Vol.9,
No.52, 2006 Mission
Aborted By
Susanna Voth Wiebe
It
is odd that I remember so
few details of that experience.
It must have been my anxiety,
with, however, more than
a touch of excitement for
the challenge that confronted
me, that erased them from
my mind.
Saturdays had a flavour
all their own. No morning
rush to get ready for school.
No homework in the evenings.
Usually my sisters and I
were kept in the house to
help our mother with the
cleaning, baking, and cooking,
occasionally ironing or mending,
that prepared our family
and our house for Sunday.
On Saturday evenings there
was time to read or listen
to the radio. The house smelled
of freshly baked Zwieback
and frying sausages, of waxed
floors, of hot starch and
shoe polish, and, in appropriate
seasons, of lilacs or wild
roses.
This particular Saturday
was in early autumn, after
the harvest. I was, I believe,
fourteen years old.
It was late afternoon. Rain
had fallen earlier in the
day. The westering sun shone
with a watery light, puddles
glistened, the washed air
was clear and delicious.
After the combining was
done, the farmers’ cattle
were freed to roam, to glean
leftover stalks and kernels.
They collected in herds,
wandering far afield. Before
supper each farmer sent out
a son or two to round his
cows up for milking and to
spend the night safe in the
farmyard.
But on this Saturday Father
and my brothers were not
at home when the time came
to get the cows. We fully
expected them. I don’t
remember where they had gone
and why they were delayed.
Mother rather tensely watched
the clock. Finally she spoke
to me, “Susie, you
will have to get the cows.
If we wait, it will get too
dark.”
I stared at her. This assignment
seemed beyond my capabilities.
But necessity ruled.
Horses had always been part
of the farm and of my life.
I loved the beautiful, gallant,
powerful creatures. But,
strange though it may seem,
I had seldom ridden. There
had always been older brothers
to do the work that necessitated
riding.
Now I was supposed to ride
out to who knows where, sort
our cows out of a huge bunch
of cattle, and bring them
home?
Nancy was the best horse
for the job. Jimmy was too
high-strung.
This is where I draw a complete
blank.
How did I catch her? She
was gentle and tractable,
she must have come at my
call. Halter, bit, reins.
I had watched often enough
how they were put on, I coped.
We didn’t use saddles,
but burlap sacks. Nancy was
a tall horse, how did I get
on her?
That morning the cows had
been chased through the western
gap of our windbreak. They
could have wandered for miles
as there were acres and acres
of open fields, no forms,
no windbreaks, not even the
usual section road. Would
I find them?
Just as I turned Nancy towards
the gap I heard Mother calling
me. She stood outside the
door of the house, her apron
fluttering in her hands.
When I rode up to her, I
saw that she was extremely
agitated.
“You can’t go!” she
cried. “Mr. Penner
just phoned. The bull is
with the cows. He was mad,
he charged the horse and
tried to lift it up. Mr.
Penner is a good rider, he
got away. He said, ‘Don’t
let the children go.’”
She shivered. “What
if you had gone before he
phoned?”
For a moment I sat very
still. Then I shakily slid
off Nancy’s back, removed
the halter and sack, and
led her into the night pasture.
I don’t remember how
or when the cows came home
that evening. Sometimes they
did it on their own.