The winter had been mild, with less than three feet of snow. Fern prayed the weather would hold until the baby came, to make it easy for the doctor and midwife to attend. They’d settled on names: Martha for a little girl, Harry Junior if it was a little boy. The time was close. Fern just waited.

The weather didn’t. The most disastrous blizzard in anyone’s memory hit the Midwest in early January. It swept up huge mountains of snow, covering the north side of all buildings. The weight of the wet snow collapsed structures and homes. Some people were killed in the collapse; others froze to death as they wandered outside afterward. Livestock froze, water pipes burst—the toll in Morgan was heavy. The storm raged, a complete whiteout for three days. On the second day, Martha was born.

This time, this morning in January, with the baby so close, Fern watched, helpless, back aching, as Harry went out the door, one hand tight on the lifeline stretched to the barn. She would wait, heart pounding, until she again heard footsteps on the porch. Of all there was to this life, she hated most his treks to the barn during a storm. She hated to see his brown coat disappear before he’d taken three steps. She knew it took a long time to see to the animals, break the ice in their troughs, feed them, shovel, sweep, and spread new hay. She had it timed in her head, but every time he walked out the door, time stretched. She had to consciously chant to herself, “Patience. Patience.”

She picked up her knitting. A little yellow sweater hung from the needles. She would knit four inches before she would worry. Four inches. She took each stitch deliberately, resisted the temptation to measure after each row. Her needles were rhythmic, clicking in time to her heartbeat.

Before she finished four inches, she heard his heavy step on the porch. She exhaled mightily in relief; she didn’t know she’d been barely breathing. Then a terrifying pain ripped through her back, her sides, scraping slowly, with jagged nails. It was so powerful, so overwhelming, it crushed the rest of the breath out. When it eased up, Harry was kneeling by the side of the chair, looking into her face with worried brow. She took some deep breaths, perspiration beading on her upper lip, and managed a smile.

“It’s the baby.”

“Now? There’s no way I can get Doc.”

“Don’t worry, Harry. This takes a long time. Maybe the storm will clear.” He helped her to their bed.