Come As You Are

I was born in the windy year of 1928. For my entire life, I’ve considered the rolling hills to the west of the Adirondacks my home. My older brother and sister live a short distance away, across the narrow vale on an opposing hill. My younger sister, born just a few years after me, died in a fire many years ago.

From my vantage point, I can see the unruly and boisterous trees of the Northeast hugging the tumbling landscape, disappearing into the foothills of the mountains beyond. The colorful changes to their temperament are a joy to watch come every fall.

While I’ve had many visitors and acquaintances over the years, I am grateful to say that I have a few friends—ones who have stayed by my side as we have aged.

“Barnard, do you think we’ll be having guests any time soon?” queried John Deere in his usual slow, yet powerful voice. His once magnificent green and yellow skin had faded with time, but his voice remained just as stalwart as the first day I had met him.

“Because it would be pleasant to have an excuse to go outside,” quipped Rose. Her dark walnut frame, striking and proud, over the pale white snow she comfortably glided, had since lost its shine. But a good rubbing with tung oil would reveal the beauty of her slender, yet strong body once more.

I was silent, though I’m sure they heard me nod solemnly in agreement. I looked at the deflated tire and rat-chewed rope that had once hung as a swing from my backbone, but now sat dejected in the corner, among other possessions long forgotten. It made me think of Young Charles.

As a young boy, he was the liveliest of souls. Running, climbing, singing, and skipping—sometimes all at once. He explored mercilessly and with reckless abandon. He shared his deepest hopes and secrets with us; his carved hearts with initials and his fanciful, wood models of planes and cars we shielded from the prying eyes of others.

We gave him space when he needed it; my walls softly absorbed his cries when he felt overwhelmed. And we did our best to protect him. I shut my doors and shielded him when bullies came and threw their rocks, though their words would still filter through my walls. John Deere and Rose would help, and pretty soon, Young Charles would be laughing again as he sat in John Deere’s sturdy seat and played with the steering wheel or as he would dance with Rose across the bare, dirt floor. His chalk drawings of Krazy Kat on my oak interior always reminded us of his undefeatable sense of spirit.

“Though I’m not sure these old joints would be able to handle the jumps in the snow anymore,” lamented Rose. Her joints creaked more than usual as of late. “It’s that dreadful arthritis. I think I’ll be needing a joint replacement soon.”

Between my sagging beams and John Deere’s grinding wheels, I knew that we wouldn’t be too far behind.

In the spring of 1944, Young Charles left for war. When he returned to us one year later, Young Charles was young no more. Gone was his mischievous smile and carefree laughter. Always quick to catch you off guard, his laugh had vanished. Young Charles had become Old Charles in his year overseas.

He was quiet, solemn, and introspective. He came to visit us as often as he did when he was a child, but we could never persuade him to gleefully handle John Deere’s driving wheel or to lead Rose around again. Old Charles would just sit on an old crate and stare out, sometimes for hours. But we were content to be part of this, to give him the silent company that I think he wanted.

When Charles Junior came into our lives, it was a welcome breath of fresh air. We befriended him as we had done with Young Charles in earlier years. But instead of Krazy Kat, it was Snoopy and Charlie Brown that he drew on my walls. These were vibrant years. We had many guests: Frisbee, Pogo, and Hula among those with whom we socialized. But they moved on, leaving us old-timers behind.

With Junior, we gave him solace and safety as we had done with his father. We listened and took care of his secrets as well. One late summer night, over the soft tunes of The Beatles, he told Mrs. Junior-To-Be his hesitation to go off to a strange land named Vietnam. That peace and love were closer to his heart than war. But, as with many things in life, wants do not dictate what would happen.

That fall, he said his goodbyes to all of us. We promised to take care of his baseball cards and comic books that he had neatly packed away in an old, pine box. Despite his reassurances to return in thirteen months, we never saw Junior again. A short five months later, family members dressed in black came to us carrying a box with his dress blues, medals and some pictures. Old Charles had gotten older still. And news of his son’s final breath at Khe Sanh had aged him even more.

As my paint chipped and peeled, the wood slowly wore away. Old steel hinges, rusty and orange from oxidation, disagreed more and refused to budge. The lock had retired from its job long ago, now content to allow nature to prevent entry.

Time jogged along, at times taking a break to walk, other times sprinting away whimsically. The seasons blurred into one another: spring into summer, summer into fall and winter, and back to spring again. A peaceful half-slumber captured all of us old-timers. John Deere, Rose, and I still talked to one another, but we mostly slept.

Then, one lazy spring morning, a curious face shrouded in tangled hair peeked in.

“Way cool, an old barn with vintage stuff!!!”

She was fresh faced; glowing eyes were alit with wonder and amusement. Her tussle of wild, untamable golden hair struggled to keep up with her as she slipped inside and darted around. Her faded jeans, low top Chuck Taylors, and Nirvana T-shirt also struggled to contain her insatiable curiosity.

She leapt into John Deere’s pitted metal seat and grabbed the worn steering wheel, then squeezed an imaginary horn that was never there in the first place.

“HONK, HONK!!! Coming through, HONK HONK!!!”

Discovering Rose, hidden in a veil of spider webs, she gleefully exclaimed, “We’re gonna have fun this winter!”

She swept off the webs and tested the rickety wooden joints that had long since loosened.

“But we’re gonna have to fix you up first!”

Her energy was palpable in the air.

We awakened and shook off the trails of our long rest.

John Deere, Rose, and I were once again ready to give our love.