**2 prompts — 'Plan B', Nov 12, 2021, and 'house', Nov. 19, 2021

"Never really a choice, was there?"

"Oh-no! Not once the power went off... and stayed off." I pull a long face and roll my eyes. An involuntary groan escapes me, echoed by a hearty sigh from Kanute as we remember the year we were going to my brother's in the city for Christmas lunch. The event demanded much planning, well in advance. It's no mean feat to change your routine milking to try to accommodate something as special as Christmas... home or away.

"Our usual early-morning get up and go was delayed by what? A couple of hours?"

"Mm-m-m," Kanute answers. He folds his arms, clearly showing he's still in denial of how our most careful dreams and schemes fell apart at the seams. "We were so damned sure we had it ALL worked out."

Plan A was a normal milking on Christmas Eve before the cows faced a lengthy stretch between milkings on Christmas day, when a later morning start, maybe as late as 8.30 am was planned, followed by our usual chores in double-quick order. (Some, like the feeding out hay, was done the night before and that paddock locked up. Next, spruce-up time and off to our festive lunch in the city, 2-1/2 hours away. Our only regret was that we needed to be home before dark to successfully bring the cows in for their latest ever milking.

All began to unravel with a power break—at our all-electric dairy! No-o-o! Not today... please, please NO! This is impossible. It can't be happening. We looked at each other in deepest despair.

Back to the house and a desperate phone call to our electricity supplier confirmed what we dreaded to hear. It was hopeless. The duty officer had no idea when supply would be resumed. "On this day of the year..." he said reluctantly, and somewhat sheepishly, "the downtime is totally unpredictable. It's anyone's guess how long it'll take to round up the guys to check the lines... and then find where the problem is. Sorry, but can't even make a guesstimate."

Contingency plans were desperately thought up, examined, and most discarded. Through phone calls to our family, we kept up a positive and optimistic attitude and belief that we would be only a little late. "No problems," said my brother cheerfully, "... just drive safely."

With no milking possible during our enforced 'wait' time, we hastily reversed the order of our chores—like giving greedy calves their buckets of milk; hens fed and water topped up; extra meals readied for dogs and cats. Phew! So far, so good.

Back in the dairy, Kanute hopefully flicked a switch. In the deafening silence, his eyes reluctantly met mine. "Still no power." He sighed heavily.

"Maybe having our bath now would cheer us up a bit?" I knew this would be risky business, probably inviting all manner of disasters of the messy kind—but it was possible we might get lucky just this once.

"I suppose so." His tone was extremely doubtful, still he began ticking off the potential for our dairy clothing to keep us clean. "Our 'beanies' will cover our hair OK; overalls, big 'dairy' apron and rubber boots for the rest... Maybe we COULD wash up bright and shiny again after milking."

I pushed myself hard to sound enthusiastic. "Better to be actually doing something positive instead of moping around feeling sorry for ourselves," I said. Even almost believing it. As expected, the bath relieved much of the worsening strain in bodies and souls. We cheered up as our best clothes were laid out, Christmas presents packed into the car, and drinks put back into the refrigerator to continue chilling until the last possible moment. With this flurry of activity done, it was back to the dairy, muttering prayers and pleas for a happy outcome.

But nothing had changed. Still no power. Another phone call to my brother, with a news update about a revised plan of action. Thankfully, another Christmas Eggnog or two helped to keep him jolly through all these bad tidings. Plan B roared onto the scene.

"The last resort... the monster!" I feel the tension build behind my eyes once again. It was an early vintage petrol engine to power the milking machine and the milk vat's refrigeration and agitator in an emergency when ALL else failed. It seriously was a monster. So hard to start you'd wonder which of you would bust a part first. So loud you had to shout yourself hoarse to be heard. So smelly from fumes that couldn't escape fast enough you were near asphyxiation, with teary eyes to make it an even more emotional experience.

The cows were terrified of the monster, sharing their 'gut feelings' most generously. My nose twitches with its own indelible memories. A combination of pleas, bribery, threats and in the end, brute force enticed the poor girls into the dairy to be milked. In their abject terror, most tried to hold back their milk flow - with varying degrees of success. Some expressed their outrage by lashing out with deadly aim towards anything approaching their udders. These were the halcyon days when we manually washed teats thoroughly before putting the milking cups on whilst our girls simultaneously performed quite impressive 'dancing' entertainment for us. Automatic 'anythings' waited for fatter pockets.

"Lucky we were light on our feet back then." I chuckle as I picture our ducking and weaving to avoid flying hooves and other unmentionables.

Against all odds, we were winning. Until the monster abruptly coughed and spluttered a few times and expired. A loud, grievous and smoky death meant no resuscitation was possible. Colourful epithets rang out loudly in the sudden embarrassing silence of the dead monster. Our stomping around was as heavy as our hearts, accompanied by the whole herd's mooing protests. There was no choice but to accept the inevitable. It was after all, Christmas Day. Everything was closed and empty, and everyone was somewhere important, sharing all manner of special food and drinks and presents. Everyone... except us!

Plan C was sadly and reluctantly conceived. Our only option was to let the cows out into a small paddock to wait; clean the dairy to make it possible to milk the rest of the cows WHEN power was resumed; and phone my brother once again, to ask them to please not delay their lunch.

"We'll definitely make it later in the afternoon," I said, through gritted teeth. It took much to summon up my last reserves of courage and cheerfulness. Was it just my imagination, or did he sound tinily tight-lipped when he agreed?

Now was the time to simply wait calmly for however long it was going to take. And make some lunch. Yes well-ll... the refrigerator yielded some Fritz and cheese, a few slices of bread that had seen better days, tomato sauce and some pickles. The decision was made for us. The choice for Christmas lunch would be sandwiches. Not even toasted. Imagine, pre-microwave days, having a large chest freezer full of solidly frozen meat and vegetables with no way to thaw them.

So this was Christmas. Our first Christmas meal on our own farm. Not quite according to the Master Plan—not according to any plan at all. The old adage - it's no use crying over spilt milk -had rarely been so appropriate, becoming a saying we would use more than a few times in the decade ahead!

"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 seemed before we had kids." We exchange knowing glances. We'd had SO much to learn. Back then, the unimaginable bliss of a break beckoned. To skip the night milking altogether, enjoy ourselves into the evening and come home as late as we chose. The cold reality of a pre-dawn start next day would still inevitably await us, but that mattered not at all. A whole milking off! No price was too high to pay for such a luxury.

At long, long last, on this most unusual Christmas day, the power was restored. We milked the rest of the herd with electricity and alacrity, had another bath, washing and scrubbing away all evidence of our traumas from the dairy (no success in the 'stay clean' department, sadly). Finally, a 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 the next happy hours of celebration. A safe trip brought us to a joyous late afternoon and Christmas evening dinner with our beloved family—and some extremely unusual dinner conversation with stories of our 'never a dull moment' life to share. As always, the descriptions grew much funnier in the telling than they had been in reality, embellished more than a little with the assistance of the odd drop of Christmas cheer.

A novel 'Holy-day' indeed.