Winter on the Old Homestead

Three kids to a bed, two beds to a room, three rooms crowded with flannel long johns and wool socks. If I was lucky enough maybe they had only been worn by two or three brothers before me. No holes was never a guarantee. Mama had us tucked in tight under hand stitched quilts made from squares of worn-out clothes that was deemed no good for anything else. So heavy that it was impossible to sleep on my back. Or it would make my toes hurt all night. Morning would come whenever nature demanded. As soon as it was light enough to see the bowl of ice capped water, I could splash a few drops on my face. On some of those more courageous mornings, a few of the more important parts. The sides of the pot-bellied stove could turn as red as the devil’s hood if the stoker was too generous with the logs, or go out altogether if it was neglected for too long. Deep scratches gouged into the floor from constantly shifting chairs. A good autumn from the garden, creek banks, and the woods beyond provided enough to ease the grumbling of winter stomachs. The occupants of the chicken coop did their job diligently. As did the former occupants of the pig pen and the pasture. By January deep paths cut through waist high snow to the outhouse, smokehouse, chicken coop and wood pile. Only three more months until the grass can be seen again.