(prompt: 'lazy' 2/10/2020)

'So this was Christmas', say the words of a famous song, and this one was certainly turning into our most memorable, as dictated by all the 'she who MUST be obeyed' girls — our herd of milking cows! Not their fault. They were as powerless as our dairy... especially after our Plans A and B had failed so dismally...particularly Plan B and the generous sharing of the cows spontaneous reaction. It wasn't only the choking fumes of the vintage petrol engine that made me tear up. The thought of yet another bath and the burning question of whether there would be enough hot water left added its own special emotion to the occasion. And then the monster died. Our language became more than a little colourful and embarrassingly loud in the sudden silence. Our stomping around became as heavy as our hearts, accompanied by the whole herd's mooing protests.

Finally, we had to accept the inevitable... there would be no help forthcoming here. Not on Christmas Day. Every shop, every everything closed and empty; everyone else sharing special food and drinks and presents. Everyone... except us! As communicated bravely to my brother, Plan C demanded we wait calmly... and make some lunch.

Embarrassed though it was to reveal its truth, our refrigerator finally yielded some Fritz and cheese, a few sad slices of bread that screamed for toasting (grrr, no electricity!), tomato sauce and some pickles. The choice for Christmas lunch was set in stone—clearly sandwiches. Imagine the pain, pre-microwave days, with an ultra-large chest freezer full of meat and vegetables—solidly frozen, with no way to thaw them for hours. Our first Christmas meal on our own farm! NO similarity to the Master Plan—nor any plan at all. The old adage had rarely been so appropriate—It's no use crying over spilt milk. (Now there's a saying we would be using more than a few times in the decade ahead!)

"We didn't even care that we'd have to be up again before dawn for the next day's milking." Kanute arches one eyebrow. "Were we keen, or what?"

"Hmm... before dawn," I repeat. "Funny how heroic a dawn awakening once seemed... pre-kids days!" We exchange knowing glances. Our minds were so cluttered with the unimaginable bliss of skipping the night milking altogether; enjoying ourselves into the evening; coming home as late as we chose. Of course, we must still face the cold reality of that pre-dawn start next day, but one whole milking off! No price was too high to pay for such luxury.

At long last, on this most unusual Christmas day, the power returned. We milked the rest of the herd with 'electricity and alacrity'; quickly washed and scrubbed away all evidence of our dairy traumas in another shared 'hot' bath (with no lazy lolling permitted this time around), and then a final joyous phone call to my long-suffering brother—"We're on our way!"

And we were. From this moment on we enjoyed nothing but pleasure for many happy hours of celebration after a safe trip to a joyous late afternoon, then Christmas evening dinner with our beloved family—and extremely unusual dinner conversation with stories of our 'never a dull moment' Life. As always, the descriptions grew funnier in telling than in reality (probably embellished more than a little with the assistance of the odd drop of Christmas cheer!).

A memorable 'Holy-day' indeed.

Author's Note: 'Fritz'? Read all about it in the link in comments. I grew up with my Dad, the butcher, making his own Bung Fritz (simply the best, but not actually intended for Christmas lunch!)