One Last Visit to the Farm

“I can’t believe the old barn is still standing,” remarked my sister as we exited the car. Our great-grandfather built that barn, its foundation had weathered generations of storms.

“I can’t believe that city folk haven’t been here trying to buy the wood to make shelves or tables or whatever it is. Reclaimed, or something,” I grumbled.

My sister only laughed, “They probably did, but I bet Uncle Josh ran them off with a shotgun. Just like the magpies!”

At that, I burst out laughing, the tension I held finally released. The magpies were the bane of Uncle Josh’s existence. He tried everything to stop them from stealing the dog food. His poor, sweet dog was terrified of the black and white thieving birds, she would hide in her house whenever they flew by. Eventually, Uncle Josh was so frustrated that he decided hunting magpies was the last option left. They would never land close enough if they could see him outside, so he stalked them from the kitchen window. Gram would tsk tsk him and tell him to get out of the way of her sink, but he was bound and determined to rid the farm of those magpies. He never did. Although the bullet holes in the dog food dish made for an excellent story.

I took a moment to savour the fresh air. The farm had changed a fair bit in the fourteen years since my last visit. Gram’s gardens were an overgrown disaster and there were a few vehicles in various stages of disrepair throughout the yard. The chickens that always used to run to greet us were nowhere to be seen. Mom warned us that things were bad, but this was worse than I envisioned.

The door to the chicken coop hung open. Gathering eggs was the first chore I’d been entrusted with as a kid. My parents always let us spend part of our summers here on the family farm. I loved everything about it, even the chores. Gram hand-raised all of her chickens. The brown and black hens were friendly and never tried to peck me when I reached my hand in their egg boxes. Gram let the hens out during the day to wander around the yard and investigate whenever someone was working outside. She loved those chickens, and it felt like an honour to be the one gathering eggs.

I called out to my kids to come and see the old coop before we walked over to the barn. Abby was two years old when we held our last family reunion here. Everyone used to bring their trailers, truck campers and tents, set up behind the house and spend a few days eating and celebrating. I wondered if Abby had any memories of Gram and Gramps. They passed away within months of each other after that, leaving the farm to Uncle Josh.

The kids ignored my call. Their phones were more interesting than my childhood memories. My husband, too, was locked on his screen. He was supportive of the idea of driving out here, but not genuinely interested in the farm. I sighed, this was becoming a regular occurrence. He said the right thing, always used the words I wanted to hear, but his actions fell short.

Tash came up and gave me a quick hug. My younger sister, the cool aunt, was the only reason that Abby didn’t argue with me about coming. I couldn’t seem to get anything right with Abby these days; everything I said ended in an argument.

“Let’s go see the barn. Mom said there might be some old tack that’d be worth salvaging,” she said as she steered me away from the chicken coop.

As we pushed open the barn door, I was struck with the smell of old hay, horses and dust - and was immediately propelled thirty years in the past. I spent hours playing with kittens in the hayloft. Gram’s cat, Minute-Maid, would hide her litters in tunnels between the bales. The trick was to find them early before they were too wild. Minute-Maid’s babies were always little orange balls of fluff. She didn’t seem to protest my presence, as long as I brought a dish of cream along with me. A lady from Gram’s church tried multiple times to buy Minute-Maid. Apparently, orange female cats are exceptionally rare. Gram said that it would be a cold day in hell before she’d let anyone prostitute out her favourite mouser.

The dust tickled my nose, making me sneeze. Tash raised her eyebrow at me. “Don’t say it. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I took my antihistamines before coming!” I was horribly allergic to so many things, including cats and dust. I used to play with the kittens until my eyes were swollen shut or my breathing compromised. Gram would hose me off, dose with me Benadryl and then send me to bed.

Tash walked ahead of me to the back of the barn, where halters and leads hung beside a few Western saddles on their racks. Gramps' arthritis bothered him even when we first started spending summers on the farm. It was Uncle Josh who taught us to ride. He busted broncos in his younger days and had a way with horses.

The rodeo life was hard on Uncle Josh. He was talented and started to make a name for himself. I didn’t know what happened next, no one in the family talked about it much. In a word, Uncle Josh spiralled. His wife left him, he lost competitions, then he stopped showing up altogether. As Mom told it, one day Gram was fed up with her only son’s behaviour. She drove ten hours, packed his things up, threw a bucket of water on him and brought him back home. That was where he stayed. This all happened before I was born, I couldn’t imagine my soft-spoken Uncle Josh as a wild party animal.

Tash ran her hands along the worn leather of the saddle. “Do you remember the time my foot got stuck in the stirrup?” she asked.

I did remember. Tash fancied herself a trick rider. She turned around out of her saddle to wave at me and startled her horse somehow. The mare jumped straight up in the air then took off. Tash tumbled off the horse's back and managed to get one boot twisted in her stirrup. The mare dragged her for quite a ways before she stopped and turned to look at my sister lying in the dirt as if to say, “How’d you get down there?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Uncle Josh was pretty impressed. He thought you would’ve made a good stunt rider.” Tash smiled, lost in her own memories.

I knew she felt guilty, we all did, but Tash even more so. After Gram and Gramps passed, Tash helped Uncle Josh with the horses and the rest of the livestock. As her life moved forward, her visits became less and less frequent. Uncle Josh eventually stopped talking to anyone in the family, sold all the animals and essentially barricaded himself in the old farmhouse. Mom and her sisters always invited him to family events, but he never came.

“Mom? Mom, where are you?” my son, Everett, called. This was his first visit here, I’d been pregnant with him during that last reunion.

I called him over to the barn, told him to come in and check out all the old gear that was still inside. Although I knew it didn’t look like much, this farm was the heart of my childhood. The chance to share it with my own children, late as it was, filled me with a sense of self I hadn’t realized was missing.

Everett walked through the open door, spotting Tash and me near the old tack. I beckoned him closer and asked if he wanted to come and investigate the hayloft with me. “Gramps used to store some antiques up there, anything that he didn’t want to part with but couldn’t find room for in the house all ended up in the hayloft. Let’s go see what we can find,” I smiled as I turned towards the ladder.

“Um, Dad says we should probably get going. I guess we passed some fast food place about forty-five minutes away, or something. He said to tell you that if we leave now, we can stop there for supper.” Everett flipped his hair out of his eyes as he checked his phone. He used to let me push his hair out of his face, but now any touch was rejected as if my presence embarrassed him.

“We’re supposed to spend the afternoon here. We haven’t even been up to the house yet,” my stunned voice managed to reply.

Everett turned and walked back the way he’d come. I heard him mutter that this couldn’t be that important if it was the first time he’d been here. Defeated, I locked eyes with my sister. Yes, Uncle Josh pushed everyone away after Gram and Gramps died. We didn’t have to make it so easy for him, though. Wrapped up in my own life, I didn’t fight for this place and the family it represented. Uncle Josh suffered alone for years until an accident took him from us. No one realized he was missing; it was the mailman who alerted the police.

Tears sprung unbidden to my eyes. This was my last chance to share this place with my family, my last chance to say goodbye to Uncle Josh, Gram and Gramps. Mom and her sisters decided that the best thing to do with the farm would be to sell it. We were here to grab whatever we wanted to salvage before the auction house came to catalogue it for the estate sale. I expected help and at least begrudging or feigned interest from my family. I clearly communicated these expectations; therapy had demonstrated the value of that. Yet we had spent less than thirty minutes here and, already, they were planning to leave.

“I’ll go have a quick talk with everyone. We’re going to order from Joey’s Pizza later, right?” Tash volunteered as she headed out. I nodded, wiping away my tears with the back of my hand.

As Tash followed Everett out, I looked at the ladder to the hayloft. It wasn’t much of a ladder, just evenly spaced planks nailed to the wall. I climbed up slowly, I was never comfortable with heights.

I was breathing hard by the time I reached the top. The opening in the floor seemed smaller than I remembered. Holding on tightly to the planks, I inched my foot over onto the hayloft floor then shifted my weight until both feet were solidly planted.

The hayloft was dark and dusty. I pushed open the sliding window to let the light in. Our cousin Mikey jumped out onto the ground and broke his ankle once. He’d done it dozens of times before, but that was the last time any of us were allowed to try it. Not that I minded that rule, I was not comfortable even standing close to the opening.

I looked around the hayloft. There were old and musty square bales piled against the sides. Gramps’ shelves and boxes were pushed up against the back wall. Gram accused him of hoarding but allowed it as long as her parlour and front yard remained uncluttered.

The floor seemed solid enough. The foundation was strong, the floor would hold my weight. The boards creaked and protested as I walked across them. One small action, just one step, couldn’t make a difference.

The old barn weathered generations of storms. A place of safety and comfort, it gave protection for all underneath its roof. Yet for many years, it stood neglected, needing maintenance that no one provided. All it took was one misplaced step, one more burden to carry, and everything came crashing down.