Another winter passed, and now, in 1938, Will was preparing for his third spring planting. He hired a new farmhand, Petr Rucinski, who immigrated to the United States to escape the many regional conflicts his country endured following World War I. Will felt certain that Europe was on the verge of chaos, and although he hated to admit it, that gave him hope for the American farmer. If he could just find a way to buy that bull.
Thunder cracked, and lightning flashes lit up the calf pen. A good day to work in the barn. He threw a forkful of soiled straw into the spreader while Teddy sniffed around the cows’ empty stanchions. Will could see that his dog preferred to stay inside, too.
The girls’ voices coming from the loft above were a comfort. He was confident the lightning rods would protect his family and barn, but he winced when he thought about his cows out in the weather. He had never lost a cow to lightning, but that was little comfort. He had never seen a tornado either, but Will knew that, too, was just a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Whenever a summer storm approached, Will kept his herd inside, but this one caught him unawares. And he wasn’t about to send his girls after the cows now. He had considered keeping his herd inside during the storm season, but it wasn’t humane or practical to hold them in an overheated barn when lush pastures beckoned down the lane.
Will continued to pitch wet straw until the rumbles subsided and the light bursts moved upriver. He breathed deep and inhaled the fresh ozone filled air. And when he looked out the window and saw a rainbow, his spirits lifted. A summer storm wasn’t all bad. Will could hear his herd, their bags full of milk, complain as they approached the barn. When he opened the door to let them in, two cows were missing.
Will shouted up the chute toward the loft. “Ruby, Catherine, come on down. The storm’s moved away, so we can start milking. All the cows are up except Mazy and Betsy. We’re half an hour late already, so you better take the horses and go look.”
He heard footsteps bounce across the loft floor on the way to the ladder.
“They’re probably under the sugar maples at the end of the lane,” Will called, “but if they’re not there, check along the slough. Maybe they got bogged down in high water.”
Will commenced milking but he continued to worry. He wasn’t surprised that Betsy lagged behind. She was often late. But Mazy was his bell cow. She usually led the herd, and they were all at the barn. He stripped the last drops of milk and emptied his first pail into the eight-gallon can. He was satisfied with his milk output, but Mazy and Betsy were the beginnings of the higher producing herd that he envisioned. Without a prized bull, that future was at risk, too.
Will had finished three more cows when he heard hoof beats and shouts in the distance. He dropped his pail and raced from the barn.
“Dad,” Ruby shouted, “Mazy and Betsy were struck by lightning. They’re lying dead under the big sugar maple in the north forty.”
It was too late to help now, so Will finished milking before he went to the house to tell Mary.
“What’ll we do, Will?” Mary said. “Mazy and Betsy produced almost fifteen percent of our milk. That’s our profit. We’ll have to sell our heifers.”
“No, Mary. Those heifers will keep us going, even if I can’t afford a bull to sire better ones. They’ll replace Betsy and Mazy’s production, but we’ll have to tighten our belts for a while.”
“Tighten our belts? I’m afraid there’s no slack left.” Mary placed a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “We’ll find a way. God won’t give us more than we can handle.”
“Maybe so, my dear, but sometimes I wish He’d not trust me so much. Those heifers will freshen in the spring. If we can just make it till then, if I can convince my neighbors to get this co-op going, then with stronger sales, we’ll have a chance to pull out of this. But if we want to improve our herd, I’ve got to find a way to buy that bull.”