The old barn has a story. I closed my eyes and could feel the barn “talking” to me… I knew some of your kin. They came across these hills and settled in here. They built shelters and church/schoolhouses and then they built barns like me. I’m just old and useless now. I can’t even perk up for a picture, but I remember well when my owner began felling these trees around here. He squared them up and notched the ends. It was backbreaking work but he got enough for a start, and some of your kin and others came and helped set my foundation strong and stacked the logs. Then, he cut more trees and drug them down the creek to the only sawmill in the entire county. He traded two hogs and a cow for sawmill work. When he hauled the lumber home on the old sled, folk came from everywhere to help. He got nails and hinges from the old fella that was a blacksmith. He traded a good Hawkins 50-caliber rifle for that stuff. The walls and stalls were built well. Oh, I was a pretty old barn. Next, he made shingles from white oak wood. Later on about 50 years, I got a tin roof. I thought I looked better with shingles.
I loved my owner. All these long hours of work to shelter his animals and store his tobacco said volumes about his character. My upper tiers used to be full of tobacco. There were hay and corn shocks in here. The mule harnesses and gear always made me smell like leather… Oh, I was a proud old barn. I helped my folk make it. I was a necessary part of this family. Folk would say, “Looks like you got yourself a good barn there.” “Yep, couldn’t do without my barn,” was my owner’s response each time.
There used to be a shingle come off or a board come loose, why in no time at all it would be fixed. I wish I were tall and strong again. I wish I was full of tobacco, to hear the rustle of tobacco leaves being “handed” again, the musty smells, the small talk, and yes the laughter, even occasionally the youngins playing in the loft, and the sound of rain on the roof. I wish the mules were in their stalls crunching an ear of corn – nary a kernel got left. Oh, I was something a long time ago. I was needed back then, I was young and strong, a safe place – warm in winter and cool in summer; but, look at me now. Things changed. They say progress, but I beg to differ.
First, automobiles and jobs, then those awful tractors came along. The mules got sold, but mostly my people got old. They couldn’t farm like they used to. The young ones left when they were old enough, and there was no one to fix me then. So, I got old and unused, and things just went south from there. I got some wood rot in my joints and nails worked out here and there and my rear end sagged. One night I just gave up the fight, heading back to the dust I came out of, useless, worn out, and neglected. Why you want to take my picture son? Oh, you think you know some things about life back then, do you? Son, you don’t know what work and love for this country is…
The last time I saw my builder was early one morning; he came out on the porch with his cane and turned his old straight-backed chair toward me and sat down. He looked my way for a long, long time and I am sure he heard the mules, cows, and chickens that used to be here, and he could smell me; then, he began to cry. This hardworking, God-loving mountain man cried for me, and a time passing us both by. A lifetime of memories ran down his wrinkled, furrowed cheeks…and he said, “Goodbye, old friend,” and that was enough.