If the relationship of father to son could really be reduced to biology, the whole earth would blaze with the glory of fathers and sons.
~James Baldwin
Farm chores were as predictable as the sun rising and setting each day. The cows were cared for and milked by my husband and his brother seven days a week, regardless of holiday festivities. There was no sleeping in for them, even on holidays.
Then our fourteen-year-old twins came up with a stellar idea. They decided to surprise their dad and uncle with the gift of sleeping in on Christmas Day. Bruce and Blaine recruited their little brother Steve and their cousin Jon to become members of this loving conspiracy. Nearly every day since they were little, they had helped with both morning and evening chores — feeding calves from a suckle bucket, separating the hay bales into chunks, washing udders, and scraping down the walkway; therefore, they knew what needed to be done.
After finishing Christmas Eve supper, the boys feigned sleepiness, changed into their pajamas and brushed their teeth with no prodding. Without the usual protests, they disappeared upstairs for bed.
“I’m surprised the boys are ready for bed so early,” my husband remarked.
“Oh, they played hard in the snow today, up and down the hills on the toboggan,” I replied, fluffing up the sofa pillows to avoid looking into his eyes. “Let’s enjoy the peace and quiet for a change.”
After cleaning up the kitchen, we cuddled on the sofa with our Siamese cat curled up by my side, his purr motor on high volume. While we gazed at the glittering Christmas tree, Bing Crosby crooned “White Christmas” from a record on the stereo.
Upstairs, the boys set the alarm clocks in their bedrooms for an early rising, closing their doors to muffle the sound.
Sworn to secrecy, my sister-in-law and I made certain we did not set the alarm clocks for our husbands.
Long before daylight, the boys tiptoed down the stairs, donned heavy outerwear and sneaked out of the house. The icy slap of Minnesota wind greeted them as they raced on the crunchy snow to the warmth of the barn.
They found forty cows lowing for their breakfast, calves out-bawling one another for attention, the heavy scent of bovine breath and overnight manure — inspiration for the boys to shift into high gear, determined to finish the milking, feeding, and barn cleaning before their dad and uncle awakened. Jon and little Steve did their part by feeding calves, running errands, and taking direction from Bruce and Blaine, who assumed the role of elders.
“Jon, you climb up in the haymow and toss down the bales for later,” ordered Blaine. “I’ll get going with the silage.”
Bruce called to Steve, “Come with me and we’ll start washing udders. Bring the balm with you.”
Trying not to show his fear, Steve crouched by the first cow and did as he was told. They soon had the milkers attached to the first cows, and the pipeline throbbed with warm milk streaming into the bulk tank.
“Jon, it’s time to put a scoop of ground feed on top of the silage,” said Blaine.
Back in the warm, quiet house, I quietly sneaked out of bed without disturbing my snoring husband. Wrapping my robe around me, I groped my way out of the bedroom in the dark and headed to the kitchen to begin breakfast preparations for the boys. As I stirred the pancake batter and started the bacon sizzling in the fry pan, a sense of pride and joy washed over me as dawn crept over the eastern horizon, bathing the sky in glorious hues. I breathed a prayer that the new heifer, Trudy, wouldn’t cause any trouble.
Suddenly Bruce was back in the house, changing into his dad’s jacket and cap. “No time to talk now, Mom,” he whispered. “I’ll explain later.”
Back in the barn, he sidled up to high-strung Trudy, lowered his voice and stroked her flank.
“Easy now, Bossie, take it easy, take it easy,” he murmured. Fooled by the disguise, Trudy settled down and stood still to have her udder washed and the milker apparatus attached.
In record time, they finished up — sweet-smelling straw fluffed under the forty cows and in the calf pens for fresh bedding; the milking equipment washed, disinfected, and hung to dry in the milk house.
By 8:00 a.m. the boys raucously bounded into the house, shouting and laughing. Startled awake by the commotion, their dad stumbled over the cat as he emerged from the bedroom.
“What’s going on? What time is it?” he moaned. “I must have overslept!”
“Merry Christmas, Dad! Surprise!” they yelled, smiling ear to ear, as they threw their arms around their dad. “Yes, you did oversleep, but the chores are all done! We love you, Dad! Merry Christmas!”
A similar exchange was taking place at the house next door between their uncle and cousin.
Our sons and nephew continued this Christmas morning labor of love throughout their high school and college years. We no longer farm, my husband has passed away, and the boys are now middle-aged with sons of their own. They often reminisce about the special gift they gave for so many years and of the joy their kind deed brought to their dad and to them. Given with love and paid for with effort, this gift meant more to my husband than anything money could buy.
~Margaret M. Marty
