by Nathaniel Miller

Created on: July 28, 2009

Old Brindle, lone provider of the family milk supply, should have been in the barn that night for a light snow had already

covered the ground. However, it had been a drought year and feed was scarce, so Mom left her out to graze in a field of

cornstalks at the bottom of a long hill. The straggly stalks were practical, if less than palatable, feed and the cow nibbled

happily upon them finding nourishment. That night, as Brindle grazed in the fields, a slow freezing rain began during the night

and when morning found the unfortunate cow on a cornstalk reef in a sea of glassy ice. Port, in the shape of the barn, was at t

he top of the hill.

It was Saturday. Mom enjoyed the leisurely breakfast with us children before briefing us on our duties to be accomplished

by the time she returned and buttoned a heavy denim jacket snuggly around her near two hundred pounds without bothering

to remove the coverall apron she always wore over her house dress. A scarf tied over her head, big cotton work gloves, and

overshoes prepared her for her chilly outside work. Mom loved the outdoors in any weather and she was the tough mid-

western farm type who asked for help from no one, doing the house chores only when here was no one else to do them.

We thought little of her staying out for hours.

Milk bucket in hand, Mom inched her way up, over, and down the hill. Ice storms may delight a photographer, but this frosty

beauty is lost on the farmer whose problems are multiplied many fold by them. It was, indeed, lost on Mom as she slipped

and slid down the hill toward the cow. Her gloves clung to the ice coated wire as she opened the gate and at this time,

Brindle usually came to meet her. Using the leaning corn-stalks as stepping stones Mom made her way out into the field

calling,

Here, Brindle, Soo-oo-ook, Bossy. As she went Hoarfrost covered, Brindle's shaggy winter coat and it gave her a parka-

clad appearance. Her big brown eyes appealed for Mom to do something, but she did not budge form the spot.

About an eighth of a mile of barbed-wire fence led up the hill from the gate straight to the barn. Mom put her milk pail over

her arm so she could work her way hand over hand along the fence. This helped her conquer the first steeper third of the hill.

The rest was easier as she needed only to be careful. At the barn, she exchanged the old milk pail for an old battered one

that she filled with nubbin ears of corn, a tasty treat reserved for Brindle at milking time. A hand axe was thoughtfully

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