The Old Barn

There once was a barn such as one might see driving down a two-lane road in the midwestern American countryside. You would look out the window, through the slightly fogged up glass from your own breath, lazily watching the scenery pass by. When something about that barn causes you to pay attention, and call it out to the other occupants of the car. You couldn’t put your finger on exactly why this worn down, well weathered structure caught your attention. Perhaps it was the fact it didn’t seem inhabited in several years. Or the fact it was one of the few standing structures you had seen in the few miles of wheat and corn fields, as well as the odd cow and horse pastures. Despite it’s mystery, there it was, standing on a small crest of a hill, a dark brown with flecks of its previous bright red color still clinging to the material. Not too far away, was the dingy, white, two story farmhouse with a lone Oldsmobile in the driveway.

Whatever the intrigue that captured your attention was, it stuck in your mind long after it disappeared from view. If only you knew what lay inside, it would have answered the question that nagged at the back of your mind. If you were to go up to the barn, following the call of curiosity, you would find yourself seemingly dwarfed by the looming frame of the barn doors. Pulling on the rusted, curved handle, and giving it a firm tug, the door would slide open on the track, the old wheels squeaking their distaste loudly.

Dust would float through the air, catching the sunlight from the window opposite at the top of the wall. The smell of must, old hay, and something unfamiliar would tug at your imagination. Looking around, you realize the barn was not as large inside as it seemed from the outside. You would notice the various wooden stalls for the long gone animals still standing, waiting for new owners. In the far back, narrow wooden stairs, with missing or cracked steps went up to the lofted second floor. If those stairs were climbed with grace, and great attention, you would find yourself in a place no one had seen for many years. It would smell and feel of a mysterious, magical energy, as if anything could and would happen in this space.

A forgotten pile of hay bales would be sitting in the corner; the passage of time, disuse, and gravity, pulling apart the carefully stacked grains into a loose stack. It would make a comfy spot to pass the time dreaming, planning, or napping in the warm afternoon, surrounded by the new litter of kittens birthed by the orange tabby barn cat. If you continued to explore, you would stumble over an old, squared edge chest, half buried by loose hay. It was locked with a large, rusted, lock that you had only seen in movies, securing old sea chests. Your curiosity would get the better of you, and you would give it a good tug, hoping the years of neglect and rust would cause it to give way. With the full weight of your body, you would grasp the lock between both of your hands, and pull with no results, accepting a sweaty brow. You would sit heavily down on the floor, staring at your new adversary with contempt, wanting nothing more than to know what was inside.

Your eyes refocused, and you were brought to the present. You were still in the car, driving down the two lane road, daydreaming of that old barn and the possibility of adventure that lay inside.