My Grandfather's Farm

It is my firm belief that certain places exist in a kind of time-between-times. The graveyard ever shrouded in half light, the empty office, full of flickering fluorescence and the sigh of inadequate air conditioning. Peculiar, though, are barns. Specifically, old barns, with holes in the roof and hay that hasn't quite started the slow descent of decay into dust. Peculiar because it seems to matter when you enter them that they fix in time. Enter during the day and they're soft places, almost sepia toned around the edges. The smell of the hay heady on the air, filling your head and chest to the point of bursting, then relaxing into a mellow, lovely perfume. The sun dappling the floor, catching motes of dust in the beams cast by the holes in the roof. The mewling of kittens as their mother feeds them, drowsy and yawning, giving the occasional sleepy lick to one of her young.

Enter during a storm, though, and, while not outright hostile, the barn will lack that warmth. No spot will seem safe from dripping water, the wind will whistle through cracks and holes, bringing on a chill. The only light will be flashes of lightning, casting in stark relief the cowering, wet farmyard mouse. The air will smell of damp and old barn animals, the hay and dirt turning to mud beneath you as you seek shelter that no longer seems to exist. The storm, unceasing until you leave that limnal space.

And last, the barn at night. Moon through the ceiling catching the sharp, rusted tines of a pitchfork, the menacing clink of chains. No animal sounds, just the groaning of too old wood and, faintly, the fear of another's footsteps. The smell of hay seems no different, at first, until the undercurrent of rot penetrates the brain, until that is all you can smell. The barn itself, is, once more, not uninviting. But the dark shadows it harbors each seem filled with dire portents, dangers unseen but not unsensed.

At first blush, these spaces may each seem as though they can't be trapped between times, each one being bordered by specific events. Sunrise to sunset, the first drop of rain to the last, twilight to dawn. But, in entering those spaces, something seems to hang. The barn-by-day stretches into an infinite evening, until the occupant exits or drifts into a restful slumber, waking only in the next morning. The barn-by-storm remains caught in the gale until the occupant braves the storm, deciding to seek better shelter. And the barn-by-night, ever creeping with dread until the occupant collapses from exhaustion into a fitful sleep, or, worse, is consumed by those slithering things ever hinted at by the dark.

I first noticed this phenomena on my grandfather's farm. When I was young, he kept cattle and grew an abundance of fresh squash and tomatoes and onion and corn. Vegetables so sweet as to be beyond belief, days spent with him playing in the creek or building nonsense in his shop. He had a new, well stocked barn near the house, but on the far end of the property there existed an older barn, perfect for summer exploration, to escape the sun's rays for a moment. There you'd lie in that comfortable drowse before, faintly, the call of the dinner bell woke you for fresh cornbread and BLTs.

And in those awkward teen years, as the once virile man's strength slowly became memory, I would mow his fields for him. The cows gone for greener, younger pastures. The old barn still sat, settling in its own age, now mostly forgotten, left for those happy days of summer past. Until, of course, an unexpected storm caught me too far to rush back to the house. I can remember crouching, miserable in the wet, an uneasy truce reached with a wet skunk in the same dire straits as I. And, when finally I determined to take the mower to the house, the storm passed and the sun shone down just as I pulled up to the shop.

Finally, we come to the barn-by-night. My grandfather had sadly passed and we, those left behind had to tidy his affairs. The endless cataloguing of a life well lived and well loved. And as I approached that old barn, time having got away from me and the other cousins and family having left for the day or far away on the other side of the property, I entered that mausoleum of wood and dust just as the sun set behind me. I don't know what compelled me, there was nothing left there of any value, but I still entered as the moon cast it's first shadows on the still ground.

As I cast my gaze around the dim space, the sharp crack of an ancient plank brought my hand to my heart and my breath to the middle of my throat. A scythe on the wall hung framed by moonlight, that unused tool having somehow never caught my curious childhood gaze. And, though now I comfort myself with the assurance that it was the wind in the rafters, I swore then that I heard labored yet furtive breaths being drawn further back in one of the crumbling animal stalls. I lingered for endless moments, full of reckless conviction that I could finish my task. But with each breath, unsure if they were mine or another's, the dread grew deeper.

Finally, I rushed from the space, unable to bear another moment of the trepidation. My footsteps echoing off the trees, or perhaps chased by the countless denizens of that unholy perversion of childhood sanctuary. That night, the old barn finally collapsed, and it's contents went uncatalogued. The farm was sold, I hope to someone who would keep up the new barn and not let it too slowly slide into ruin. Now I try to remember those happy summer days of fresh produce and cool creeks, and leave the barn as but a distant memory.