The back door bangs, startling us from our reverie. Gina sets down her cup. I’m getting to my feet when I hear the pound of footsteps. An instant later Sammy appears at the door. He’s breathing hard, his face red and speckled with bits of hay, snow stuck to his coat.
“Datt’s bringing in the baby calf!” he exclaims. “The mama cow doesn’t like him and she won’t let him drink any milk. I’m going to sleep with him tonight!”
The boy darts back into the mudroom. Beyond, I hear the girls and Adam enter, moving around.
Gina looks at me. “Seriously?”
“I’d say Sammy’s a little too wound up to be kidding.”
Leaving my coffee, I walk to the doorway and peer into the mudroom. Adam stands just inside the back door, a tiny black calf in his arms, both of them covered with snow. Next to him, Lizzie holds a two-gallon galvanized nipple bucket at her side. Sammy wrestles with a bag of milk replacer that’s nearly as big as he is. Annie can’t seem to keep her hands off the calf. Everyone is staring at it. The little animal is sweet-faced, shivering with cold, and not quite strong enough to struggle against the arms holding it.
“Looks like you have your hands full,” I say to Adam.
“Literally,” Gina murmurs.
The Amish man raises his gaze to mine. “Sei mamm verlosse eem.” His mother orphaned him. Kneeling, he sets the calf on the floor. The tiny animal wobbles and then collapses to its knees.
“He’s hungry, Datt!” Sammy exclaims. “Can I feed him the bottle?”
Adam sets his hand on the animal’s back, brushing snow from its coat, and addresses Lizzie. “Warm some water on the stove. Not too hot, just warm.”
“Ja.” Nodding excitedly, the girl ducks past me and trots toward the sink.
“Sammy, get that bale of straw and break it open,” Adam tells his son. “Get it spread out on the floor. Annie, get the door for your brother.”
The little girl opens the door and Sammy charges into the swirling wall of white. Annie mans the door, ignoring the snow blowing in. When her brother hefts the bale to the jamb, she reaches for a string, not helping much but trying, and the two children wrestle the bale into the mudroom.
Gina and I stand at the doorway, watching the chaos unfold.
“What could possibly go wrong?” she murmurs.
As the children mill about, chattering as they prepare the mudroom for the calf’s overnight stay, the uneasiness of the last hours melts away. This is Amish life, I think. It’s not perfect, but simple and straightforward, and for the first time in a long time, I miss it.
I enter the mudroom and look down at the calf. “Er is schnuck,” I say. He’s cute.
Adam gets to his feet. “Likely full of kedreck.” Cow dung. But he smiles.
I’ve always had a soft spot for animals, especially the babies. Growing up, I saw dozens come into the world—horses, goats, hogs, cattle, even chicks—and I spent many a winter morning mucking stalls, hauling water, and dropping hay. I was never fond of chores, but caring for the animals was the one task I never complained about.
“What’s not to love about that face?” Gina says. “It’s like having a giant puppy.”
Adam tilts his head at her. “You can pet him if you like.”
After a brief hesitation, she approaches the calf. Gingerly, she goes to one knee, reaches out with her uninjured arm, and runs her hand across the animal’s face and back. “How old is he?”
“A few hours,” Adam tells her.
“What happened to the mother cow?” she asks.
“She hasn’t decided if she likes him just yet,” he replies. “Had the same problem with her last year. She’ll come around. But with this cold, I wanted to make sure this little guy stayed warm tonight and got enough to eat.”
“Is he going to make it?” she asks.
“If we can get some milk into him,” Adam tells her.
I kneel next to Gina. I don’t even realize I’m going to touch the calf until my hand makes contact with its face. I run my fingertips over the fur between its eyes and along its jaw, trailing a finger over a wet nose. A soft coat that is still damp from birth. Warm to the touch despite the cold.
A noise from the kitchen doorway draws my attention. I glance over to see Annie and Lizzie hauling the galvanized nipple bucket into the mudroom. “Is this enough water, Datt?” Lizzie asks.
“It’s warm,” Annie adds helpfully. “Not hot.”
“I think that’s just right,” Adam tells them. “Annie, go fetch that big wooden spoon of your mamm’s.”
He looks at me. “Can you keep an eye on the calf for a moment?”
“I think I can handle him.”
He gets to his feet and takes the bucket from Lizzie. “Sammy, bring me a scoop of that milk replacer.”
The boy grabs the bag and drags it across the floor toward his father, tearing at the tape along the top as he goes. “I got it, Datt.”
The man looks over his shoulder at his son and laughs. “I think the bag is getting the better of you. Grab that measuring cup out of there and fill it up.”
Annie trots into the mudroom, wood spoon in hand, and passes it to her datt.
Sammy jams the plastic measuring cup into the bag of milk replacer, scoops out a heaping mound, and carries it to his father. I watch as Adam dumps powder into the pail of water, then stirs the muddle with the spoon.
I read somewhere that our sense of smell is one of the most powerful memory triggers. The creamy-sweet redolence of the milk replacer fills the air of the mudroom, taking me back to a hundred winter mornings in which my datt and I would feed the calf or calves, and a time when I had no concept of all the intricacies of the world around me. Life was simple, regimented, filled with work and as much play I could get away with. As I watch the children tend to the calf, their faces filled with wonder and the anticipation of keeping the animal here overnight, I feel the loss of that innocence and the empty place it left behind.
Lifting the pail, Adam casts a look at me. “Do you remember how to do this?”
“Some things you never forget.” I use my finger to check the temperature of the milk-replacer mixture and find it tepid, so I take the bucket from him. He kneels next to the calf and, supporting its body with his legs, he cups its head between his hands and gently upends its snout. I move in close with the bucket, sliding the nipple between the animal’s lips. At first the calf has no interest. He’s weak and cold and missing his mama. I persist, letting some of the milk replacer dribble out the side of his mouth and onto his chin. After a few minutes, the calf rouses. Instinct kicks in. Nudging the bucket, he begins to suckle.
“He’s drinking!” Sammy exclaims.
“Of course he is,” Adam replies without looking away.
The nipple apparatus clanks with every draw of milk, a sound that adds to my sense of nostalgia. It’s a messy ordeal; milk oozes from the sides of the calf’s mouth and drips onto the floor. As he settles in to eat, his eyes roll back and he begins to suckle with gusto.
Gina can’t seem to take her eyes off the calf. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anything so sweet,” she murmurs.
Adam glances up from the animal and smiles at her. “For the Amish, God is manifest in a closeness to nature, caring for the land and animals,” he tells her.