Gratitude born of cold

While the cold winter may be the small talk at the beginning of every conversation, there is no one who gets the cold quite like farmers and others who work in it every single day. For most, it’s a comment in passing to fill the silence. Still, for those of us who work outside, the cold isn’t something we just make small talk about. We have to plan for it, endure it for many hours and carry it with us long after the conversations end.

Hearing the cold wind howling outside at night, knowing I will spend the whole next day out working in it, is often a source of stress for me. It settles in before I close my eyes, thinking about my frozen fingers, cold equipment and the long hours ahead before the sun even has a chance to warm anything up.

However, as the cold days come and go, a new rhythm forms, and it gets easier. I know how to layer just right, including my heated vest underneath, as well as how to move a little more efficiently and plan ahead. The dread slowly gives way to a routine that makes the days easier — not comfortable but manageable. The more I think about it, my resentment is often quickly turned into gratitude.

Perspective changes everything. I think about how blessed and thankful I am to have automatic cattle waterers that don’t need constant thawing. How fortunate we are to have cattle that need bedding more frequently and calves that need an additional feeding to help them stay warm. At the moment, those chores can feel exhausting and relentless, but they also mean the animals are well cared for, and we have the tools to meet their needs.

Dad talks about winters that looked very different. He remembers traveling in his Ford 7600, bundled inside with nothing more than a heat houser, two miles one way to feed heifers on another farm; no cab, no comfort, only grit and determination. Then, he would come back to load total mixed ration for cows standing on sloped concrete pads that ate outside under covered bunks — as he ran a skid loader with no heat and only plexiglass sides, fighting the cold every second.

On the mornings when the cold reaches my core, I catch myself thinking about how easy it would be to complain, and sometimes I do. However, I quickly think back to all the hard, miserable moments my dad pushed through to get this farm to where it is today, and I am endlessly proud and humbled. I am thankful for everything my dad has carefully thought out to make life a lot easier, and I will never forget where we came from.

This winter, dad spent $6,000 to insulate our old shop, fix the door and add a heater. Some might look at it and call it janky, but you don’t always need the next nicest or newest thing to improve what you have. Progress doesn’t have to be flashy; it only has to make life a little easier. Now, the tractor and feed wagon can get out of the wind, and the skid loader has a warm place to park in the garage. For that, we are thankful.

Moments like this remind me that comfort isn’t something to take for granted, but it’s something that’s been earned over generations. Every small upgrade is built on years of hard work, sacrifice and endurance. Winter has a way of humbling you, but it also shines a light on all the gratitude.

This life and this work are something I chose and something I’m proud of. The cold doesn’t care how prepared you think you are; it strips things down to the basics. It reminds you what matters: showing up, taking care of what depends on you and finding pride in doing hard things well. Winter doesn’t just test equipment and endurance. It shapes the people who live through it.

Abby Fairbanks is the third-generation on her family’s farm. She works full-time with her parents, Doug and Jody, where they milk 400 cows  near Anamosa, Iowa.