”Every October, My Two Brothers and I Each Sent Our Sister $250 to Pay for Mom’s Propane. But When I Visited in January, I Found Our 82-Year-Old Mother Sleeping in Her Winter Coat, With Just Five Percent of Fuel Remaining. By That Afternoon, I’d Arranged a Delivery and Put the Account in My Name.
Overnight temperatures plunged to 31 degrees below zero at Mom’s farm east of Harvey.
She hadn’t picked up her phone for two consecutive evenings.
My brother Steve was working nonstop clearing snow from county roads, so I drove from Bismarck to check on her myself.
The kitchen door was unlocked, just as it had always been.
The house was completely quiet apart from the steady ticking of the clock.
The furnace had stopped running.
Mom was sleeping in Dad’s old reclining chair.
She had a long brown winter coat on and a knitted cap covering her white hair.
A homemade afghan lay across her knees.
Frost had formed along the inside of the windows.
I stood motionless in my red parka, car keys still in my hand, as melting snow dripped from my shoulders.
The thermostat displayed 58 degrees.
Mom was eighty-two and had been living alone ever since Dad passed away.
I had a particular reason for not calling my sister immediately.
Mom pleaded with me not to involve Pam.
And because the propane supplier needed only one person to take responsibility for the account, I decided to handle it myself.
Each October, Rob, Dean, and I contributed $250 each toward Mom’s heating expenses.
Pam lived closest to the farm, so we’d trusted her to organize payments and fuel deliveries.
I stepped outside and brushed the snow away from the propane tank’s gauge.
It showed only five percent remaining.
When I returned to the kitchen, I spotted an October delivery receipt held against the refrigerator by a seed corn magnet.
The company had delivered just 200 gallons.
A 500-gallon propane tank generally holds approximately 400 gallons when filled.
Including Pam’s share, our combined contributions totaled $1,000.
That should have covered the first fill and another delivery sometime after Christmas.
But no second delivery had been made.
Mom woke and noticed the concern on my face.
“”Don’t go picking a fight with your sister. She’s dealing with enough already.””
Pam’s husband, Mark, had undergone back surgery in September and still hadn’t resumed working.
“”She told me propane costs more this winter,”” Mom explained. “”I can manage with the house a little cold.””
Her fingers were icy to the touch.
At 10:40 that morning, I contacted the Harvey co-op.
A delivery truck reached the farmhouse before two that afternoon.
The driver pumped 375 gallons into the tank, bringing it to eighty percent capacity at $2.09 per gallon.
I paid $784 using my card.
Then I registered Mom for automatic keep-full service and transferred responsibility for the account into my name.
From that point forward, the supplier would track the tank level and arrange deliveries when needed.
I adjusted the thermostat to seventy degrees.
The furnace came alive with a soft thud that I could feel through the floorboards.
An hour later, Mom stood up and unbuttoned her brown coat.
She hung it on a hook beside the kitchen entrance.
“”I’d almost forgotten how nice warmth feels,”” she whispered.
I messaged my brothers.
“”Mom has propane again. Starting next October, send your contributions to me. We’ll discuss everything at Easter.””
Dean phoned almost at once.
Rob was busy feeding his cattle and didn’t contact me until later that evening.
I reassured both men that Mom was warm and comfortable, but explained that we’d need to discuss the remaining details when we gathered in person.
Pam called on Thursday after discovering that the co-op had taken her name off the account.
“”You did this without telling me.””
“”I made sure Mom had heat,”” I replied.
She hung up.
We didn’t exchange another word for eleven weeks.
When Easter arrived, the family gathered at the farmhouse as we always did.
Ham was roasting in the oven, and Mom had made her traditional kuchen.
Rob and Dean were sitting at the kitchen table with their coffee.
Mom relaxed near the window, comfortable enough that she no longer needed her winter coat or knitted hat.
Pam arrived last.
And she hadn’t come empty-handed.
She set something on the kitchen table, directly in front of everyone.
The conversation stopped.
Rob gradually lowered his coffee cup.
Pam glanced at Mom before facing me and taking a long, steady breath.
