Nancy’s barn

The whole point of a barn is to be beautifully old, unlike houses who should be new and fresh and ready to live in.

Barns are for work and new work is built on old work in a continuous process from to master to apprentice, apprentice to barn cat, barn cat to farm worker, farm worker to artist. Of course sometimes there’s a gap in the continuous process, but just the same: A barn is ready. And that’s how I stood, well worn and waiting for work to resume after the flood.

Of course most of me had washed down river. But a working barn is not easy to erase. My foundation and the very idea of me was still there. I knew it would not be long until I was rebuilt. Money is always the trouble. I wasn’t officially historic, so no restoration grants here. And the flood was only a disaster for my partner and tenant, Nancy, who loved me for my waterfall view, the sound of water rushing by, and the negative ions all around me. Nancy needed me in so many ways. She was an artist and a gardener. She carved woodcuts of her special plants, shavings on my floor, and the blocks stored in little cubbies built into the east wall -still remaining after the water took out the south side and the wood stove.

Petite Nancy, in her 70’s was in much better shape than I was, all tattered and torn after the flood. But with help from her friends I was rebuilt better than ever with a hand carved spiral staircase to a new loft area created upstairs. Now on late nights in the studio she could sleep within my walls. I’m still known as Nancy’s barn though I’ve out lived her by many years. Sadly the herbal garden scent of her is long gone.

There is nothing like being well used. I feel it is the greatest love there is. New people have come to inhabit me, and they’re fine folk. Friends of hers I knew from before. But it’s not the same. She left her mark on me, made me who I am with her work. And how I loved her for it! The books she kept on a little shelf by the door, tokens of love everywhere. She even collected bones, bleached and sewn onto velvet pillows, framed and hung them on the wall. These historical things are irresistible to barns, like fine jewelry to women.

Tucked away behind a bowl of interesting rocks on a shelf in front of a mirror that has always been there on that firm East wall, is a letter written on two frail sheets of floral stationery. It’s a goodbye letter. She knew her time was coming. She was in her mid eighties then, no longer climbing the stairs to the loft. Well that’s not entirely true. Sometimes she still did, but she died next door to me in the kitchen, coughing and choking on something. I could hear her but l could do nothing. She rebuilt me when I fell apart but all I could do for her was listen and wait. Oh I pray for her wherever she has gone that it will be done for her as she did for me when she lived and worked within my weathered wood walls. Let her be restored, remade, and well used in the creative force.

I haven’t told you the entire truth about how this old barn was once destroyed. It was too painful, but also too good to leave out. Wood floats so an old barn doesn’t mind being taken out by water so much. The mortal enemy is fire, reducing wood to ashes. It was fire that destroyed all but my east wall before the volunteer fire department came and doused me. Because I was an old barn I had old glass in my windows, and in one of the panes of glass there was a bubble. This bubble served as a magnifying glass with the searing August sun shining through it. From this concentrated pinpoint of light focused onto Nancy’s stack of life drawings from her weekly figure drawing group, a spark was born. The model pictured had been a beautiful friend and fellow artist. Her yellow hair, painted in pastel, came to life in the flame. I’m only an out building, attached by a unheated hall, but I see and I remember. Someday my days will truly be bygone days, so I smile when someone stops to take my picture.