A farm is different in the winter. Quiet falls all around. The big white flakes drop silently as steam rises in the freestall. The fields are still. The tops of cut-off cornstalks peek out under a tent of snow; the field mice and voles nestled down in the dead root systems to escape the winter cold. Hunkering down, watching out the window, staring into the quiet as a…
I remember being little and stacking wood with my dad. Back in those very old days, when I was really young, it was fun, and I am sure I was probably more of a hindrance than an asset as he tried to get through it without tripping over me. As I got older, I was much better help, but maybe not quite as good company? I was helping…