Wintertime rigamarole

By Christine Tailer
HCP columnist 

I knew that a doozy of a task awaited my doing, and I was far from inclined to get started. All I wanted was lallygag at my warm workbench and fiddle with my marbles. Some might consider my marble avocation an affliction; but to me, sorting through the glass orbs and studying their history, is the perfect winter pastime.

I sighed, set my lackadaisical propensities aside, and proceeded to dress for the single digit temperatures hovering outside the cabin door. No fancy highfalutin' outfit for this farm lady on this cold day. I proceeded to don my multiple well-worn layers, finally zipping up my quilted coveralls and pulling a knit cap down over my noggin. I waddled out the door, perfectly ready to tackle what lay in store.

When I arrived at the pasture, seven pairs of woebegone eyes locked on mine. "No time to dillydally, Christine," they implored. "Our water is frozen and we wish to imbibe." I am not one to mollycoddle my pasture friends, though I acknowledged that they were right, and I advised them that I did not intend to hornswoggle them.

I unlocked the pasture gate and went straight to the frozen water trough. It was frozen quite solid. I picked up the heavy thingamajig that I keep leaning up against the pasture fence next to the trough. Some might consider the thingamajig an iron bar with a pointed end. I consider it an ice breaking doohickey. I hefted it as high as I could, but this was difficult to accomplish with multiple layers of clothing restricting my every move. I mustered all the strength I could, and I brought the pointed end of the thingamajig down on the ice as forcefully as possible. I repeated this move multiple times. Seven pairs of eyes watched as I worked up a sweat. There was not a crack in the ice. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Just a few small dents sparkled here and there. All that work to no avail. I was flabbergasted, exasperated, and flummoxed.

"Well, that really was rather higgledy-piggledy," my audience huffed and snorted. "You can certainly do better than that!"

Hmm ... I knew that I now had no recourse but to step inside the trough. I raised my thickly insulated leg for the stepping-inside-the-trough maneuver, but oh my, I felt like such a ninny! My leg would hardly budge. Bending at the knee in order to step over the trough's rim was next to impossible, but with great effort, and much huffing and puffing, I was able to accomplish that next to impossible thing. I was tickled pink with my success, but that success found me standing inside the trough on thick, very slippery ice.

So as not to topple over, I grabbed a hold of the pasture fence. I then raised my booted foot, and thumped my heel forcefully down. I thumped, and thwacked, and thumped some more, and then kerplunk! The ice cracked. After repeated thumping and much kerplunking, I was eventually standing among icebergs that jostled against the top of my chore boots. Such a hullabaloo this entire brouhaha had become.

Well, it was now time for me to reverse my trough entrance maneuver, but there I was standing deep inside the trough on anything but solid footing. I stood still, contemplating my next move. I felt rather discombobulated. My pasture companions gathered round in a somewhat hodgepodge fashion. "You've got this Christine. Don't shilly-shally now!"

I breathed deep and gathered up all the mojo I could muster. I exhaled, and as I did so, I swung my leg up and over the trough's rim. Success! As soon as I was standing back on terra firma, my pasture companions all approached to congratulate my winter-clad self. "Well done", they said, "Brava!"

I shooed them back. These shenanigans were far from over. I still had to empty the ice from the trough and then I needed to refill it with fresh water. My companions persisted with their laudatory exclamations, and adoringly nibbled at my pockets, though perhaps they weren't so much adoring, as they were hoping to find a tasty tidbit. They snorted, implying that I was being persnickety in my refusal, but I persisted in my shooing, and they eventually backed away.

I bent at the waist, though it was more like tilting due to my thickly clad midsection, and with great grunting and much ado, I was able to lift the edge of the trough. Once more I was called upon to muster my moxie, and with a huge heave-ho, I got the trough up on its side. With a bit more shoving, the heavy trough tilted completely over and the icebergs cascaded across the ground.

My adoring companions were nothing short of gobsmacked and backed away from the hullabaloo. From their safe distance, they continued to observe my tomfoolery.

I headed over to the frost-free spigot and was thrilled to find that I was in luck. The pasture hose had not frozen. After each use I am careful to meticulously drain the water from it so it will not freeze into a useless whatnot. The single digit temperatures, however, had not prevailed, and water flowed freely from the frost-free spigot, through the hose, and into the trough. My companions began to approach again. They once more looked at me with great adoration, thinking that perhaps I was not a nitwit after all.

I closed the gate to pasture and left the creatures to swill away to their hearts' content. They did not even bid me adieu as I exited. As for me, I was quite zonked. I turned away, totally tuckered out, but oh my! You should have seen me skedaddling, lickety-split, wild horses couldn't have slowed me down, all the way back up the hill to the cabin. There you would have found me warm, and quite happily in cahoots with my marbles. I reached for my magnifying whatchamacallit so I could better peer into their beautiful swirls, all thoughts of the morning's rigamarole left far behind.