Any Other Way

Any Other Way

When someone passes, the only thought is how much we loved them. All else is just cosmic sleight-of-hand. The love we shared and our memories are all that matter.

I stood in the rain, willing myself to enter the old barn. I hesitated to go in there because my grandfather died in it last week. The barn was full of old milking equipment, boxes of farm records, and an old rocking chair where he sat and whittled wood while collecting his thoughts. The place was brimming with his energy, and I wished he was here to tell me what to do with all this stuff.

My mother worried about her father spending so much time in that barn. We had a newer barn, sturdy and bright, so she could not fathom why he would choose to hang out in here.

"One day, the roof will collapse on your head," she warned him.

"Sure, sure," he murmured.

"You're not listening, are you? Don't you think it's getting dangerous to spend so much time there?"

"No, missy, I don't. The greater part of my life has been lived in that barn, and I don't believe it would ever do me harm."

"It's not a person, Dad. You can't reason with it or make its structural defects heal themselves. It's only going to get worse."

"Yep, same as me. We'll grow old together, I reckon."

"Is that how you want to die?" she asked him, her voice indignant.

"It wouldn't be the worst way to go."

With that said, he put on his winter coat and walked out the door. For him, this conversation was over.

It snowed heavily that afternoon, and my mother kept fretting and wringing her hands, knowing her father would not swallow his pride and come back in. He was stubborn, and she'd poked the old bear with all her worrying talk about his barn. He would stay down there and carve until all the lights were off in the house—only then would he come back in.

"Damn you for putting the old wood stove in there for him," she chastised my father.

"Hell, you were pleased as punch when I did that. You told me it would make him happy—and you as well. You don't get to blame this on me. The boy told me you were haranguing your old man again. You bring all this on yourself."

She glared at my father and then at me for telling on her. I didn't mean to cause trouble but I sometimes believed old grand-dad went down there to vex her. If he did, it sure worked.

I snuck out the back door and grabbed my coat and hat on the way out. It was snowing harder than ever, and I could barely see the weathered old barn in all the falling white stuff. I hoped I could get my granddad to come up to the house with me, but if he refused, I would still keep him company and listen to his stories of the old days.

When I entered, he pointed at a second chair near the woodstove.

"Warm your bones, lad. It's not a fit night out there."

"Was wondering if you'd come up to the house now," I told him.

"Why? To listen to her rant and rave again? Had enough of that shite today."

"She loves you. She worries about you."

"Well, who asked her to? I don't need a babysitter. I built this farm up from nothing, with only a plowshare and the sweat of my brow. I am not about to listen to some woman nagging me, even if it is your mother. My wife never got away with that sort of thing, and I am not letting anyone start now. It's too late in the day for that."

"The snow is coming down hard. It's not going to do that roof any favors," I said softly.

"You get out of here. You're just here shilling for your mother. I won't have it, so leave me in peace."

"I'll be good," I told him.

"Too late for that. You pissed me off now, and I don't care to look at you. You go on back up to the house now."

I did as told, but it bothered me. Just before I went out the door, I looked back. His head was bowed, as he hunched over his carving. The glow from the woodstove and an old oil lamp lit him up in an odd way. He reminded me of a caveman huddled at his fire, determined to keep it burning through the night to keep from freezing.

I wanted to rush back and beg him to let me stay with him. I could promise him I would be quiet, but I knew better. I was not wanted here tonight, and I had best get myself back before he noticed I was still here.

I went to the house, bundled up, and went to bed. I lay there in the dark, shivering under my covers, trying to generate body heat. I couldn't help but think of him down there, in that drafty barn, too stubborn to get himself out of the storm's path. That old barn was missing boards and pieces of its roof, so that woodstove had its work cut out for it.

I thought of the pettiness of granddad's pride, how he could risk freezing himself solid rather than admit he needed anyone's help or advice.

Whether from spending the afternoon lugging firewood with my father or perhaps the cold walk down to the barn, I was tired enough to fall asleep quickly. I could not remember my dreams—if I had any—and I think that might have been for the best.

Overnight, the snow turned to rain. There was an icy slush lining every path and walkway. I think my feet felt colder walking through that slush than they had ever been walking through snow. I didn't like the eerie stillness that morning. The only sounds were the huffing of cows waiting to be milked, and our boots slogging wetly forward.

It was still dark out, and our milking stock were in the new barn. Granddad's barn was to be demolished sometime in the next year or so. We hated to do it, but we could use a new, larger barn in its place—something in which we could store more hay and add more milking machines and tanks.

We knew how much he loved that old barn, but it was not serving a purpose on this farm, and it needed to come down before it collapsed on someone. It was an insurance risk and an eyesore, my father said many times, but I knew it was also dear to my granddad's heart. I knew I sure didn't want to be the one who told him it had to come down.

We got the cows all milked and were ready for some breakfast. We exited the barn but stopped dead in our tracks.

Granddad's barn had collapsed. It caved in right where his woodstove had been, and only the massive amounts of wet snow kept it from burning up.

We began tearing our way into the mess of boards and roofing that lay tangled atop my grandfather. We called for him but got no answer. Fearing the worst, we continued to dig through the debris. Neither of us said so, but we didn't believe this could end well.

It didn't, of course. We found him flattened beneath the roof, in his chair. The chair lay on its side now, but he still looked as though he was seated in it when it simply tipped over.

There was a bruise on his scalp and a bit of blood leaking out the corner of his mouth. Otherwise, he looked fine. It seemed as though we could shake him awake and lead him back to the house with us. Oh, how I wished we could.

So, here I stand, a week later, looking at the fallen barn. Nothing much could be salvaged, for it was water-damaged. I wanted to save his carving tools just because they were so dear to him but only found the folding whittler pocket knife. It was the one he used most, and I wanted to keep it.

My father was already planning out the new barn even as my mother was heartbroken he was doing so in such a short time. She had no knowledge of the farm and what the new space could do to make things easier—she just knew her father was gone. I made a point of hugging her lots, which she seemed to appreciate. It was easier to do that than talk about what happened.

The farm is not the same without him. That old farm dog of his lays about and doesn't even bark at strangers coming in the yard. The windmill won't turn anymore, even on the windiest days. Dad tried to oil it and checked it for rust, but it didn't need fixing. It had simply given up functioning. A great many things around the farm had a similar reaction to the granddad's demise. Just like people, it mourned for him right along with us.

One side of the old barn still stood, though it was wobbly when the wind blew strong. I walked to that side now and saw that the side door was standing open. I shut it and latched it carefully before walking away, putting everything in order.

The old farmer would not have wanted it any other way.