By Kathy Nance
Lambing season always began in the cold and the dark.
My grandparents would rise early. Grandma filled sterilized glass Pepsi bottles with warm milk, fitted them with black rubber nipples. I pulled my boots on over two or three pairs of socks, zipped my fleecy winter coat. Together, Grandpa Hill and I walked across the road to the barn.
Hungry lambs greeted us loudly, wobbled to the side of the lambing pen. There were always some whose mothers either couldn’t or wouldn’t feed them. I watched as Grandpa knelt beside them, angling the bottles to keep the milk flowing. I loved to help hold the bottles. Best of all was stroking the lambs’ soft little heads.
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