Doc Anderson's portfolio was full of quips. He used to say that Southern Iowa, as far as weather is concerned, is the hottest, the coldest, the wettest and the driest place on earth. We got it all and all in between.
Northern Iowans expected cold winters with lots of snow and they seemed to love it. In Southern Iowa, we enjoyed, on the average, mostly milder winters. Still, blasts of cold from the North did not escape us entirely. Winter could blow in bitter cold and beautiful scenic snow. Early mornings of extremely cold temperatures presented a rapture of sparkling frost and atmospheric sundogs could light up a daytime sky.
This was a frigid winter that followed the summer of heat and drought in the early 70's. It was amazing that a few months earlier it had been scorching hot. The crops had burned up in the field. Now it was colder than a penguin's behind.
The ground water level was at an all-time low and many wells had dried up. The well I used to water the cattle herd was dry and I had to devise a method to winter water them. I put a pump on the power take-off of my little B Farmall tractor. Then, I drove the tractor down to the pond, chopped a hole in the ice, stuck a hose down in the pond and pumped water up. It was an interesting operation.
My cows needed five to ten gallons of water a day to keep nutritional balance in their huge paunches. That winter they'd drink by licking the layer of ice and snow covering the ground. It was nowhere near the amount of water they required. When the supplemental water I pumped came flowing from the hose, the cows would crowd in to be first at the fresh supply. The more aggressive cows would push their way in. The more timid creatures would slink back and wait their turn.
It was a very frigid morning. I had gone to pump water for my cows but my faithful little B Farmall refused to start. I woke my wife, Kay, to ask for her help. I knew that we could start the tractor by pulling it with another vehicle. A short, sharp tug should do the trick. Kay was more than willing to assist.
Kay jumped out of bed, dressed, got a cup of coffee and away we went. We spoke on the way of the winter's dazzling beauty. Alongside the road, a cock rooster pheasant strutted in the sun. His beautifully colored feathers and long tail gleamed brightly against the sparkling frost on the fences and shrubs. Amazing, I thought, how Mother Nature equipped pheasants with the ability to withstand cold temperatures when they had only shrubs and overlaying frozen grass for protection.
The little tractor was sitting in a shed. I backed my 4-wheel-drive veterinary truck into the building until I was about three feet from the tractor's front wheels. I got out of the truck and attached one end of a 15-foot heavy log chain to the front spindle of the tractor. The other end I attached to the back of the truck. I stood back and looked the situation over. The driveway to the shed was covered with ice and snow. To pull start a vehicle, dry ground was required. Traction was needed to turn the tractor's wheels, to subsequently turn the piston over for the start. The little tractor needed to turn over before we hit the ice and snow I had concluded.
Kay's job was to drive the vet truck. I said to her, "We'll try to pull start it right in the shed where the traction is good. So, when I tell you to go, give it hell, so it'll turn over quickly while on dry footing."
Kay got behind the wheel of the truck. I got on the B Farmall with its triangle front end. I turned on the ignition, put it in the proper gear to start, and said to her, "OK, give it hell!" What I had forgotten to say was, "Be sure to tighten the chain first."
When I heard Kay put the truck in gear and stomp on the accelerator, I knew I was in deep trouble. When the slack came out of the chain, the tractor (with me holding on pale-faced and frozen to the seat) ejected from the building like a rocket from a launch pad. Kay headed for the road and took a sharp left. I followed on the tractor, swinging at a 90 to 180 degree pendulum, sliding on the ice. Kay never looked back. She continued toward the road at a galloping pace. When she got to the road she hesitated while she checked for oncoming traffic. The hesitation put slack back in the chain and the tractor rolled up on it.
Kay cautiously looked in both directions but didn't see anything coming on the highway. She floor boarded the truck. The chain's slack quickly dwindled as she jerked and pulled me along. Kay picked up speed. There was one last lurch before the front end of the tractor completely broke away. I came to an abrupt halt.
Kay looked back after hearing the terrible noise. She stopped the truck and sheepishly walked back to see the tractor in two pieces. She said, "Oh, oh, did I do something wrong?"
"Oh, hell no," I said, feeling slightly upset. I was too relieved to be alive to be angry. "This happens all the time," I added. It was a story I would tell our grandchildren.
During the ride back to town I reminded Kay of another time her driving about did us in. We were chasing a cow in my veterinary truck at Dwight Lovitt's. Kay was about nine months pregnant. I was holding on to the back of the truck with one hand, trying to throw the lariat with the other. The cow was fast, but Kay was faster. She must have had a lapse in memory, forgetting I was in the back. Kay drove off lickety-split into a mud seep and became stuck. This time, her poor driving actually saved me from toppling out. This was a story I would tell at the coffee shop. Amazingly enough, the whole episode didn't even start Kay in labor.
