestock that need it, shoveling (not blowing!) snow for neighbors who can't manage to do so themselves and managing money to pay for propane that is hard to find and afford. 

Where we need to be is not always the most comfortable place. 
It isn't the warm, sunny, 72º location - physically or mentally. 
Sometimes, where we need to be is where we are most uncomfortable. 
The place that challenges us and allows us to grow. 

Maybe this bitter winter - that has affected most of the US - is a way for each of us to reevaluate. To make us struggle a bit, and knock us out of our comfort zone, to appreciate the great things that we love and take for granted. 

Or maybe this bitterly cold Winter is where we realize that there is no better time than now. Quit hibernating and begin understanding where you belong. No longer try to find comfort, but go out of bounds figure out where you're going to thrive. 
Do something different. 
Try something new. 
Quit complaining about things that can't change, and change things that can. 

And lay off Old Man Winter, would ya?
He's just doing his job. 
After all - thanks to him, Spring is just around the corner. 

Twelve Degrees of Separation

The pilot came over the loud speaker and told us we'd be landing approximately 5 minutes ahead of schedule. "Current temperature in Indianapolis: twelve degrees."

I slept during 80% of my flight home from Denver. I was fading in and out of consciousness when the pilot made that announcement, but the man's reaction beside me woke me up quickly. I wiped the drool from my chin.

"I don't know how you people do it," he looked at me, then back out the window.
"What's that?" I asked, trying to pull myself together after my tiger snooze over four fly-over states.
"Live here. Twelve degrees. Twelve degrees? How do you survive?"

How do we survive twelve degree temperatures? Pretty easily, I thought to myself.
We wear coats, heavy ones.
We keep blankets in our cars and ice melt just inside our business entrances.
We let our pets inside and we check our stock.

Especially the babies. 

We start our cars at least ten minutes before we drive anywhere.
We eat meals that "stick to our ribs" like beef stew and corn bread.
We plug in our tractors, buses and trucks over night.
We drink extra coffee.
We wear socks.
We survive.

The man continued. "I'm from San Diego and if it hits fifty-five, I don't go outside."

Really?!

I realized twelve degrees certainly separated my row mate and I. If he lived in Indiana with the "fifty-five degree rule", he would miss October through April. He wouldn't see a high school football game or go sledding. No snowmen would live and no snow angles would fly. Sad existence.

I looked over at the man as he wrung his hands over and over while looking out the window. He was sincerely nervous about the climate outside. I was looking forward to the piercing cold air after a stuffy plane ride.
I couldn't imagine what was going through his head.
But then again, I didn't have to try to.
I had watched it last week on Kimmel:

The Misfits II

If you tuned in last week you'll remember that I have an entire box of inherited misfit ornaments that I can't stand to look at but I can't throw away.  I dug through these little gems last night and again tilted my head to the side, squinted my eyes and simply asked, "Why???" 


Rather than ask the questions, I'll let let the ornaments do the talking...

I was supposed to be a rocking horse. But my head began to take this weird shape and the guy making me just decided to turn me into a full fledge rocking elephant. 

Really?

Have you ever seen an elephant that rocked? I mean, besides George W.....

I got the short end of the stick on this deal, having made a lonely home on the back side of the tree with the other clowns. The kids don't like me because I scare them and the parents don't like me because I have crossed-out eyes like I'm an irresponsible drunk clown. 

I'm a beautiful wax ornament made in 1939. Back when the Christmas lights were not safe and were also called "candles". If you think my front is fancy, you should see my melted backside. Because then you'd realize I'm not fancy at all. More of a fire hazard than a decoration, really. My risk is quite comparable to any of the ACDC night lights you've won on a county fair midway. 

Nothing says Christmas like a tiny leaning baby angel praying in a tiny hollow chicken's egg with a tiny beaded Christmas tree in the background. 

I've been considered a cross between Cindy Lou-Who and Kelli Pickler 

 

but I actually hate blondes. That is why I've refused to open my eyes to acknowledge anyone since Dec. 26, 1969. 

Try to pry those eyes open - I dare ya. 

My name is SHTMTOTH - AIIAAEWDIHAUH.

Someone Had Too Much Time On Their Hands -

Also, If I Am An Elephant Why Do I Have A Unicorn Horn? 

I hope all of Jean's Boots readers are having a fantastic week-before-Christmas. At approximately 5:45 last night I had the "No wonder I got my shopping done so early this year - - I forgot 6 people" freak out moment. I looked through my garage and basement and those special six will be getting something....one-of-a-kind?

Alta Cedar: An Alberta Adventure

Have you ever left a vacation destination and instantly thought, “Wow, I can’t wait to again visit the snow-covered, unplowed range roads while chowing down on donuts with iced-tops that have more thumb prints in them (from a crazy, blue-eyed 3-year-old) than a finger painting project at the local preschool."??

No? 

Well I have.  

Guilty As Charged. 

I spent the last few days in snowy Westerose, Alberta, Canada. And while it wouldn’t be most folks’ spring break destination, I loved every minute of the trip. I wish I could complain about the never-ending snow, or the jet lag, or the trouble in Customs (No, I’m not smuggling any tobacco. Yes, I have been on a farm in the last month. No, I don’t plan on bringing back any Canadian whiskey. I don’t believe my liver could handle any more at this point, Sir).

The truth is, I had a wonderful time at Alta Cedar and I can’t wait to go back. Not only is the hospitality worth writing home about, the people that I meet on each trip to the ranch make the whole plane ticket expense worth while. 

But the cattle - they are the reason I know, and deeply respect, the Boake family. They may be a young crew, but their Shorthorn roots run deep. And while the young-blood is running active, the cornerstone of the operation, William, still supports a dream that started in 1953. Over the last two years, I’ve gained a certain appreciation for the Alta Cedar crew and the way they operate. In the hours before their sale, they take time to laugh, to appreciate their help and to hug their kids.  Come sale time, the bulls speak for themselves. And in 2011, they certainly did just that. From top to bottom, the 2011 Showcase offering was the strongest set of bulls I’ve seen. There was no definite bottom, there was no definite high-seller; they each brought extreme quality to the table, and will play fundamental roles in every operation they ship to. I can’t wait to watch the Alta Cedar bulls perform all over North America. 

Enough about the cattle. I’m not a salesman. I’m a socialite. And I love taking pictures when passion, emotion and dedication are involved. 

Welcome, to Alta Cedar.....

 Debate. 

Snow continues to cover the cows' backs...even into "Spring"

Proof.

Bringing the stock up for the main event. 

Well-Respected auctioneer Dale Stith - from warm Alabama - endures the elements.

Jarrett Davis, of Arda Angus, plays a key role in the preparation of the cattle.

 Mr. William and Edith Boake - the founders of Alta Cedar, 1953.

Christine Boake and Luke Bowman compete against one another in a phone bid-off.

The moment.

Phil and Luke Bowman decide on the next investment for Bowman Superior Genetics.

Auctioneer Dale Stith asked for "three" (thousand) - Samantha, the youngest Boake, had a bid that went unnoticed from the stairs. 

There comes a certain peace in knowing that the future of the industry is in good hands. When I captured this photograph, I knew that the family operation has many successful years ahead of them...

This is where the future, six-year-old Graeson William, and the founders (his great-grandparents), William and Edith, find a common ground: 

the success of Alta Cedar Shorthorns. 

All photographs property of Lindsay J. Bowman.