Almost everyone loves old barns, I know I do. Quite a few of them still stand over the countryside. They are all different; showing various styles, strengths and personalities. Whether red, brown, white or gray and weathered, each one is special. Some have happy faces, others stand strong in times of change, while a few of them have given way to weakness and old age. All have histories – stories of the animals and people they have known. Our old barn was medium size. It had an oak frame and was covered in wide oak and chestnut boards. Weathered and gray, it had sheltered our family’s livestock for many years. The barn knew our good seasons and our bad. Some dramatic scenes happened in and around the barn.
My sister, Carrie, and her young boy, Sonny, had come to visit us. He had just turned four and loved to visit Grandma and Grandpa and see all the animals on the farm. I was thirteen years old and had chores to do that evening. Mom told me to go up to the barnyard and give the old hen with the diddles some cornbread and put them in the coop for the night. On my way into the barn to check for hen eggs, I walked past the old rooster and two hens. They were scratching in some hay that had been dropped. Before I turned the corner, I saw Dad and his little grandson walking up that way.
The barnyard was so quiet that evening. When I stepped into the hallway I noticed a special aura about the old building. Late afternoon sun rays streamed in between the wide oak boards. Old Bonnie, our horse, was in her stall resting after a hard day of work. The barn cat sat quietly in the shadows waiting to surprise a mouse. I was thinking how peaceful the setting was, when the tranquility of the evening was shattered by gunfire. As I rushed out of the barn the screaming grew louder. There I found my Dad pulling our old white rooster off his little grandson. The six shooters were still smoking. The rooster was unharmed, but just as mad as an old wet hen. Dad spared the rooster’s life because he was the only one we had. The side of Sonny’s face was bleeding some. Between sobs he told me, “Grandpa said for me to go up there and shoot that old rooster and we would have chicken and dumplings for supper.” Brave boy that he was, Sonny marched forward with both guns blazing – pow, pow, pow, pow, pow. But his two cap busters were no match for the big white rooster. Sonny said, “All I saw was a bunch of white feathers flying at me.” That old rooster flogged that poor youngin something terrible. It’s been many years now, but Sonny still remembers our old white rooster. Laughing, he said, “Maybe a child should not do everything their grandpa tells them. Grandma never would have told me to do something like that.” Another story from the old barnyard.
