With each buzz of the alarm clock, I slipped into an incongruously fancy pair of chartreuse velour lounging pajamas. Mind you, velour lounging is NOT me, but this Christmas gift from my sister Carolyn is my comfy cozy version of long johns. Atop my fashionable velour, I don a pair of sweatpants worn by my late brother, Philip. That, plus a vest, hoodie, scarf, gloves, and muck-boots, is night-check garb. The ewes approve of my style; they groan, burp, and cud, and the friendlies come over to share their cud-breath. Sweet!
I also inherited from Philip a collection of pocket knives, Old Timers. I carry one of his always-sharp knives in my snow pants, in my regular work pants, and in my night-check sweatpants. (I'm resisting the urge to call them "night sweats".) Of course, I use one during the day to cut hay bale twines, open bags of dog food, and shave ice out of frozen hose attachments. Additionally, I use them In the lambing barn to puncture ewes' water bags. Yup. At -30, that matters because dry straw matters. Better to leave the fluid somewhere other than the jug and give those newborns every chance to be comfy.
Because of the extreme cold, I am "wrapping" jugs, blockading them from drafts and trying to maintain the warmth from heat lamps. Two canvas pup tents, from my earliest memories of family camping trips, are my first line of defense. They have sturdy loops that hook over the jug uprights. Then there is the sparkly gold, foam-insulated couch cover from my parents. It is nicely long because it accommodated the extra-long couch on which my Dad, a tall man, napped. Also pressed into service are three patchwork wool blankets from Nana, my maternal grandmother. Although oddly sized—like blankets for single beds or sleeping bags—they work just fine and add a party touch with their festive sateen edging, two in green and one a rosy pink. Lastly, there is the quilted sleeping bag that I made for daughter Katrina for our earliest camping trips. It's small, but, unzipped, works as a cozy lateral.
Beyond creature comfort, our own matters, too. A vat of lentil soup, made several days ago, is so welcome—hot, hearty, healthy, and ample. The recipe calls for numerous bay leaves. An old Christmas herb bowl from my sister Katherine supplied that good-luck flavor.
How grateful I am for such family treasures. I am confident that Nana, Mom, Dad, and Philip, all deceased, would approve of my unconventional use of their former possessions. Surely, my sister Carolyn knows that her lambie loungers are ewe-phorically comforting, and of course my sister Katherine realizes that there is no expiration date on bay leaves. Hint: my inventory needs replenishment.