Old Barns: Humble Settings with So Many Memories

Old Barns: Humble & Majestic

 

Liliana runs toward the "Old Barn"

       Old barns are humble, yet majestic, buildings.  An aging wooden barn, from the inside, is a grand shadow theatre on a sunny day with rays of light streaming through the cracks between each wooden board.  Sometimes the boards are warped, cracked, or altogether missing so unique patterns of light and dark stream across the barn floor.  Old barns have creaky doors which hide spelt bins, animal stalls, and rickety stairs. 
       On my parents' farm, there are two main barns (not counting the numerous sheds and the chicken coop that existed when I was a child) which went by the names of "Old Barn" (or "Big Barn") and "New Barn" (or "Green Barn") for many years.  The "Old Barn," although it still stores hay for wintertime cattle feedings, no longer holds any animals.  The barn still holds a vast array of memories, however.  Those dark, unlit rooms storing spelt and sheep wool were also the "secret passages" of my childhood play.  We were pioneers hiding from tornadoes, pirates locked in dungeons, or Trixie Belden solving her latest mystery as my brother, sister, and I ventured in and out of the dark nooks at the end of a storage hall. 
       As we grew older, the barns became the setting for hard work:  the seemingly never-ending unloading of hay that must be carefully stacked for safe wintertime feedings, the shoveling of manure as pens are cleaned, and the braving of the cold as we fed and worked with animals on frosty days.  Of course, it was my father who did the majority of all the work, voluntarily and with joy and it was us, the children, who with small doses of work learned large doses of work ethic and a love for nature and farm life.  I now remember the cold fingers from winter work and the itchy, scratched arms from summers haying as such happy moments, together as a family. 
       Friends and family sometimes joined us for farm work.  My own husband, Brian, shoveled manure on one of his first visits to the farm and he participated in many haying days.  Love prompts us to do such unfamiliar toils!  I remember my sister and I atop a particularly high load of hay as it was being driven into the Old Barn and we realized that the hay between us and Brian was taller than the huge barn door frame and would be toppled unto him and knock him off the wagon load if the tractor continued into the barn.  We yelled and screamed, but the tractor was too loud for the driver to hear us, so we yelled to my panicking husband "Jump!" so Brian was forced to jump and fall and roll away from the wall of bails coming his way.
       The Old Barn was also the site of one of my worst memories, the chicken massacre.  Every few years, one of us raised a flock of Barred Rock chickens (the ones with the amazing black and white pinstripes).  I had raised two groups of them previously.  My sister then had a turn at raising some from chicks.  Those chicks had a hard time of it.  First a weasel killed some, so Dad moved them into the bottom of the Old Barn which seemed safer.  One day, my little sister asked if I would walk up to the barn with her since it was time for her to feed.  I was in the middle of some project because I remember having a hard time deciding whether to go, but ultimately couldn't refuse my sweet blue-eyed sister whom I adored.  We ambled back the lane to the farmland, passed the New Barn, passed the pasture and the pond, and climbed the hill to the Old Barn.  As we entered the barn's bottom floor, mayhem met us.  Chicken parts lay everywhere.  A beak here, a claw there, feathers everywhere.  And amidst the remains of about 30 torn-apart chickens were two chickens which were alive but understandably crazy.  Those two chickens raced amid the carnage and cried out in the most horrifying squawks.  My sister, Emily, and I were stunned, then Emily started sobbing.  "My chickens!" she said in such despair and horror.  It was a dreadful scene and I remember hugging Emily to me and ushering her out of the barn as quickly as possible and thinking, "I almost didn't come out with her!  How could a little child have handled this scene all alone, so far from the house?"  Tears were streaming down my face as we re-entered our house and told our family of the event.
       Most barn memories do not have such horror connected to them, of course.  For that one memory, I must have thousands of beautiful memories, full of animal care and love, visual feasts of light and happiness amidst family, and the scents of new hay and rich sheep feed.  I remember celebrating a ram's birthday with a cake made from shaped grain, slumber parties in the hay loft, and finding baby kittens in the hay.  Barns are humble buildings full of their utilitarian purpose, but they are also majestic settings which highlight the beauty of harvest, family, and childhood memories.  I can't pass by a beautifully old barn without wondering, "What events occurred there previously?," "What memories does that barn hold?," "What animals and people once spent blissful or tragic moments beneath those weathered barn boards?"  Of course the answers to those questions are usually unknown, full of mystery and conjecture, just like those dimly lit, mysterious barn rooms where I played and imagined such adventure.