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I'll not forget the winter
of nineteen twenty-eight,
the autumn was so glorious,
an' snows came on real late.
It wasn't 'til December,
the ground turned frosty white,
an' my feet felt chilly floorboards
when rising in the night.
We lived way back in Kansas
on a farm-not big, but small.
Pa could barely make the payments
to keep the house an' all.
We kids were just like stair steps,
there were nine in just twelve years—
t'was an honor to be oldest,
but no time for baby tears.
Each child had chores an' duties,
an' knew what must be done-
Mine was milking, feeding stock
before the morning sun.
Then breakfast with hot biscuits,
to start our day out right,
there'd be no rest till evening,
stretching into dark of night.
Each day we'd walk to school an' back,
or maybe ride old Pete.
After loading younger kids,
I mostly used my feet.
But I recall quite clearly
that warm December day,
no snow-an' sun bright shining
as we played along the way.
We got to school before the bell—
an' quickly took our seat,
an' from the old pot-bellied stove,
we felt the warming heat.
By afternoon, the sky turned black,
outside the darkened room.
Our teacher lit some candles
to stanch the dreary gloom.
The wind was softly swirling
outside the wooden door,
but it soon became a mighty howl
with whooshing, then a roar.
The little ones were fearful,
an' our teacher, Lila Load,
gathered them together
for a story to be told.
We older ones kept busy
quickly stoking up the fire,
but as the winds grew greater,
our fate became most dire.
The roof was lifted off the school—
the blizzard blew in snow,
Miss Load rushed to the cloakroom
to prepare us fast to go.
She said to get dressed warmly
in coats, an' hats, in haste,
then tie the long rope hanging there
around each other's waist.
It seemed a long few minutes
'til all were tethered there,
an' we waded out in deep snows
with only hope an' prayer.
The horses that had been tied,
were loose an' far had scattered—
so we trudged the path now covered
some in clothes quite worn 'n tattered.
Miss Lila led the trail down hill—
proclaiming it the way,
an' never lost her courage
struggling thru' the drifts that day.
The little ones-we carried
after just a quarter mile,
their teeth began to chatter
an' no longer showed a smile.
The wind—so loud, nobody spoke—
the snow piled fence post high,
an' clouds hung black an' fearsome,
in that ominous dark sky.
We waded two more hours
'til it was near nightfall,
then spied a well-lit farmhouse
amidst the stormy squall.
Our knock would go unanswered
until we pushed right in,
for the blizzard raged an' howled so,
it made an awful din.
The widow lady, Mary Sheen,
stepped back in shocked belief,
then rushed to help the children
before they came to grief.
Each child was wrapped in blankets,
by the stove they were moved close,
as we all thanked God above us
for finding a great host.
Hot food, an' apple cider
soon thawed our group—eleven,
but I'll not forget that last mile,
an' how close we came to Heaven.
© 2007, Tamara Hillman
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.
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