|The Rescue of Old Brindle. (standard:non fiction, 1586 words)|
|Author: Nathaniel MIller||Added: Oct 24 2019||Views/Reads: 189/105||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|A memoir of Grandmother of my Great Grandmother during the Depression 1930s Missouri and the rescue of the family cow, the only source of milk during a HARSH Midwest winter. Annexed by Permission M.P Sandau.|
The Rescue of Old Brindle Marjorie P. Sandau Annexed with permission by N.A Miller (Grandson) (First Place Winner of Historical Fiction Contest - Writing.com) 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 and morning found the unfortunate cow on a cornstalk reef in a sea of glassy ice. Port, in the shape of the barn, was at the 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. She buttoned a heavy denim jacket snuggly around her near two hundred pounds without bothering to remove the coverall apron she always wore over her housedress. 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 there 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 by them. It indeed was 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 tucked under the other arm. Cautiously Mom made her way back to the steep part where she set down the bucket of corn and reversed the climbing process to the bottom. With the axe, she began the slow work of cutting steps in the ice. An hour of this labor got her up the steep and again at the bucket of nubbins for which she now exchanged the axe. Planting the big overshoes firmly in each step of the new stairway, Mom was soon backing at Old Brindle. She held out an inviting yellow nubbin. Old Brindle rolled her eyes and stretched her neck. Even by sticking out her long gray tongue, she could not quite reach the tantalizing morsel. However, Mom's cajoling words and tantalizing motions with the tidbit were more than the hungry cow could resist. She took the first hesitating step and the next was easier. Keeping just out of reach, Mom trolled her to the steps and began the slow ascent. Patiently, she encouraged the shaky cow with endearments and promise of feed until the last step and the steep part of the hill were surmounted. The worst was over. Mom breathed a bit easier now. Then she spied the axe where she had left it after cutting the steps. Best to take it along; it might be needed again on a day like this. Both hands must be free for the trolling of Brindle, so she put it under her arm. Brindle was impatient for the promised breakfast and sensing an unguarded second, she made a lunge for the corn. Fearful of losing her bait, Mom jerked the bucket away. The sudden movement was a bad mistake. She realized it in the split second, but it was a great deal longer before the full results settled to a complete stop. The nubbins lay scattered nearest to the scene of the fatal jerk. The old bucket had finished its Click here to read the rest of this story (78 more lines)
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