Distinctly Montana Magazine

w w w . d i s t i n c t l y m o n t a n a . c o m 77 he said, "Wisely or unwisely, I immediately went in the shed and removed the Bobcat and pickup." He left the maternity pen where it was set up in the corner, since the one remarkable piece of good luck was that there were no cows and calves in it this particularly evening. After returning to the house, Phil and Brenda began pouring over Internet ideas as to how one removes deep snow and ice that has frozen and packed on to steep roofs. ey con- sidered several workable approaches, and were ready to go into action the next morning. But when Phil made a midnight tour, he could see daylight—or in this case, star light—at the top of the shed where it should not have been. By morning the collapse was complete, leaving "the damndest mess you could imagine." e broken roof was poking up at all angles and under four feet of snow—all this when the bone chilling temperature did not get above 12 degrees and the lashing wind refused to let up. But Montana neighbors, always on the lookout for each other, were ready for the challenge. How is it that Montana neighbors just seem to know—instinctively sense the unwritten, unspoken local bulletin? It must have something to do with all breathing the same air and feeling the same vibrations of the earth, since it clearly has nothing to do with Facebook or Twitter. ey just know. So Brenda receives a phone call that everyone—a dozen strong—are going to show up the next day with kids, tools, and shovels; and dinner for all would be set up next door ("next door" as the crow flies). e goal of the project was to rescue the free standing maternity pen, since in this worst of winters, it was just a matter of time when it would be in demand. But this job required everyone to shovel snow off the collapsed roof parts, chip the ice off each metal sheet, and remove all the screws. is work went on from dawn to early dusk, but as the temperature dropped with the setting sun, success was ac- tually measurable with a full bucket of screws and a corridor big enough to move the pen. e final effort was disassembling the pen, moving the heavy panels out the corridor and onto the Bobcat, and re-assembling the pen in the old barn. e final rebuilding of the shed waited for spring, again bringing in neighbors for what almost looked like an old fashioned barn raising. One neighbor, a rancher and excellent carpenter, told his son they were going to Gil- bert's to put up trusses, which prompted his son to say, "Trusses are not my thing"; which prompted him to reply, "Trusses are going to be your thing tomorrow." Ranch-style rebuilding is not for sissies, and sometimes not for OSHA (Occupational Safety and Health Administration). But the job has to get done, and has to get done timely for the coming season. In this case, volunteer workers are walking down beams and scrambling up walls, leaning out to catch the trusses dangling in front of them at the end of a loader. Sometimes the conversation is interrupted by strains of Rush Limbaugh blar- ing out of an old radio, and sometimes Rush gets shouted down. Ranch kids are front and center in the work, earning the recognition of a "hand," of which there is no higher praise for competence. Today the shed is ready for its next winter. Insurance was not part of the rebuild. Insur- ance seems to be based on minutely defined causal differences between snow, ice and wind, and negotiations are generally endless and fruitless. Good neighbors are the best insur- ance policy in the world. What will be the memory of the winter of 2019? e rancher perspective is generally, "It is just one damn thing after another, and you go with the flow." But there is another memory, and that is the story of "good," good neighbors—of hearing a voice on the phone that is not saying, "So sorry. Be sure to tell us if there is something we can do." No. e voice says, "We'll be there tomorrow with our kids and crews, and dinner for everyone will be at my house afterward." Brenda and Phil Gilbert

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