Pleasant Work

Blisters, bunions, and dirt on my trousers. Musty mildew, rotten wood. A task undone.

For too long, I let Pa’s barn go to pasture. Today, I mean to make a change. See, I’m a man of minimal ambition. One who knows nothing about the fruits of a hard day’s labor. My old man sure did though, back when he had ten toes to the ground, instead of ten toes up underneath.

I fell on hard times recently. Found myself without a job, without a motive, nor anyone to look after me. It might do me some good to fix up that old, run-down barn. At the very least, it gives me something to do.

Cobwebs and spiders. Dry leaves, cracked boards, peaked ceilings.

My ladder’s only six feet tall. I have a bucket, sponge, and soap. Sandpaper, screwdriver, a hammer. At the store, I ask one of the helpers what I’ll need to restore my old man’s barn. I buy what they tell me, but they tell me I’ll be coming back with measurements. I do.

My saw bristles against the grind of a fine cut slice of wood. Hammers nail into a fresh foundation, as I chip away the old slats to replace them with the new. I’ll save painting the barn red for last, but I’ve only just begun. There’s a lot of work to be done, and it’s time I step up.

Back when I was young, things were easy. I never worried much about the future. My old man must've told me a thousand times that the only way to make a living in this world is to put your axe to the grinder, and work. I never listened then, but I’m listening now, Pa.

This old barn used to house chickens and hay, mostly. We had a few hogs growing up. Dairy goats, a couple of ponies. One horse the old man truly loved. More so than his family, some said.

Lena was a quarter horse, agile and quick. Never saw a faster trot before or since she passed. When my old man saddled up, he'd ride right toward a herd, careening his way across our land on horseback, making sure the other barns had stock of green-eating cattle. The old man was smart enough to hire helping hands to keep his new steel barns running without him, but this wooden one was here long before the new. If no one does anything to repair her, she’ll be gone just like Pa. That don’t sit right.

While I never really had a passion, I do have a hobby. Woodworking. Carving ornate stencils out of dead trees I find on my walks. The woods behind my trailer are pretty dense. Maybe, when I’m done fixing up Pa’s old barn, I’ll make him a piece to remember me by.

Dusting, rinsing, scraping, and wiping. Sweep, then broom. Bag, then compost.

Finally, my food is here. Closest place to accept my order required a really big tip on top of extra fees. Chips never had a better crunch. Soda has never been so sweet. Pizza is perfect, even when the crust has turned to cardboard, and the cheese congeals. I save some slices for later.

With newfound energy, I whack the wood together, scoop out the pests and unwanted debris, brandishing a new barn where the old one once stood. Only, there’s something missing.

My woodworking tools take up valuable space in my trailer, but I grab what I need, and set to task on the barn floor. Sanding, whittling, paring, until the grooves of a plaque are sculpted.

I hang up the sign, carved in the shape of Lena, as best I can remember her. With the words, “Pa & Lena’s Barn,” stylized and painted on the horse’s mane. When I stand back to admire my hard work, I’m relieved. It’s not perfect, but I never promised that, Pa. I only said I’ll try, and if I learned nothing else today, at least I know I can always try harder.