If you had lived hundreds of years ago, what kind of work do you think you would have done? What job would you have wanted to do?

The bucket sits next to the stool. I stare at it and wonder if my hands can handle another day of the cold weather, cold water, and moisture. The cracks are deep and bleeding. How much blood will get into the milking bucket today? Will my husband and children even notice? Does our cow hate me for my rough, calloused milking? Is that why she kicks at me?
I yank my hair back into a messy bun. The snarls are wound so tight that I can't get a brush through them anymore. I need a long bath. But that's not going to happen with the drought and lack of kindling to heat the water. We barely salvaged enough to heat our single room, wooden home for the winter months. The luxury of a bath must wait until spring. I dream of the day the river will melt the top ice and I can dunk in it's cool waves.
My hand stitched dress scratches against my legs as I straddle the stool and place the bucket under our cow's udder. I tuck the thick fabric close to my body to keep the heat in, and sit. There's a touch of heat radiating off Fanny's side and I lean toward her flank, soaking in the warmth.
Best get started. Time's a wasting, and I still need to get the rest of my chores done before I start on breakfast. I'm going to have to get creative with the eggs. We've had them scrambled the last week.
My husband enters the shelter with a couple buckets full of water as I'm halfway through the milking. He looks gaunt. His cheeks sunken from the lack of food, and his once bulky frame withering under his clothes. His hair is as messy as mine. A black streak of soot covers his right cheek. He must've swiped his hand there while he cleaned the fireplace, then restarted the morning fire.
He places a bucket in front of our cow, Fanny. She drinks in big gulps, her throat constricting with the swallows.
"Are the kids up?" I ask as I coax the milk into the bucket. My hands ache and my husband's presence is a welcome distraction.
"Not yet." He shakes his head. The light from the lantern casts shadows behind him. "But I'm sure they'll be up soon."
He maneuvers around the stacked straw and back into the chicken coop. A few seconds later, the front of his shirt has eggs gathered in it. I lick my lips, ready to ease the biting cramp of hunger that curls my belly.
"Maybe I'll make a fresh batch of bread today for Heber's birthday. I'll shake up some butter in a bottle, just enough for the bread, and use some of our strawberry jam. The kids would love that."
My husband smiles and crosses the room, placing the eggs next to the shelter's door. "I think sleeping in is going to the the highlight of their day. How many times do they get out of helping with morning chores?"
It takes me a moment to count. But the times are less than my fingers and toes. They work just as hard for our survival as we do.
"Did you find anything special for Heber in the village yesterday?" I can't help but wonder what surprise my husband has up his sleeve.
His face deadpans. "Nothing that we could afford with such a lean year. But I did make something I think he might like."
"When did you have time to make something?" The milk bucket is almost full. I ease my milking routine, Fanny's udder sags from the loss of milk. 
He shrugs. "Here and there."
He's being evasive, which means it's going to be something good. I shrug and let the questioning go.
This will be a great day. I refuse to let anything ruin it. Even if we have little money, little food, and barely enough supplies to last us the rest of the season, we still have our lives, our family, our animals, our farm, and a roof over our heads. We are greatly blessed.