Darrel Newell
© 2006 All rights reserved
It was January, 1950 in Northern Minnesota, a day after one of the
worst winter blizzards in recent history. The wind, the amount of snow
and now the after storm temperature drop has resulted in a high temperature
for the day in the 30 below zero range. And now that the storm had passed
on it was time to deal with clearing the snow.
9:00 AM.
Roland Johnson squeezed into his cold weather overalls, his
hat with the fur lined ear flaps and his felt lined boots. He stood by the door a second, then opened the porch door and
went out into the cold. His exposed skin immediately felt like it was on fire. He took a deep breath then began walking
awkwardly through the deep snow drifts to his machine shed. He opened the old sliding door against the drifted snow. Inside
facing the door was the old Farmall with a well used snowscoop mounted on the lift forks. Roland swapped the
haystacking forks for the snow bucket every fall as the only practical way to clear the farm yard and farm roads
after the heavy snow fall that seem to happen several times every winter. He climbed stiffly into
the steel seat of the machine and pressed the starter button. The engine turned over once with a groan. The oil in
the crankcase was thicker than molasses. He pressed the starter button again. The motor turned very slowly in the 30 below
temperature. But in a triumph of low compression and well charged battery the old tractor finally fired, then coughed its way
to life, and after a few minutes, settled down to a fast idle. Roland climbed down from the icy steel seat
walked back to the house to warm up and have a cup of coffee while the tractor ran and the oil and hydraulic fluid warmed up.
Roland finished his coffee, put on his choppers and wrapped a scarf around his face. He
retraced his steps to the machine shed and the now warmed up old Farmall. He climbed into the seat, shifted into first gear, sped up the motor
in a cloud of white exhaust, lowered the snow bucket and pushed his way out of the machine shed. Now began the long process of
cleaning the snow from his yard and road. When he reached the county road at the end of his driveway he crossed the road and started clearing the snow
from his neighbor Einar Nelsons driveway. They had been friends and neighbors for years and Roland had been cleaning up the snow
for him for the last eight years.
The rhythmic rise and fall of the engine note and the resulting piles
of snow that appeared along side the road marked his progress. Finally
he entered the Nelson farm yard and began clearing towards the barn. Suddenly
Roland pushed in the clutch and the tractor stopped. He throttled back the engine and jumped
off the tall tractor and walked past the snow bucket.
"Oh my God"
The day before the storm
At noon Thursday the temperature stood at 18 degrees Fahrenheit and the snow
had begun to fall.
At first the winds were gentle and the snow wet and fluffy. The large
flakes floated down to rest on top of the now dirty snow left by
previous snowfalls, leaving a beautiful clean whiteness everywhere.
Solvieg Nelson was washing the few lunch time dishes and looking out
her kitchen window at the peaceful scene as the snow gradually
collected on bare tree branches and the barn roof. Einar Nelson was in his
big armchair in the small living room listening to the noon time crop
report on their polished brown Delco radio, perched on its small square
table.
The Nelson farm consisted of a small, narrow two story house, its once
bright white siding now decidely darker, the paint peeling in places,
the back screen door sagging in its frame from years of daily use, its
center screen torn. The barn was now a dark, dark red, with dried wood
showing where time and temperature had cracked and split the soft wood
siding. It had a sag in its roofline and twisted and leaned slightly
to the south, perhaps because of years of stong northwest winds
beating against the side. Alongside the barn was a small single story
machine machine shed. The side facing south was now open, its sliding
doors having fallen into disrepair and simply removed. Through the
open side could be seen the tall black rubber tires and steel seat of
a model H Farmall tractor, a small Massey Ferguson combine, a red McCormick-Deering
swather, and a two bottom plow of no longer discernable parentage. Parked alongside the
machine shed was a 1938 Ford truck, once green, with a long low grain box on its chasis.
Near the house stood a one car garage with a small workshop area at the front. It had two
wide swing doors where the car entered, a design inherited from warmer climates. Here in
Northern Minnesota it led mostly to extra snow shoveling. Inside was parked the Nelson's
black 1936 Ford Fordor Sedan, bought in 1937 after a particularily good harvest.
This collection of well worn buildings stood at the end of a quarter mile driveway running
straight as an arrow through a thick growth of boxelder and poplar trees. The trees were all
bare and leafless atthis time of the winter except for the two magnificent White Pines on
either side of the garage. They were the royalty among the small forest that surrounded the
farmstead.
Thursday, late afternoon
It was nearing four in the afternoon as Einar Nelson pulled on his red heavy wool hat with the ear laps
and prepared to go out to the barn and milk the cows and feed the rest of the livestock. The
temperature had now fallen to zero degrees Fahrenheit. The snow had changed from large wet flakes to
tiny dense flakes. The wind direction changed to out of the Northwest at 15 miles per hour, gusting to
25. The snow was driven at what seemed like a 45 degree angle by the strong wind. The trees, their
branches stiff from the cold, bent and shuddered. In open spaces on the road and the yard the snow
that hit the ground immediatly started drifting, catching on the snow ridges and snow piles left from
previous shovelings. Visibility had now fallen to less than a quarter mile.
Einar trudged through the gathering drifts, leaning into the wind as he crossed the 100 feet from the house
to the barn. He slid the barn door open and quickly ducked inside and closed it, shutting out the wind.
Inside the barn it felt warm and humid from the body heat of the livestock. Einar drank in the familiar smell of fresh
manure and hay. He quickly got the milking machine set up and started it on the first cows, leaving it to
work while he climbed the ladder to the haymow and began dropping hay down for all the animals. The wind
was shaking the sides of the barn and the moan of the wind through the many cracks was becoming louder.
When the milking was done and Einar had poured the milk into the tall shiny milk cans, he carried them to the
milk house grafted onto the side of the barn. He then made a quick check of the animals and finding everything OK
he once again slid open the barn door and prepared to fight the wind and snow back to the house. As he slid the
barn door closed behind him he felt the shock of the wind and the intense cold. He shuddered, then put his head
down and cocked to one side, looking ahead out of the corner of his eye as he tracked towards the well lit
kitchen window.
It was nearly dark now and the path was heavily drifted. In some places he stepped in drifts almost to his hips.
Following the barest outline of the path and using the light from the kitchen window, he found his way to the
house.When he reached the door to the storm porch his face was red from the exertion of walking through the deep
snow and from the stinging wind driven snow peppering his face. He pulled the porch door open through the built up
snow and quickly stepped inside and closed it behind him.
Sheltered from the wind inside the little storm porch he shook the snow off his parka, removed his boots, then
opened the door to the kitchen and stepped inside. As the warmth enveloped him and he realized how cold he had gotten.
Solvieg had a small roast beef in the oven and some potatoes boiling on the stove. After a warm meal they retired to the
living room to listen to Fibber Magee and Molly and the Inner Sanctum on the Delco. At nine o'clock they went upstairs,
got into their warm bedclothes, and climbed into bed, pulling the heavy cotton blankets and down filled quilt up to
their chins and fell asleep.
Thursday, midnight
As it approached midnight the temperature had fallen to 20 below zero. The storm still gained in intensity. The
snow fall lessened slightly but the wind still blew fiercely. Outside the snow drifts were now three and four feet deep
in places all across the yard. In the driveway between the trees the drifts had reached six feet.
Friday, early morning
At five o'clock in the morning Einar Nelson's eyes opened in the intense darkness of the bedroom. After years of living with the iron routine of twice daily milking and feeding the livestock he needed no alarm clock. He slipped out from under
the warmth of the quilt and blanket into the chill air of the bedroom, leaving Solvieg to another hour of sleep before her day started. He felt for the box of matches on his bed table, lit one, and using the light from the
burning match found his way to the lerosene lamp on the table by the door, carefully lifted the thin glass chimney and lit the wick. A soft light lit the room as he slid the chimney back in place, then turned the light output down by adjusting
the wick with the knurled brass knob. He methodically changed out of his bedclothes into his daily work clothes. Guided by the railing on the steep stairwell he decended the stairs into the dim light of the night lamp
in the kitchen. He turned up the lamp and the kitchen appeared out of the shadows. He left the lamp turned up bright, both so the kitchen was more inviting when Solvieg got up as well as providing a light in the window, a beacon to be used
to help find the way back to the house from the barn. He pulled his parka from the hook, slipped his arms into the sleeves and zipped it up, then put on his red felt hat, pulled the earflaps down and tied the string under his chin.
Opening the door and stepping into the storm porch, Einar was hit by a wall of cold. The wind noise increased and the uninsulated walls of the porch vibrated with the strong gusting winds. He picked up his rubber boots, stiff from the cold, and
pulled them over his work shoes. He zipped them up tightly around his bib overall pants legs then pulled the heavy leather gloves from his parka pockets and slid his hands into them. The gloves were 'choppers', fingerless gloves developed by the loggers
for use when individual finger function was not needed. Choppers were perfect for shoveling snow.
Flipping the hood on his parka over his cap to protect the back of his neck from the wind and snow, Einar took the handle of the heavy square cut snow shovel in his left hand, steeled himself, then tried to open the porch door. The snow had drifted nearly
two feet up on the door and the door had to act as a miniature snowplow to open, pushing snow up and off to the side. Einar squeezed through the opening as soon as there was enough room and closed it behind him. Now outside, the fierce wind driven snow
snow stung his exposed face as he shoveled the steps at his feet so the door could close all the way. Then he sighted the barely visible outline of the barn in the early dawn light and started shoveling through the snowdrifts. He wasn't trying
to clear a path, only shovel a gap in the deepeest drifts so he didn't sink above his boot tops and get his feet packed in snow.
In the house Solvieg Nelson began to stir, nestled under several balankets and her mothers quilt. Her arms clutched a pillow to her breast. As she gradually wakened she felt the vibration of the house and heard the muted howl of the relentless wind.
She thought of the cold that would greet her as she climbed out of bed and involuntaryily shivered. But still she slid her legs out from under the covers and sat up on the side of the bed. She pushed her feet into her slippers, ignoring as best she could
the cold that enveloped her body. For forty years she had been getting up at this same time in order to have breakfast ready for her husband when he returned from caring for the livestock. Her body operated almost as if on autopilot. Solvieg removed her nightdress
and quickly got into her heavy cotton 'longjohns', never once considering the fashion implications. She put on soft cotton socks, loose cotton pants and a flower printed blouse. Over her blouse she added a thick hand knitted wool sweater and finally a warm head covering
similiar to a stocking hat. She decended the steep narrow staircase and turned into the kitchen. She turned the bakelite bar on the round ceramic light switch and the kitchen was flooded with electric light. She turned out the kerosene lamp, then went to the gas
stove and turned all the burner knobs to their middle setting, There was a series of 'fwoops' as the pilot light lighted each ring shaped burner and the little blue flames rose about an inch above the metal. The room immediately started warming. She went into
the living room and turned on the radio. After a wait of about ten seconds for the vacuum tubes to warm up she was greeted by a lively polka, played earnestly on the accordian by Whoopie John and his orchestra. This brought a small smile to her face as she turned
back to the kitchen and began preparations for breakfast.
Outside Einar found the snow drifts larger and the snow more tightly packed then he had ever seen it. In spite of his best efforts he was still not at the barn when normally he would be half done with is chores. He felt some pains in his left arm and back, but thought
it must just be from the shoveling. But as he dug his way through one drift only to find another the pains got worse. At last he saw the outline of the barn ahead and he shoveled a little faster knowing shelter from the searing wind and cold was just ahead.
Suddenly the pain in his arm and back spasmed and he straightened up, his snow shovel pointed at the sky. His cry of pain was lost in the howling wind as he sank to his knees, his back and arm muscles spiraling themselves into knots. He was paralyzed. His head slowly sank
to the snow from his kneeling position, his hands still gripping the handle of the snow shovel. He tried desperately to move his legs, to crawl toards the barn, towards sanctuary, but nothing would move. It was as if mind and body were seperated, no longer communicating.
There was another spasm from the gravely wounded heart muscle and Einar lost consiousness.
The windblown snow began to catch on this new object and a snow drift began forming behind his kneeling body. Mercifully life passed from his body a few minutes after his head touched the ground. The wind chilled cold began to attack his warm body and with the temperature
at more than 20 below zero freezing began quickly.
Inside the warm kitchen Solvieg had the oatmeal warming in a sauce pan on a very low heat. The coffee was percolating in the pot on the stove. With a long thin filleting knife she sliced five lean pieces of side pork from the slab, then took three light brown eggs from the
egg tray and placed them on the cutting board by the side pork. Einar's favorite breakfast was a bowl of oatmeal with buttermilk and a small spoonful of sugar followed by the fried side pork and eggs with a slice of bread. After eating he would have a cup of coffee and discuss
plans for the day with Solvieg. Solvieg glanced at the clock.
6:30.
About this time she usually heard the outside porch door screech open then slam shut followed by the sound of Einar removing his boots. Then the inner door to the kitchen would open and Solvieg would slide the
frying pan onto its burner to heat up as she set two bowls of oatmeal on the table.
Outside the wind had lessened and was finally dying down to a few gusts. The snow began to settle and you could now see the shapes of the barn and machine shed as the yellow-orange sun just appeared over the horizon. The combination of hard packed snow drifts, sharp edged buildings
and leafless trees in this early morning light reminded her of those 'after an atomic attack' pictures. Solvieg again checked the clock.
It was now nearly 7:00.
Einar was never this late getting back. But this storm had been really bad and maybe there were things he had to do that delayed him. She pushed the pan of oatmeal off the low flame burner and turned the burner off. She
could heat it again quickly. She lingered more and more at the window as the sun crept higher, gradually illuminating the harsh snow drifts. She saw that the barn door used by Einar had perhaps three feet of snow drifted against it. That seemed odd. She paced around her warm
kitchen from the window to the stove to the kitchen table then back to the window. Finally she sat down. From her chair at the table Solvieg glanced again at the clock.
7:35.
She got to her feet and went to the backdoor where the outside clothes were hanging. She pulled her rubber boots on over her shoes and buckled them over her pants legs. She slid into
her worn parka, flipping the hood over her small stocking hat. She pulled the heavy gloves from the pockets of the parka and slid her hands into them. She opened the door to the porch and stepped out, closing it behind her. The deep cold immediately began leaching heat
from her body. She picked up the small snow shovel leaning against the porch wall then put her shoulder against the outside door, forcing aside the hard packed snow that had drifted against the it. Slowly the door opened far enough so she could squeeze through the opening. She
began shoveling the steps, working her way through the hard packed snow. Even though the wind had slowed the temperature still kept falling, now more than 30 below zero. The wind chilled cold was numbing.
Finishing shoveling the steps she sighted on the barn 100 feet away and began moving that way, shoveling only when the snow got over knee deep. She wasn't worried about a clear path, she just wanted to get to the barn. As she got closer she could hear the cows. They sounded impatient,
their voices more sharp edged, sounding like they did when they were full of milk and needed the relief of milking. At this point in the morning they normally were content, chewing on fresh dry hay and a little feed.
Solvieg shoveled faster, spending less time at each drift. She was nearly to the barn when she drove her shovel into a drift and hit something solid. She saw the brown shiny fabric of Einar's coat at the end of her shovel. An involuntary cry escaped her body. In a frenzy she shoveled
around the kneeling, head down form of Einar, finally dropping her shovel, falling to her knees and pawing at the remaining snow.
Einar's snow shovel was frozen in his hands. His lifeless face was gray, frozen by the ever deepening black hole of cold air that relentlessly absorbed the heat from everything it came into contact with. Solvieg knelt next to his lifeless body. She had made lifes hard journey with this man,
a life certainly not always smooth and perfect but a journey that always maintained a feeling of love and trust. When their only chiild died in the war she thought she would never get over the loss, but Einar, in spite of his own deep feelings of loss, had helped her through it. In the
continuing rhythms of farm life they had found the strength to go on with their lives.
Solvieg pushed herself to her feet. She looked around her, at the well worn barn and machine shed, the house with its warm friendly kitchen, the center of her universe. She smiled as she thought of the after breakfast discussions with Einar, the quiet contentment of a lifetime of sharing.
A large tear formed at each eye and rolled down her cheeks. She reached down and pulled the frozen body of Einar onto his side, the snow shovel sticking up in the air. She hollowed out a space in the snow from his head to his feet big enough for her body. Taking one last look around at this
world she lay down next to Einar, putting her arm on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and the cold brought her peace.