I pushed thru the trumpet vines and underbrush and poison oak to get thru the opening into the Barn. There is something about these relics of yesteryear that tugs at my heart like tiny babies hands and feet do. These old barns were as vital to our ancestors as the cabin was for shelter for the family. Those folks were so proud and thankful for their barns and homes. They took great pride in building one well. After all, if they were going to have any success at farming the animals, tools, hay and tobacco had to be sheltered and cared for. I would bet a piece of apple pie that 99 percent of farmers fed and cared for their animals before themselves. I went into this old barn and as usual I sat down on the dirt. I leaned back against a stall and let the barn talk to me. You might say, “Jack, you are crazy as a bedbug.” I may be, but try it sometime. The barns have stories that help us remember how it was in that other blessed time of the Appalachians. “Here is my story,” said the barn.
“Why you come in here boy? I am trying to hide and mind my own business and you come in here and sit yourself right down like you was invited. Leave me be. Go someplace and keep that stupid camera in your fancy pockets.”
The old barn was huge and even though it was falling in and slowly slipping back to the dust you could see it was built right and well. Dust motes flew about. I smelled or my memory smelled the musty smell of tobacco. There was a few scatterings of hay here and there that the wind had bunched up. I could smell the leather harness and sweat in my mind. I could imaging the barn talking to me…
“I used to be something, boy. My owner cut the trees for me right on this hillside. He drug them down to the creek to the only sawmill around. He swapped work for getting the trees sawed and the foundation beams cut. Now boy, you take an ax and an old crosscut saw and go cut some trees down. You don’t look like you would last half a day. When he had enough lumber, folks came and helped him build me. Look how high I was, boy. You should have seen them crawling around up there trying to get the roof on. I’ll never forget the way my owner took care of me. Why, if a board got loose, or a nail or peg got loose, in no time at all it was fixed. Why are you here anyway, boy? There are no mules left. The milk cow got sold a long time ago. I purt well knew I was a goner when the mules were sold. The tools got gone a little at a time. But you should have seen me when the family used me everyday or when they all come in here and worked tobacco. And when the kids played in my loft, especially when it rained, was a special time. Oh, back then I was something. Ma milked the cow right over there. Me and her went through 4 milk cows over the years. The Missus was like a clock. If she wasn’t here before daylight I knew something was wrong. Most days she milked of an evening, at least until the first born son got old enough. The remains of the chicken boxes are on that wall there. But you got eyes, boy, and you can see I’m ready to give it up. They ain’t coming back. No mules, cows or chickens ever again. That’s why I’m hiding in these vines and bushes… Old age has taken it’s toll. My beams are weak, boards are falling and the tin is blown off in places. So boy, how about getting gone and leave me be. I have good memories to think on as I die. And take that stupid camera with you before I drop a beam on you. Oh yeah, my owner and Sarah his wife came to see me one last time. They came in one of them fancy T Model cars. They came to the front and stepped inside. They just looked around and then they cried. And said good bye, old friend. That’s all I needed. So good bye to you and don’t bother feeling sorry for me, it’s too late.”
I felt somewhat like the owner must have felt when I pushed through the vines back out to daylight. Here in the mountains of Appalachian where I grew up in Western NC, you can not drive country roads very far until you will see old barns. All sizes and shapes. Most built well and with pride for they are part of our very soul. And everyone has a story to tell. Raised up in those times America was built on three great principles. Work, Worship and a Willingness to help others. Would to God we could get back to those three principles.
Behind this old barn is a trail that goes to the top of the ridge where the 13 men and boys were murdered in ’63 during the Civil War. Known as the Shelton Laurel Massacre, it was a terrible time. Granny Judy, my kin, had the bodies took to the top of the ridge and a large grave was dug and they were buried there. Her home burned down. But the chimney is still standing like a landmark for the way up to the top of the ridge. Some of my kin are there. Just for me, I think, on the way up there I found some ginseng right beside the trail. I have enjoyed hunting ginseng since I was seven years old. Not to make money as much as just to be in these Blessed Appalachian Mountains with their solitude and silence that speaks of life and love.
One barn I went in had an 8 by 8 foundation beam across the opening on the ground at the doorway to the stalls. The beam was worn slick and rounded off by the horses and mules hitting it with their feet and stepping on it at times. And of course I set down on it and wondered how many times that mule had been geared up and worked to do that over the many years. Everything concerning our heritage has a story. Before you think I’ve lost it, or I’m a quart low, or my cornbread ain’t done in the middle, go in an old barn and sit down and close your eyes and listen. You may get surprised…