There she goes

Good bye old friend. I loved this old barn. She had stood sturdy for a hundred years on our family farm. Tobacco leaves had hung from her rafters when farming the big T would bring a struggling farmer a pocket full of cash. When the soil was sick and depleted and Tobacco was gone she sheltered several horses that could carry me into our village proper. Hay covered it’s loft …so much fun to play in and hide under in our youthful games of hide and seek. A little older I would sneak into that loft with my best beau. Oh, the story’s this barn could tell through three generations of family.

I am the third generation and I am breaking up the farm, well part of it. Times change and my once proud barn was now only holding junk. I felt remorse when I looked at her thinking this is not a fitting ending for something that held so many memories of service to our family.

It held our tools and our tractor, provided shelter for our animals and new born kittens. It offered a quiet corner for us two footed people who needed moments of privacy. The hay loft was the place I sought when I needed to think through a problem, or cry when my pet cat ,“Tinkerbell” , died or hide out when I feared sharing my fourth grade teachers remarks about my inattentiveness in class. This was the place where I pondered what ever could I promise my Mom and Dad that would avoid some form of restriction.? By ten years old I was convinced this space was “my barn”. Now , 40 years later it was hard to think of it otherwise; Except of course since the farm was no longer a farm, “my barn”was no longer of service it had enjoyed for decades. I felt guilty as I grappled uncomfortably with that fact.

“My barn” was built back in the day of barn raising by my grand dad and his friends. In true camaraderie they helped each other make do with things that provided story’s to laugh about in the twilight of their years. Soaking up warmth and grandma’s chocolate chip cookies in our family kitchen, I would listen to the mens tales and gossip with a chuckle on years gone by.

Who ever said men do not gossip are wrong. They do. As a silent listener to my uncles gathered with Grandpa , I learned a lot of secrets about the families that made up our town. Who loved who and who got ditched and who had shot gun weddings (though I wasn’t sure at age 5 what that was all about), and run aways looking for a change that came back to our village after all and mysterious disappearances and unsolved mystery’s with guesses on what really happened and who was successful and who wasn’t and who liked too much grog. Yes, the men folk did talk.

My favorite story I asked to “please tell again “ and again was about how bringing down an oak tree missed Peter, my uncle, but smashed the hen house . Mysteriously it never cracked an egg but it sure did ruffle the cackling mother hens. My grandpa would imitate the hens, And everyone would laugh and slap their knees.

It seemed like a different world. Well , it really was a different world. We don’t raise barns anymore with the brawn and sweat and good humor of friends eager to offer a helping hand. Now this relic of a time gone by is about to say goodbye.

Tomorrow her weathered but still sturdy oak and locust beams will be removed one by one to begin a journey in the decor of many houses. An architect has purchased her. Standing unused for a decade, lonely and forlorn,( though loved by feral cats,) “my barn “now has another purpose in life. And I am glad about that. One would think “my barn” was another human needing salvation. Well, if walls could talk I bet they would be shouting Hallelujah. “Great to be needed again. Junk shop be gone. A new life is a coming with people appreciation.”

The laughs of friends ,young and old , gathered in new house family rooms will reverberate off the beams cut by local folks where grandpa’s friends once gathered. The beams from the horse stable will adorn a kitchen with new smells of mouth watering baked goods. Even the loft, once filled with hay and my special private place, will cover the floor of an entrance hall and new footsteps will trod on memories of mischievous kids.

Recycling “my barn” is giving her a new lease on life. Times change. Though sometime obscure , memories remain. The memories captured in my old barn will carry on in a hundred new ways with new memories added for another 100 years. She has been saved from the lonesome relic “my barn” had become. And I am pleased.

Ellen Moyer, 443-370-1785

July 13, 2021