A friend of a Facebook friend, Jil Ross wrote this it and brought tears to my eyes. I know of some others who might feel the same.
The Barn
They bounced along the field road that ran north from the “new” house and buildings. They were headed to the old place, next to the spring in the north pasture.
The old man was in pain, but he wasn’t about to tell his youngest grand daughter who was driving. The bumps and ruts were a little rough on his frail body, but he wasn’t going to complain and jeopardize these little outings. Several times a year, she would come to town and spring him from the home for an afternoon. Her smile and her voice reminded him so much of his bride 70 years ago.
The only thing left of the old place was the barn. The house had been moved to another farm for a hired man to live in when the new house was built closer to the road in 74. The pens had all been torn down, the granaries burned. He had put his foot down about the barn. For a few years, his sons had stored headers in the main alley, but eventually the headers out grew that. Now it was just a resting place for power units that were too good to leave outside, but not reliable enough to still use.
One of the half doors on the south side was blown open and hanging by one hinge. It had been like that for years. The big door on the center alley had rotted off its rail and lay in the dead weeds. She knew the drill. She wheeled Grampa up close so he could get out and walk just a few steps to reach it.
He unfolded from the pickup and shuffled over to the door, peering inside. He closed his eyes, and it was almost like his childhood.
He remembered sitting on the haymow steps as a sprout in the 30s, watching Grampa and Dad harness the teams in the morning. He remembered helping his Mother and older sisters milk while the men were in the field. Mostly he chased the barn cats and played with the bucket calves. He could almost smell the warm harness leather, horse sweat, and prairie hay that evening would bring.
He also remembered the look of sorrow in Grandpa’s eyes when the last team was loaded and left the ranch in 46.
He had a lot of good times and hard times in that barn. It was bittersweet in the summer of 52 when he helped Dad load the milk cows before he left for the army. Help was impossible to find and it was too much for the folks to do alone. He hated the chores but loved the cows.
When he returned from Korea, he set to making the old milking parlor into a farrowing house. His new bride started chickens in the cleaning room where the separator used to sit.
His kids had played and later clipped their 4h calves in that old barn. He didn’t know how many heifers with new babies had spent cold nights in the old work horse stalls or how many colts that they had imprinted in that barn. If he stood long enough, he could smell Grampa’s pipe smoke and his Dad’s Salem menthols yet today. It made him smile to think about all the kids that old barn had helped raise. It made his eyes moist when he thought about how he had hid out there to be alone when Grampa died, and later when he had laid his wife to rest after her battle with cancer. Whenever his world was falling apart, he could find comfort where his family had worked, played, and loved for 120 years. It wasn’t a temple off there by itself, but you couldn’t help but call it a sanctuary.
The cool March air was getting to him a little and he was wanting to go through the calving pasture and see the “freshies” as the great grandkids called them before he was hauled back to town.
He watched in the mirror as they left, and for a split second just before the barn disappeared from view, he swore he saw two men in overalls carrying harness across the center alleyway.