By Wednesday it had stopped snowing, and the snow plows had cleared the roads. We had school like we usually did, and it went well, but afterwards I felt as if the walls of my little trailer were closing in on me. I called Betty to let her know I was coming over, and that I would be walking. She sounded concerned, but I assured her the weather was fine and I couldn’t get lost between my house and hers. I geared up in my carhartt work pants and coat, and my snow boots, and set out down the road. Traffic had been nonexistent since the storm, and I walked down the center of the road at my leisure, drinking in field after field of soft white. It was difficult to tell where the field ended and the sky began because they were the same hue of white throughout.

I had nearly reached the cattle gate that marked the halfway point when Ben arrived on one of the four wheelers. “Mom sent me out here to pick you up.” He helped me on, laughing at my difficulty moving in the stiff Carhartts. “We need you to help us separate some of the cows.” Now it was my turn to laugh. I knew he was joking. I didn’t know the first thing about separating cattle, and what I really wanted was to get out of the cold and spend some time in Betty’s warm kitchen catching up on all the news I’d missed over the last couple of days.

We pulled into the yard and I was all ready to jump off at the door, but we drove right on past. I turned to look at Ben. “You weren’t kidding, were you?” “About what?” he responded, heading toward the bridge. “You’re really putting me to work?” “Yup,” he replied. We stopped at the end of the bridge and he motioned for me to dismount. “Just stand here,” he handed me a big stick, “and hit any of the cows that try to go past you.” With that he zoomed off into the field, leaving me standing with a stick in the middle of a bridge wondering what they heck I was going to do if a cow really came at me.

Here’s something most people don’t know about cows; they’re vicious. The week before the storm, Scott and I had taken the four wheelers out to do a little tagging. When we found a cow with an unmarked calf we pulled out an identically colored ear tag, wrote the corresponding number on it, loaded it onto the ear tagger, and tagged the calf. The tricky part was actually catching the calf. Scott rode ahead of me with a calf hook, leaning out on his four wheeler so he could snag the hind foot of the calf. Bawling in protest, the calf would then be hauled over close enough for Scott to tag it and give it a vaccine. Usually it worked like clockwork, and a tagging would take two minutes, tops. But then there were the mothers. A cow, if she was a good mother, couldn’t stand to hear her baby bawl. On this particular day we ran into the most protective mother in the pasture. Scott knew she was a mean one and had come prepared. When he caught the calf, he made sure to keep the four wheeler between him and the cow, and told me to keep my distance. Feeling useless, I sat back on my machine and watched as the cow came rushing at Scott, disregarding the four wheeler completely. She came right up on top of the machine, hooves resting on the cushioned seat, hollering her protest at the treatment of her son. Scott was forced to use the calf hook on her, beating her nose until she backed down, simultaneously tagging the wriggling calf and injecting it with vaccine. Having nothing else to do, I took pictures. It seemed like a rather morbid thing to do, knowing that the cow could easily have torn Scott to shreds, but I was obeying orders. It turned out alright in the end, except for the calf hook. When we got back to the house he realized the hook was missing. “That’s the second one I’ve broken this week!” he yelled in exasperation. I knew he wouldn’t hear the end of that for a long time.

So, now I found myself, cow-beating stick in hand, ready for the next vicious monster to challenge a human authority. I had to admit, I wasn’t nearly as daunting as Scott’s six foot frame and I was sure a cow wouldn’t hesitate for a second if it had a chance to run me over. I could see the first pair coming now and gripped my stick nervously. They didn’t look too mean, but I couldn’t be sure. They were coming down the hill at a pretty good pace and were headed straight for me. Come on, turn into the field, turn into the field. No, no, you’re coming too fast, turn into the field “Turn into the field!” I yelled as the cow, now mere yards away, had her eyes set on the pasture beyond the bridge. I raised my stick, ready to strike, when she casually turned to my right and loped through the gate into the field, as if it had been her plan all along. And so it continued. Every pair looked as if they would run me right over and then remembered suddenly that their destination was not some distant field, but the one right next door. I ended up spending most of my time talking to them, using my stick as a leaning post. “Why, hello, pair number twenty-nine. Welcome to the field, where those who have gone before are now enjoying a nice pile of hay. What’s that? Tired of men yelling at you to move? Well, if you just keep on trotting to my right here, you won’t have to worry about a thing. Yup, just keep on going. There you are, right through the gate, good job.” And so on. After a couple of hours I had run out of things to say and just sat in the middle of the bridge, hoping the work would be done soon so I could go thaw out my toes. My snow boots were old, probably half as old as me, and whatever insulating power they once had was gone. I needed to get a pair of nice muck boots, like the ones the boys owned, but they ran upwards of $150, and it would take a couple of months for me to save that money up.

This is for my girls who are indignant that I have not yet posted a continuation of my story. This picks up right where my first post ended...the part where I locked myself out of the house. It's short, but a nice little teaser. Ladies, if you really do want to read more, I need your email addresses. There's some sensitive information in this stuff...

And now, another installment from "Fields of Christmas".

I was too tired to cry. I tried the door handle again, just to be sure. Yup, I wasn’t getting back in that way. I checked my watch. 3 am. Ugh. I walked around the house, trying windows and keeping my eyes open for bugs and various creepy crawlies that tend to come out at night. About the third window, I lucked out. The window was broken and the screen had not yet been replaced. Now for the next challenge. The window sat right above my head, and there was no way I could leap from a standing position into the house. Looking around, my eyes fell on the rat-containing garbage can. If I turn it over and stand on it…yes, that would work. Headlights were coming down the road that ran in front of the trailer, but I was too tired to care. Mounting the overturned can, I shoved my upper body through the window and on to the floor, legs flailing wildly. Whoever was driving by at this early hour had quite an unexpected show as my legs jerkily disappeared through the small opening.

I drug myself across the floor, flopped onto the cot, and fell asleep. No amount of skittering could move me for the next three hours.

Morning came, and with it a new resolve. I would not live in this house. Besides rats jumping out of cupboards and the permeating smell of mouse in every part of the house, there was no drinking water and all of the wires to the electronic appliances had been chewed through by the sharp little teeth of dirty rodents. The stench was so overwhelming that I couldn’t eat, and every minute spent outside or at the school was a blessed relief.

Cleaning desks, organizing books and games, setting up computers, and lesson planning consumed all of my waking hours. There was no tv, internet, or cell phones to distract me from my work, and the days passed quickly. The pastor was at the school quite a bit getting the bathroom ready for the year. We had to install a new toilet and clean out the pipes that hadn’t been used for the last two years. I was thankful that we wouldn’t have to use the old outhouse. I’d been forced to make use of it at my interview and couldn’t envision a winter of traipsing out through the driving snow to that.
>While Todd waited for a pipe to drain, or the silicone to dry, we chatted about the surrounding community. He informed me that he pastored a church seven miles down the road that met twice on Sunday, once on Wednesday, and had the occasional special meetings during the month. I was eager to share my musical expertise where I could, but he said they already had a really talented pianist who played every Sunday, and they didn’t like really fancy services. One piano player was enough, but if she was ever sick, maybe I could fill in.

During one of our talks he relayed the heightened expectation in the community that surrounded my coming. “We all wanted to know if the new teacher was cute. You know, we want someone who’ll marry one of these boys and stay for a good long while.” I made sure I was busy, I’m not sure what with, and asked, “Well, what’d they say?”

Todd laughed as he remembered Trent’s reaction to his question. “He said, ‘You can’t ask me questions like that! I mean, um, I suppose, yeah…geez.” I laughed along with him and took personal pleasure in the belief that, if they hadn’t decided I was cute, he wouldn’t have shared the story. I informed him again that I had no intention of marrying anyone in the area, and they could do their best, but I was here to teach, to add what I could to the community, and that was all.

A knock came at the door, but before either of us could answer it, it swung open. A man in a plaid shirt, baseball cap, jeans and boots walked in followed closely by a pleasant faced woman in a t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. They introduced themselves as Dave and Betty Thomas, the owners of the nearest ranch and, incidentally, the owners of the land the school sat on. They were making their way around the neighborhood inviting folks to a barbecue at their home after church on Sunday, and they wanted to personally invite me to attend. I liked them right away. As I told Todd later, they were “comfortable” people.

Dave pushed his cap back and scratched his graying hair as he observed the room. “Well, lookin’ pretty good in here. You makin’ out ok?” His eyes crinkled in the corners as I nodded and he looked around again. “You need anything, anything at all, you just ask.” Betty nodded and joined in, her soft voice complementing her gentle eyes and angle-wing hair. “We want to make sure you feel a part of the community. We’d really love it if you could make it on Sunday.”

“Wow, thank you so much. I’d really love to come on Sunday, I’m anxious to meet people.” I hesitated. “There is one thing. The house I’m living in is, well, at the risk of sounding like a city girl, it really stinks of mice. I mean, I can’t even eat the smell is so bad. And there’s no drinking water, and I don’t know if all of the water out here is bad, but the stuff I’m showering in…,” I trailed off as I saw the couple exchange knowing looks. Dave spoke. “You’ll have to talk to Elaine about housing problems, she’s the one in charge o’ that, but as for the water, that’s just the way it is out here. Folks have to get systems for their homes to make it drinkable. Some have to haul it. We have a water cooler you could borrow and fill up at our house.”

“Mm-hmm, and if it turns out you need a place to stay for a couple o’ nights, why you just come right over,” Betty added. “Don’t hesitate, we love company. All our boys except one are gone right now, and it gets a little lonely in the house now and then.” I assured them I would think about it, thanks for the offer, and I really must get back to work now. “And we need to finish handin’ out these invitations.”