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I stand in front of her to block the way "It really can’t be recoo outside, certainly not in the snow You ht catch pneumonia Noould that be when you have a new baby?"

Livia isn’t listening She’stoward the door with determination, and if I don’t move, she may plow me over

"Can’t you stop her?" I plead with the others Daisy shrugs and throws a man’s plaid bathrobe over Livia’s shoulders As I follow the little band through the parlor, I see who’s been singing

It’s the Reverend and Mildred Miller; Ho in front of the sofa Cypress, the grandroup, but I grab my ool coat and the rest of us press onward

Outside, the teht, but the snoirls around us like feathers Then it occurs to me: what if by some miracle, the baby starts to come? I run back inside for a blanket, not that it’s likely to happen, but I’d rather be prepared

Livia heads toward the split cedar fence with Daisy and Georgia, the three looking up as if they’ve never seen snowflakes before The mother-to-be stops, reaches out to touch the inch of white on the rail, takes some and washes her face She bends her head down and licks it with her tongue The others, laughing, follow her example It looks so fun, I’d like to do it myself, but someone has to be sensible

Livia takes off her robe and steam rises up as the snowflakes fall on her hot body She puts one foot up on the lower fence rail and leans back to catch the feathers in her roans, as if she were the earth pushing a whole tree out of the ground "Uggggggg!"

Both young women turn toward me, mouths open "Get her back in Get her in!"

Weroom Here, Cypress throws a quilt on the floor Mrs Miller puts a pillow under Livia’s head and I catch a healthy

The preacher, Homer, and the horseuy who helped the preacher bring us so a prayer

"Thank you, Lord Jesus!" says Cypress, taking the infant and wrapping it in a kitchen towel "If you can’t shift the baby, shift the e of labor is a blur I deliver the afterbirth, cut the cord, get Livia back in bed, and examine both the mother and baby Then, while everyone celebrates with apple cider and sandwiches that Mildred has brought from her house, I slip out into the dark yard and walk toward the fence Tiny flakes tickle ray sky and let the tears coreat pain in this life and you et hurt, but I see today that so us the baby

I walk over to the fence, lean forward, and lick snow off the cedar rail And the joy makes up for it all

January 8, 1935

Male infant, 6 pounds, 9 ounces, born to Livia and Homer Lewis of Hazel Patch The labor was a hard one I arrived and it seemed as if the birth would happen any --but the mother pushed for two hours and still had no baby