n a northern Wisconsin winter, falling snow perhaps held no fascination for my parents—it meant only more difficulty in doing farm chores. Every Saturday by ten o’clock, when it had warmed up a little, Dad or Sam freed the cows from their stanchions in the barn for their exercise; Mom or Dad turned on the electric switch, pumping our tank full of cold water at the well house; and I accompanied the cows as they took an all-too-slow stroll to satisfy their thirst at the tank. The cows snorted and slurped, blowing clouds of foggy breath into the cold air, their pink noses dripping as they eagerly downed great gulps of icy water. When I drove the cows back to the barn, they rushed to feed at their stanchions where Dad had added clean bedding after Sam had forked the steamy and smelly cow manure outside. With flicking ears, their furry heads excitedly eyed the chopped corn fodder and grain that Dad had scooped into the manger. Once humans had taken care of their needs, each cow’s long nose moved up and down digging in with relish; their jaws ground in a circular pattern, side to side. They chewed contentedly, munching and belching, and then the chomping quieted. One by one, each cow dropped first to one knee, then to the other, clumsily plopping
