The Mysterious Barn

Even though it's been nearly forty years, I can still smell the summer grass from that evening, wet with dew. I can still see the fireflies, blinking on and off. And I can see the old, faded walls of the barn, each crack in the wood laced with a story.

I was cleaning out my grandfather's house, he had just passed away, and there was no other family. The two of us were all we had. So, cleaning out the old behemoth we lived in was solely on my shoulders and proved to be both emotionally and physically challenging. I had to clean the place and sell it; not only was it too big for just me, but I needed the money to go to college and start life on my own. Plus, I didn't think I could be there without grandpa. In the evenings, to clear my mind, I would walk, sans shoes, as my toes and feet were chilled by the wet grass and dirtied by the red dirt walkways. I didn't mind the dirt on my feet; it gave me something to clean that was easy and purposeful, without causing sorrow.

One evening, on a particularly long walk, I thought I spied a bight green light, an orb floating peacefully through the trees, off the beaten path. So even though it was odd, I decided to follow it; peacefulness hung in the still air, and the sweet smell of the dewy grass comforted me.

As I went off the path, I lost sight of the orb. I decided to continue my walk, though, as slight disappointment gave way to curiosity. I couldn't remember ever walking this way before, even though I had spent all my childhood years here with grandpa. I had been over every square inch of this land. Rarely could he get me out of the garden, where I was free to pick his fresh berries, tomatoes, and green beans, eating them right off the vine. When I wasn't in school, I spent my days catching crawdads in the creek behind the house or riding in the flat-bed trailer he pulled behind his riding lawnmower. He'd zip that mower and trailer all over his vast farmlands. On one hot summer day, as he pulled the tractor, he went over a hornet's nest, and the angry insects buzzed after us, he hit the gas. I was knocked towards the back of the trailer as I squealed with laughter. So, I was confident I knew every inch of the place. Yet, here I was in unfamiliar surroundings.

As I continued on the path, I thought of grandpa and all the beautiful times I had with him. Finally, I had one memory that made me laugh out loud. One night, he declared we should have orchard-fresh peaches and his homemade vanilla ice cream for dinner. And so, we did exactly that. While still sad over losing my beloved grandfather, my mind settled a bit with these joyous recollections, and peace started to embed itself in my heart.

I had been so deep in thought; I didn't see it until I almost walked right into it. In front of me was a large, old, red barn. The barn wasn't just old; it was run-down and decrepit. In fact, even saying it was red was an overstatement. Where the paint hadn't peeled off, it was faded. I was so surprised I had never seen this barn before, nor even heard of it. Grandpa had never mentioned it. I decided that adventure hung in the air, and even though it was old and falling apart, I would explore it.

I pushed open the door, askew in its broken frame, and swept away cobwebs that lingered. It was dark and dusty, and it took a minute for my eyes to adjust in the haze. The smell of long-gone horses and hay marked the air. As I slowly walked forward, I noticed three old leather traveling trunks lined up the side of the barn. The first one I tried was locked, as was the second one. When I tried the third one, it opened with a loud whining creak, as if it were speaking for the old barn's bones.

Much to my disappointment, there were only a few dead bugs, their giant wings laced with dust and spiderwebs. I thought they looked odd, so I inspected them and realized they were hand-tied fishing flies. I remembered my grandfather telling me stories about how he used to fly fish but had stopped years ago. An old empty cigar box was also in the trunk, so I decided to take the flies with me. They would serve as a memento mori for when I left the barn. It reminded me of when my grandfather told me what “memento mori” meant, it’s a reminder of mortality, as it translates to “remember that you must die.” That reminder was never clearer to me now, deep in thought about my grandfather’s recent passing as well as standing in a barn that was in itself, dying.

Exploring the barn a little, I found a crowbar in the corner and was going to pry open the second trunk. But I got distracted because every little corner had an odd little surprise or item. A vintage Victrola sat in one corner. For a second, I excitedly thought it might be worth some money, but it was as old as the barn, and it showed. Even the record that was on it wore a thick layer of dust. I took the record off and swept it as well as I could. The label under said, "Lyrics and Vocals by Lillian Kelley." I stretched my mind back as far as it would go and thought from what I had been told, it was my great-grandmother's name. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure that was right and was a bit disappointed there was no way to hear my great-grandmother's voice sing out over the years that had passed since she made the record.

A shelf, barely holding onto the side of the barn, was covered in grime. In the middle was a little metal stand showing its age with a warm patina. On the stand was a golden necklace with a locket attached to the end. I took and opened the locket with trembling fingers. Inside was a picture of my grandfather, young and boyish—years before he knew me, or probably even my mother. The other side of the locket held a picture of my grandmother. I did not know her, nor my parents. My grandmother, father, and mother were all killed in a car accident a few months after I was born. That's why I had always lived with grandpa. I unclasped the locket and secured it around my neck so that I wouldn't lose it.

I went back to the second trunk and pried it open. It took a few tries, and the dust and wood splinters flew as it popped open. A leather photo album sat at the bottom. I opened it up and saw pictures of my mom and dad with me as a newborn. I traced my finger over the faces of my parents as tears swelled in the corners of my eyes. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and flipped the pages, seeing several pictures of myself with my parents and grandparents. None of the happy eyes in those photos seemed to know what tragedy would befall our family shortly. I felt contented to know my family was happy at that time, that there was joy and laughter. It didn't surprise me I hadn't seen these pictures before. My grandfather was kind, loving, and always provided for me, but he shied away from talking about the past. He always said it was too painful to talk about, too hard to look at pictures. I understood; he came from a stoic generation where men didn't express their feelings.

Finally, I made my way to the first trunk and forced it open. I pulled out an old wedding dress. The dress was in 1940's style, and the white had faded and yellowed to an antique sepia color, so I surmised it must have been my grandmother's. Holes dotted the lace, so while I tried to be careful, I shook it out. As I did, an old letter fluttered out from the skirt. I picked it up and opened it delicately. I had to squint and adjust my eyes to read it.

Grandpa wrote it to grandma as he got ready to be stationed in the Pacific Theatre of World War Two. I would be lying if I said I hadn't had a slight hope for the letter to reveal an extraordinary family secret, or better yet, maybe a tale of hidden treasure in this old barn. It was just a love letter though, a pure and simple declaration, ending with my grandpa saying my grandma was the loveliest girl he'd ever seen or known. I held the letter to my heart and realized that these family treasures I had found, and all I had learned about in the barn, was a family connection I hadn't known about before. It was extraordinary and far better than any monetary treasure the barn might have held if life were a fairy tale.

I walked around the barn a few times, soaking in the history, as the early evening sun sent in dust-speckled rays of fading light. I did not find any other family heirlooms, but I was grateful for what I had seen. As I gathered my new belongings, I left, forcing the old door closed as much as I could. Before I departed, I patted the side of the barn like it was an old friend.

It always struck me as odd when weeks later, I put the house on the market and disclosed the old barn to the real estate agent. Confusion ensued when no survey or examination of the land could produce the barn's location. Even my searches didn't reveal the location. I guess it crumbled into the dust and let the earth swallow it and its secrets.