Whether or not a person is able to stay warm has always accounted for the difference between life and death in the northern latitudes. Perhaps this is a tag line on last week’s post about cold things –

When winter weather is like it was across much of the country last week (and is in Montana, North Dakota, South Dakota and Minnesota every year, often for weeks at a time) providing shelter and feed to the livestock is primary.

We had a large barn that could hold up to 150 head for a couple of days if necessary. The hay would be spread on the floor and they would just be closed in – close enough that their massive bodies were quite the furnace-on-the-hoof, but with enough room that they could move around a bit throughout the days and nights they were there.

Walking through blizzard conditions between the house and the barn during those hours was COLD…and stepping into a 50 or 60 degree barn interior, warmed only by the cattle’s presence, was an essential experience of winter on the farm. Of course it stunk but the smell of those cattle and their manure spoke of success in providing lifegiving shelter

The warmth of  a bonfire at the open-to-the-winds-off-the-prairie frozen pond that was our country ice skating rink made the skating bearable and made the memories perfect. At about 8:00 on a  December or January evening we might pile in the car and head north a mile to where our grandfather had homesteaded  in 1908, to the tiny house to which our dad had brought his bride in 1926 and which still stood in the 1950s. A hundred yards east of the house there was a small reservoir of water, not more than 100 feet from side to side and no more than four feet deep, frozen solid and surrounded by skimpy wind-blown trees that would never amount to anything.

If the snow wasn’t too deep, the boys would drive their trucks close enough to the edge of the ice so the headlights would illuminate the surface of the pond. They would grab their snow shovels and quickly shovel a narrow path from the truck to the ice. Breaking off enough branches to make a stack about five feet high, they’d throw some gasoline on, followed by a lit match. Usually that was enough to get a good fire going. Only then would the girls be expected to exit the vehicles and start lacing on their skates.

An hour or so might be spent there, skating under the frozen star sky. No music – just laughter and talk and lots of activity aimed at keeping the flames jumping high. Finally the business of being too hot on one side toward the fire and too cold on the side away from the fire became unmanageable, the skates came off, overshoes back on and we all headed back home for fresh cocoa. Good times.

My brother tells the story of the birth of one of my older sisters that involved his walking to that same little house in the middle of a cold March night in 1935.

We three older children were awakened by Dad in the middle of the night and told to dress.  Then Dad told us to walk to Grandpa and Grandma’s house and he would come and get us in the morning. No reason, just go. I was 7 years old, sister was 5, and brother was 4.

It was a very cold night and there was considerable snow on the road. We finally got there and I pounded on the door of their house. Understand, this was before electricity on the farms, so there were no porch or yard lights. There was also no answer to my pounding, so I banged some more. Soon Grandpa called out saying, “Who’s out there?”  I said, “It’s us.”  Again, “Who is it?”  “Again, “It’s us.  We’re cold!” Then he opened the door a crack to take a look, saw us, and we were pulled inside immediately. Shirley’s face was frozen white.  Grandma Soren was excited about that, going out, getting snow and rubbing it on Shirley’s cheeks.

We went home the next morning and there was our new sister.

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The bedrooms on the second floor of our farm house were unheated.

Each of the at-least-two-dozen windows of the house had a heavy storm window which was installed each fall and removed each spring. We certainly had proper protection against winter storms and sub-zero temperatures, but if a blizzard with winds of 50 mph spent seven or eight hours looking for some access throughout the night, it eventually found it and in the morning there might be a sand-like trail of snow across the top of the pile of blankets under which we slept in our flannel pajamas between flannel sheets.

So why the unheated upstairs bedrooms? Tightwad Dad? Nope. Not enough money to buy enough coal to heat the upstairs all day and night? Nope. Just common sense.

The fire in the coal furnace was banked in the evening and the flow of heat shut down. The main floor would stay halfway comfortable overnight so that when the fire was stirred up in the morning it would be warm in thirty minutes or so just because it had been heated the day before.

It made absolutely no sense to spend the energy and coal to heat three upstairs bedrooms and the hallway all day just to have some residual heat at night – once we were dressed and down the stairs in winter, we didn’t go back up to our rooms all day anyway.

We didn’t feel bad about ‘no upstairs heat’ but when Mom was in her seventies we discovered that she was not happy with our reminiscences when she heard us laughing about “snow on the blankets.” She denied vociferously that such a thing ever happened but she wasn’t up there, of course. Her reaction did let us know that she probably wished the upstairs had been warmer in winter.

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I was exchanging notes with a friend last week in the wake of the bitterly cold temps when she tossed out an inquiry – exactly how did we manage before electricity and by extension – how did anyone manage back in the day? When I thought about the specifics, I realized it boiled down to some pretty simple and basic musts that were modeled and taught and insisted on from the time we were small children – so we grew up with these things as routine.

If you break it down to its essentials, we “survived” the same way anyone dealing with cold weather survives now:

Have adequate food on hand for family.

Have adequate resources for heat and water.

Do not get stranded in the elements.

Do not, ever, allow exposure of unprotected skin or get wet while outdoors.

If clothing becomes wet from perspiration (not unusual) while doing chores, change to dry clothing immediately.

Stay hydrated.

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Unfortunately, today’s easy mobility puts folks at risk who are completely unaware of the risk. Assumptions about provisions of food and heat, and easy access to help, create vulnerabilities that are hard to overcome. In my father’s courtship letters (1915-1926) I see frequent references to the winter roads:

On January 3, 1926 – Next Sunday I’m going to see you in person unless the roads happen to block.

On January 17, 1926 -You may be sure I’ll be there on Saturday if the roads are open which I hope.

On January 31, 1926 – We got considerable snow here, but all the roads are broken again. I know for sure that I can make Coalridge if the weather stays decent, and then I can walk the rest of the way if necessary.

And so it goes – in letter after letter through the winter as they anticipated their spring wedding.

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The past is important is because of what it put into us, because of what it drew out of us and because of what it may protect us from in the present and the future.

MBOBs are not just nostalgia. What can we do with what we know?  Notice how many times our regular commenters are referencing things they know, things they learned in another place and in another time, in a place that no longer exists.

~A personal word about the present~

Most of you have probably read the post from this past Friday in which I shared a bit of the journey my husband and I are on as we walk out the reality of liver cancer. http://theconservativetreehouse.com/2014/01/10/hospice-came-today/

I wanted to tell you that I plan to continue writing MBOBs going forward.  We know that self-imposed burdens can break caregivers, short term or long term. I understand that,  so am  choosing which burdens to lay down, which old tasks to keep, and which new ones I need to pick up for a time.

I will continue writing here at least once a week. It’s something I enjoy doing and will provide a satisfying variable in my days. You may also notice variables in quality or content. For instance, long time readers of MBOB may recognize that some of the paragraphs in this post are lifted from ealier posts – I got a late start on the post!  Can ya deal with it? 😉

I’m among friends here so will simply continue to do my best. When my best is a lesser best I will assume that the sun will still rise the next morning. Other admins are also ready to pinch hit for me at a moment’s notice and I love them for it. 🙂

I shared my blog email in Friday’s post and share it here again if any of you want to be in touch for any reason.   [email protected]

Speaking of the blog (mailboxesandoldbarns.com) ~ after I started focusing on finishing the book last year there wasn’t much new added to it. The new pattern is this: I write things for our Sunday visits here and they are republished at the blog later. There are many other subjects and categories there and you’re invited to visit and snoop around if you want, but in terms of your interest in MBOB – it’s nearly all published here first.

Thank you for your notes in the hospice thread this week. This community is warm and living and meaningful. I’m so glad to be included in it.

And now….a couple of gratuitous kitteh pics…..

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