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The Peaceful Manger
It was Christmas Day evening.
Overhead, the glaring line of lights kept my eyes cast downward. All around, the dust floated in the air as I focused on the task at hand. Square bales had been thrown down from upstairs. With a hay fork in hand, I scooped the layers into the wooden manger. The smell was intoxicating. Second-cut hay full of clover had the cows excited. Happy cows softly mooed as they waited for their turn. I moved as quickly as I could.
The first recipients pulled at the hay and quietly munched away. Daisy and Mary received an extra rub on the head as I worked. This was a nightly chore that played out without fail. This time, I was alone with ten cows, their smiling mouths full. They each knew their own spot. They knew where they belonged. I marvelled at this phenomenonal sight, every night after we let them into the barn. If one happened to put her head into the wrong stanchion she would immediately move to the right one. I remembered when I was a kid, we always sat in our own spot at the table, so really it makes sense. Satisfied cows in the warm barn kept my mind from what was going on outside. This was my comfortable, somewhat-relaxing space. It was always warmer in the barn than our old farmhouse. With the feeding finished, I switched tasks.
Swishing tails caught my hand as I held the shovel. Scooping up the gifts left behind from those contented cows. This was my job tonight. I moved the wheelbarrow, which was filling up fast, a short distance away so it wouldn’t be kicked over. It would wait there for the other farmer, the one who was “under the weather” resting inside with our toddler. He would empty it later.
The snow was really coming down as I watched through the window. I sat on a bale and listened to the sounds of mooing and chewing in this peaceful place for a few minutes.
“Goodnight, ladies.” I switched off the lights.
I headed through the snow toward the light off in the distance. Christmas on the farm was a time for reflection and hope.
The place where peacefully sleeping under the blankets inside an old farmhouse lie the farmer and our toddler.
Grace Vanderzande