Some men love beautiful women, some love fast cars, loud engines, bright colors. Me. I love old barns, those fading cathedrals of the American lanmdscape. Look fast for they will soon be gone, replaced by dry, humorless steel structures, durable, practical and dull. But not yet. Not while a few hardy souls endure to admire them..
Whenever I drive on the blue highways and lost backroads, I keep my eyes peeled. Even a mundane journey becomes an adventure when you are searching out these treasures.. I’ve even trained my family in the finer points of barnspotting. We search for sagging roofs and leaning walls. Even better if if they are located on an aptly named road. One favorite barn stood proudly on Hencoop road. And though the days of cows and hens are long gone in this part of the county, this particular barn has hung on long past logic and the push of gravity. The only animals inside are a flock of swallows who mark the season by flying elaborate parabolas in and out of the open loft door. It’s a hypnotic scene where time and space have diminished.
Today, I am standing outside my father’s old barn on Meacham Hill road. It has now faded to the color of last year's harvest washed by spring rains. The back end has collapsed. The sides have buckled dangerously. Is it strong enough to stand the strain of winter's greedy fingers?
Dad’s old barn was just like him: solid and built to last. It has heavy posts and hand cut beams that weathered ninety seasons of rain and snow and wind and sun. This cathedral of America’s agricultural past stood as a silent outpost, calm and surreal, in the face of history’s racing storms.
Like the stately barns in Thomas Hardy's Wessex novels, my old barn reflects and absorbs the sights and sounds of the timeless past. Scientists tell us that our sense of smell is the best memory cue. One step inside the barn brings unique odors found no where else. These smells conjure pastoral images which I can picture perfectly though I have never experienced them personally. The wood has sponged the seasons of birthing and milking cattle making them real and present even though a cow has not set foot in here for over thirty years!
We spent many summers here, far from the joys of television or the pleasures of baseball. Instead, my father bought bundles of hay so that my brother and I could dive from its loft. We created an amusement park in our imagination and the unique geography inside the old barn. A tough climb, we pulled ourselves up along the narrow ledge and swung our feet out over our heads. Imagine the world upside down, a spider's crawl, until we reached our goal. Swallows squawked, their slumbers disturbed. The ancient floor creaked with each step. Dust motes floated everywhere.
Although it was only a fifteen-foot drop to the ground, we felt we were on the edge of a sheer mountainside ready to leap into oblivion. The hay, waiting to break our fall, seemed hardly visible from this altitude.
"Brian, you can go first," I offered generously.
Brian made a determined effort to jump; a sick smile unfolded across his face. Bent legs. Arms back. Ready . Set. FREEZE.
"No. You're the oldest. You go first."
Already I could feel the cold sweat running sprints down my spine. Suddenly the world was completely silent. No flies buzzed. No winds blew. Time itself held its breath. I crouched down a little as though it would bring me a few precious inches closer to the soft bales below.
In that instant I became airborne. The exhilarating mixture of fear and joy suspended me somewhere between heaven and earth. I floated like a spider. I hovered like a hawk. I buzzed like a bee. I dropped like a stone. And then I was buried up to my neck in hay. Sweet hay. The last straw. Brian followed moments later screaming all the way down.
I will never forget the ripe smell of that hay, perfume for the sweaty backs of boys. We sang the music of childhood all that summer - jumping, falling, spinning, and screaming for all our lungs were worth.
Now I wonder how long this old barn will manage to stand? Already the bleak mountain nights of are notching a calendar of decline along its tired sides. Up above in the pure summer air, the stars whirl benevolently trooping from the woods and arranging themselves in familiar constellations. Autumn brings the promise of frost and heavy burdens for its sagging roof. But here in the bright Saturdays of summer, anything is possible. Life seems infinite and full of promise before the dark days of winter ahead. The old barn is alive, a slow growing crop at home in the living fields. I would hate to see it fall while the wind still whistles through its sagging rafters.
I would hate to see it fall while the swallows sweep its loft for nesting.
I would hate to see it fall while the eggs are cracking and another good summer waits right around the corner.
