PRESSED BETWEEN THE PAGES
DeAnn (Wolkow) Kruempel
A Place to Dream
Bare branches dip and sway, clinging to their papery white trunk. Snowflakes fly past my
window while smoke-like puffs swirl along the ground. A squall, the meteorologist calls it. The scene from my living room window brings back memories of winters long past. Growing up on the farm, we had safe havens where we could play, imagine, and just be kids.
One place in particular unfurls from the pages of my mind: Standing on tip toes, I managed to unlatch the red wooden door. I clambered over the cement foundation and tugged the door shut behind me, wrestling with the winter wind. At last, I turned to the familiar wonders of the barn. Dust motes danced in the warm light streaming through the windows. Mama Cat snoozed on a stack of straw bales. Musty smells of alfalfa, animals and manure greeted me. A hint of cow’s breath lingered from the morning milking.
When Blackie chewed the grain in her trough, a distinctive smell filled the room. Glancing up, I saw the kickers that Donald or Mom carefully fit onto the cow’s back legs, preventing a hoof milk-bath. The metal bracelets attached to a chain hung on a nail between frame posts. Dusty leather bridles and collars stuck out above them. Dad said those were from the old days when he and Mom first started out, farming with horses.
I slipped between the stanchion boards that kept Blackie’s head in place when she was
being milked. Straw-filled pens waited for baby calves that would need warming up on frigid South Dakota nights. A small flock of bantams clucked quietly as they scratched, pecking at spilled corn, oats and other tidbits.
Short horizontal boards nailed onto two posts formed steps that led up to the hay mow. I
scoped the climb. Mom had said she worried about me going up there. Dad’s eyes shined with their “kids would be kids” sparkle. “Just be careful,” he said.
I half shimmied up the steps with my short legs. Tall stacks of bales made an aisle that
led to an opening in the floor. Delmer, Don or Dad tossed hay chunks down to the pen below where the bulls spent the winter. My heart pounded as I sidled up to that gaping, terrifying hole and peaked over the edge. Two horrible sharp horns attached to a huge white head attached to a red furry body jerked back and forth as the bull chomped away a few feet below.
I held my breath and backed up slowly, thrilled that I had survived the ordeal. I sort of
climbed and sort of dropped back down the steep steps. Mom would be glad I didn’t break my neck.
After all that excitement and danger, I climbed up on the stack of straw bales by the door.
Mama Cat rubbed her head against my coat. I scratched under her ears and petted her soft gray fur.
Cozy and safe in that big red barn, surrounded by beloved sights, scents and sounds, I
imagined. I dreamed. I decided then and there that I was going to be a farmer when I grew up. I would own every farm animal God ever made. Mamma Cat purred.
The yard gate clicked outside. Buckets clanked. Our mother was heading out to do
chores. I scrambled down from the bales and out that red door as fast as I could. I needed to tell Mom about my new dream. And I had to check out the chicken coop!
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DeAnn Kruempel grew up on a farm near De Smet, SD, the sixth child of Harrison and
Mabel Wolkow. She attended school at Erwin and De Smet and has lived in Benedict, ND, Toeterville, Akron, Missouri Valley and Logan, IA.
The author worked in school and public libraries for more than 30 years. Her column has run in a growing number of Midwest newspapers for six years. Each year the author has published the stories into a book.
She has also published a historical fiction series, “Promises to Keep.” Her ten books are available on Amazon. Signed copies may be purchased at the Harrison County Welcome Center.
Contact Kruempel at deannkruempelauthor@gmail.com.
