The Old Barn

I loved the crowded urban neighborhood I grew up in, so I was angry when my parents moved us to the rolling hills of farmland that was outside of outside of the tiny town of North San Juan. Looking back as an adult, I can see the allure. The place was paradise and very affordable, especially compared to the city. But as a 15-year-old, I felt like my folks had dragged me to the middle of nowhere and I was not happy about it.

We moved in July when the midday temperatures were triple digits almost every day. On our third day, the thermometer hit 108 degrees! It was OK at first, because I could jump in the creek that ran through the backyard. But by mid-August, the creek had dried up, and the temperature just kept rising.

My mother was an artist. They had purchased the farm because Mom loved the picturesque old barn, which she intended to turn into her studio. The wood hadn’t been painted since, well, maybe ever, and the weathered wood was curling in an artful way. The barn was “thrillingly weathered,” she said. This was before Martha Stewart showed us how to rub yogurt on terracotta pots to create rustic yet chic mold.

Mom couldn’t attack the barn during the first year, because she was working full-time on the house. We needed to save money, so she and I ripped out the old wood slat and plaster walls and replaced them with new, smooth sheetrock. Mom taught me how to tape the cracks and spackle the nail heads. Then, she textured the whole wall and of course it looked great. Nothing like having an artist paint your house!

We slept in tents many nights, because our stuff was covered in remodeling dust most of the time. I grew to love the sounds of the countryside. Plus, the nights were cooler in the tent than in the old farmhouse.

The HVAC system was installed at the end of September and the upstairs bedrooms were finished. Finally, I slept in my own room for the first time. In the city, my “room” was really a nook created by a bay window and some additional interior curtains. When I took occupancy of my own room, I finally started to be glad we’d moved.

Still, I hated that first year. I felt isolated. It didn’t get any better when school started.

The bus ride was 40 minutes each way. The bus drove from nowhere to nowhere, picking up kids. Then, if finally dropped us at a faraway high school. That was 40 minutes hearing everyone chatting with each other, and no one talking to me. It was a very long 40 minutes.

I was 15 years old, living in a new place, hating my life. And then, I found the hay loft.

Since mom wasn’t touching the old barn yet, I often went out there in the afternoons. It was cool and there was hay from when they used to have horses. It must have been a long time ago because most of the hay would disintegrate when you sat on it. Still, I fancied myself a farm boy, sitting in the hay in the afternoon. I got a pair of overalls and would even put a piece of hay into my mouth, just to complete the picture. Mind you, we weren’t really farmers. It was just a nice place to live.

One afternoon, I fell asleep in the hay loft and had an amazing dream. I dreamt I built this very barn. I was Jeb or maybe Jeff or whatever, and my neighbors were there to help. “Jeb,” someone yelled, “where is that bucket of nails?” We constructed the frame for the barn, then the frame of the roof, which we hoisted up with ropes. It was such a vivid dream! I even remember fashioning wooden pegs to hang a small flap of a door on the back wall so a barnyard dog could get in and out.

I didn’t think much about the dream until Mom had me attack the overgrown yard with a weed-eater. I enjoyed using that thing, because I thought it was funny that you could cut stuff down with just a nylon thread. Anyway, as I cleared away the jungle of weeds at the back of the barn, I was shocked when I revealed a small dog door into the barn.

I just stared at the door for a good minute.

I leaned in an inspected it. Holy cow! It was attached with wooden dowels! The details of the dream came rushing back to me. This was a psychic message or something!

At dinner, I told my parents about the dream and the small door I had discovered. Mom gently let me know that she thought I was very creative, but that I had made the dream retroactively fit what I found. She said brains just did stuff like that. I guess I wouldn’t have believed it either.

A few days later I climbed back up to the hayloft and tried to fall asleep. Day after day I tried, but I didn’t doze. Finally, about two weeks later, I stayed long enough and did fall asleep. When the cooling night air awoke me, I scanned my consciousness, but I could recall no dreams.

I returned to the hayloft many evenings, fell asleep several times, and never remembered dreaming anything. I decided my mother may have been right. I must have imagined it. It got colder and colder, so I stopped visiting the barn.

On Thanksgiving, I fell asleep in front of the TV after supper. I had a vivid dream about an old golden Labrador dying in my arms. I was sobbing when I woke up, with both of my parents hovered over me looking very concerned. I explained the dream and how vivid it was. The dog’s name was Honey, and she had been my dog since she was a puppy. When she died in my arms of old age, I felt the decade of memories. I was heartbroken of the loss of Honey, a honey-colored golden retriever that I had never known in real life.

The next few days were very strange. I felt like I had really lost a beloved dog. I wasn’t interested in anything. Everything felt difficult and took a long time. I wondered if I might be losing my mind. To top it off, I cried the whole ride home from school on Tuesday afternoon. That was sure to win me some local friends.

It snowed that night. I hadn’t seen much snow in my life, so I thought it was great. When the clouds cleared about 2 a.m. and the full moon came into view, it lit up the fresh snow like crazy. I threw a coat on over my PJs and ran out into the back yard. Our fields, newly flat from being mowed and weed-whacked, looked like rolling mounds of marshmallow. I lay down and made a snow angel. I carefully stepped to leave clear tracks in the field behind the house, walking back and forth like a crazy person. I was looking forward to seeing the tracks outside my bedroom window.

I was about to head back into the house when I heard a sound from the barn. At first, I was scared. Was it a hobo? A coyote? I wondered if it was Okay to call them hobos.

I steadied myself and began to investigate. I went to the house, grabbed a flashlight, and returned to the barn. For a while, I found nothing. I climbed up to the hayloft but there was no sound, and nothing to see. Just when I gave up, I heard the soft sound of the wooden dowel moving in its groove.

I was afraid to turn around, but also afraid to not turn around. I spun and pointed the flashlight at the back corner by the small door. There, trembling, stood a tiny puppy. It was a Labrador pup. I felt a welling in my throat. In the few seconds it took the little lady to run across the barn, I was fully sobbing with joy.

I didn’t know this dog, did I? But I felt like I was being reunited with a lost love. She jumped up at me and I scooped her into my arms. She licked my face, and I tickled her belly. Then, she looked into my eyes and held my gaze. It seemed like we stayed that way forever. I probably would have stayed longer, but I heard a sound behind me.

“Bud,” my mom said gently, “are you Okay?”

I pivoted and let her see Honey, the golden lab puppy, plus me blubbering like a fool. It took her a moment, but then she put it together in her head and figured out why I was crying. She came over and hugged me and Honey both.

We didn’t talk about it that night. I just brought Honey into the house, and we fed her some leftover turkey. Honey slept in my bed. In the morning, Honey woke me up by licking my face, and her whimpering let me know she needed to go out for a pee. When I got back to the kitchen after walking Honey, my mom and dad asked me to sit down.

“Bud,” Dad started, “someone is probably missing this puppy.”

“Dad,” I replied, “no one could miss this puppy more than I did.” As soon as I said it, I realized my Dad wouldn’t get it.

Maybe I should have pretended for my father’s sake that I didn’t now believe in psychic messages. But I felt so sure that this was Honey, that she was my dog, and that we would have a great 10 years together before she died in my arms and I would go through the heartbreak all over again.

“We have to try to find this puppy’s rightful owner.” Dad was insistent.

Mom was surprised with how easily I cooperated with the efforts. I tacked up posters on phone polls and bulletin boards. “Puppy found” echoed across the county on every free surface. I wasn’t worried that someone would come forward because I knew that Honey was my dog. I was right. No one called and we’ve been together ever since.

When I turned 18, my parents told me they wanted to go on a second honeymoon and would I mind watching the farm. I agreed instantly, and only later learned that they planned a six-month round-the-world cruise. Well, shucks. I was an adult now, so sure, I will mind the farm.

Honey and I were playing Frisbee out back when I heard a car pull up. I wandered up slowly, supposing that the car was lost, not imagining any reason someone would come to see me. My Aunt Tina got out of her truck and almost ran to hug me. That was odd because we had never been close.

“Bud, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ve got awful news.”

It occurred to me that my mother had always mentioned her sister as being a bit prone to drama. I figured she had broken a piece of grandma’s china or lost some important photos.

“What is it?” I asked finally.

“Bud, it’s your parents. The ship sunk during a storm, and only a handful of survivors were rescued. Your parents didn’t survive.”

The words didn’t make sense at first. My parents were invincible in my mind. But here was Aunt Tina telling me they were gone. I didn’t believe it. And then Honey came up and whimpered sadly as she nudged my leg with the side of her head. Oh, no! My parents are really gone!

Aunt Tina comforted me for a day and a half. But Honey is the one who really got me through it.

The End (for now...)