Essay | Father Was Born Capable

PRESTON — My father was born capable, a quick study, always alert to try a better way to do anything.

He was comfortable taking chances and usually beat the odds. Once in a while the odds caught up with him: bypass surgery; a logging accident; a second bypass surgery; having his right side run over by a tractor tire.

Age and a long life of hard work had brought changes to his health. So, I returned home to become his support staff so he could remain in charge.

Winter storm warning, no travel advised

Early one winter morning, I woke to a fresh blanket of snow that would need to be cleared from the driveway so I could get father medical help whenever needed. The radio forecast a big snowstorm coming by late afternoon.

Father’s snores were steady from his room, so I made him a fresh pot of coffee and set out his breakfast to be ready when he woke.

I bundled in winter layers, put on snowshoes and went off to the shed where our tractor was stored, about a mile away. At the shed I plugged in the engine heater for the diesel tractor, and while it warmed up, I shoveled snow away from the doors.

Blading the first pass down the shed driveway got me to Highway 52, then south towards the house driveway, chains jangling, careful to stay off the slanted shoulder and not get pulled into the ditch. That open tractor made the trip faster than snowshoes, but so much colder.

I made a pass up father’s long, curved driveway, then hurried into the house to check on him and prepare his lunch. His radio warned that the snowstorm was expected to shut down our region by nightfall.

Fingers and toes were just beginning to thaw when I bundled up for the second half of the day’s task. With the few hours of winter daylight left, I needed to keep moving.

After finishing the pass of the house driveway, I turned north on the highway to return to the shed. Snowflakes arrived as I made the finishing pass up to the shed and put the tractor to bed.

I put the snowshoes back on and retraced the steps of that morning.

With hood and kerchief protecting my face, I squinted while walking into the rising wind. A good thing about snowshoeing along a highway during bad weather is that most drivers stay off the road. I felt lucky that a snowplow didn’t come along because I would’ve had to take to the ditch to avoid getting pelted.

Maynard supervising a wintertime brush burn. He was well known in the area for his woodsmanship and his knowledge of forestry. (Photo submitted by Bonita Underbakke)

At the foot of my father’s driveway, my eyelashes were starting to freeze together, but I kept moving in the twilight. That evening, I only had to prepare father’s supper and do his business bookwork. In the warmth of the kitchen, I took off the cold, wet layers, and braced for the inevitable pain of regaining feeling in my fingers and toes.

Father was partly dozing in his easy chair in front of his TV, half-watching Wheel of Fortune. He usually knew the answers but watched more from habit than interest.

Across the bottom of the screen scrolled, “Winter storm warning. No travel advised.”

Burger night at the Legion

Through the window we could see across the field the flashing lights of the occasional snowplow, trying to keep up with the heavy snow.

I was relieved we were safe and warm and settled, and asked father what he would like for supper.

“It’s Burger Night down at the Legion.”

I had seen ads for Hamburger Night at the Preston Legion Club in the weekly newspaper. But there was a snowstorm going on outside. I was tired and nearly thawed, and he was talking about a good deal on hamburgers?

We were used to our roles. He made decisions, and I helped him stay in charge. Neither of us knew any other way.

I tried, “I don’t know if they’ll be open tonight with the storm and all.” Father hoisted himself up out of his chair to turn off the TV.

A second attempt to save us from dangerous folly: “Perhaps a person could phone ahead to check if they’re open?”

His response was to put his coffee cup in the sink with, “I think they’ll be open.”

I helped him into some quilted pants, lined boots, and his warmest coat. He consented to turning down his cap earflaps and wearing a red bandana over his mouth and nose. I helped him onto the running board of his 1-Ton pickup and into its high cab.

I turned the hubs to four-wheel drive. In the back I had tire chains, a tow-chain, sand, and a scoop shovel. I just needed to transport this determined parent the two miles into Preston, show him that nothing was open, and get him back home safely. I was thankful the truck heater worked.

In low gear I crept down the long, curved driveway, then a bit faster to get through the snowplow drift at the end. The snow pelted the windshield hypnotically. I opened my eyes wider, trying to see the way, then settled for “between the ditches.” Whenever I felt either shoulder, I corrected back toward the middle.

The only sounds were the windshield wipers and heater fan. Father seemed content that we were on our way. Eventually we approached Preston, everything softened by heavy snow.

Snowdrifts enhance the landscape and surround this barn the day after a blizzard passed through. Farmers are routinely challenged to get plowed out so they can take care of livestock and get chores done. (Photo by John Torgrimson)

The few cars along the street were smoothed lumps. There were no tire tracks. The dim streetlights marked the rise of the curb as I crept along, white-knuckled and tight-shouldered. With no one out, we could simply circle the courthouse square and return home.

Outside the Legion, there was no sign of life. I said I would check the door anyway.

“I guess I can make it,” father said determinedly.

Perhaps because no one was around to see, he steadied himself on my arm as we shuffled through shin-deep snow to the door. I opened it to warmth and laughter, mingled with smells of fried hamburgers, onions, coffee and beer.

I guess they were open

The place was hopping! Some folks were hunched at the bar, swapping stories. Some were eating at tables, joking.

A voice from the back corner hollered, “Maynard, you old goat, what took you so long?” I had never heard father addressed that way, but he laughed with his shoulders as everyone joined the welcome.

Where had these people come from? Weren’t they paying attention to the storm?

These neighbors had seen winter storms before – and drought and floods. They had lived through uncertainties and losses of the Great Depression, World War II, the Korean Conflict and the Vietnam War. They had beaten the odds so far and weren’t about to be confined by some weather advisory. They were having fun on their terms, with their fellow rebels.

When father eventually emptied his coffee cup and put on his cap, I went out to heat up the 1-Ton and brush off its snow blanket.

Back inside I helped father into his coat as he continued to joke and say his goodbyes. Clambering up into the cab, he was still chuckling.

I crept us back to Highway 52, still staring hard through the snowflakes to stay on the road. The high axles made it through the snow ridge at the foot of the driveway. The walls of cedar, spruce and pine allowed the snow to sift steadily straight down,

Into the garage, then back into his house at last.

As I was draping our coats on chairs to dry, father satisfied himself with, “I guess they were open.”

In what would be his last winter, he had beaten the odds again.