Drawing on my fine command of language I said nothing.
Robert Charles Benchley
The tractor engine is roaring and I sit on the hard cold air seat as my toes dangle just above the ground while waiting for the seat to warm up and hopefully slip down a notch so that my toes will touch the floor. The cool air from the fan overhead blows on my face, a chill goes down my spine, I shiver.
It is 7:30 on a frigid morning, I grab the pen that lies in the holder where I normally in the summer have a big jug of cool water, and I grab the notepad that I usually record what cows have calved, when and if there were any problems. I put pen to paper trying to slow down the spinning that has been going around all around me lately, spinning out of my control. The words that clamour around in my head demanding I listen. The pen skips a few letters as it tries to slide across the paper trying to capture those words that float about before they escape, I wonder if the ink is frozen after having sat out here for days in this cold frigid arctic air.
If the ground was blanketed with a white snow I would be distracted by its beauty and I could go snowshoeing, I would not be searching for something to do as I wait for the tractor to warm up to go feed the girls. Usually I would be walking around the barn yard taking photos, beautiful white fluffy photos of things covered with this veil of white but still trying to peek out to see what they are missing.
The fields are barren with shades of grey and brown but with the odd patch of dirty snow. My Hero had walked out to the barnyard very early this morning and plugged the block heater in on the tractor before he headed off down the road to his job in the city. The warm air should be blowing down on my face from the vents above very soon. The pen glides effortlessly across that pad of paper no longer frozen. I stare out the window looking at the barn. I stare and think.
The radio overhead suddenly stops pumping out the soothing music that calms my worry and a weatherman in a stern voice warns of impending storms bringing snow all around us but reassuring us that it will not reach here.
I place the paper and pen back in the holder where my cool jug of water usually sits all haying season and I push the clutch down. I turn to watch behind me as I back up with the now hot air blowing on my face coming from the vents overhead. I stop the tractor put into forward gear and head down the lane to go feed the girls that will be waiting for me.
This world of mine may be spinning, spinning and spinning but some things in this crazy world always remain the same and I take great comfort in that. I turn the heat down and remove my toque. Hello girls!