“Sleep, elusive in the weary, waiting silence of the night
He speaks to me, silently, softly, gently and I rest.”
I’m addicted to our forefathers’ old barns. Seldom can I pass one without a picture or a conversation with it. I stopped at an old barn recently and took a few pictures of the silence. My memories are not silent. I had to use both hands to open a stall door that had homemade hinges on it and a homemade latch. It was attached with large rusty nails. The stall door groaned, as if in pain, and broke the silence. I tentatively climbed the homemade ladder to the barn loft and there was a scattering of windblown forgotten hay. But in the silence there was no smell. The wonderful smell of new-mown hay with it’s tans and brown and the green color was not there. Nor was there the sound of a pitchfork throwing it down in the stalls. In the tremendous silence, I realized there was no sound coming from the stalls. There wasn’t a mule or horse or cow chewing on the hay or munching an ear of corn. In fact, I looked in each stall and all were empty. No mules which are my favorite, or horses, or milk cows. And there was no sound but my breathing. No roof tin flapping. Nothing. I couldn’t even hear the buzzing of the wasps around the big gray nests that I used to knock down for fish bait. And there was no smell of sweat, harness leather, hay or even manure…dust to dust. I looked up at the sunlight peeping through the missing tin on the roof. Dust motes that I had disturbed from their death sleep floated around in the sunlight. But with no sound. I noticed the logs with their notched corners that fit perfectly and the ax marks on them. I could hear the ringing of the ax in my mind, but now there was no sound. Some were oak and some were pine and some were wormy chestnut. Boy, those are worth a pretty penny. Then I thought no they need to stay right here where they are home. They need to stay here where they can die in peace amid the silence. I glanced out the back door and a hog lot with a pen was partially standing. No sound of hogs grunting or the occasional squeal. I heard no cowbell from the milk cow coming to the barn for the evening milking. There were chicken laying boxes nailed to the walls in the aisle way of the barn. No rooster strutting around guarding his harem, ready to sneak up and flog me. No sound of crowing or the cackle of relief when the eggs were laid. Or maybe the cackle said here’s an egg, come and get it, but throw me out some scratch first. The solitude of silence was deafening to me. I could imagine the hounds chasing some critter around the barn and the chickens cackling, the rooster crowing, the mules braying and the cows bawling, and the guineas raising the alarm. The guineas were great ‘watchdogs.’ I could hear them but there was no sound. A plow share lay in the corner, rusty with a story to tell. There is no sound of a hammer fixing a loose board or repairing a harness for tomorrows plowing. No ring of the ax splitting firewood or making shingles for the shed. In fact, I noticed one corner of the barn had settled down several inches. The rain had rotted the foundation logs and they groaned in silence trying to hold the old barn up. The longer I was in there the sadder the old barn seemed to be. At one time it was as important to the family as the house. I said, “Hello, old friend,” and in the extreme silence my soft words sounded loud bouncing off the logs. I said, “Talk to me old barn. Who did you belong to and help survive the bad times and the good times? Who hewed those beautiful logs and notched them so tight and perfect? Did the youngans play in your loft and lay in the hay when it rained? Talk to me. How many mules and horses were here and how many acres did they plow and side dress to make crops? When did the last one go out the door and leave you to this silence? Did your people come in here and cry and say goodbye like some folks did?”
Some old barns seem to speak to me but this one was quiet as a church house mouse. You can say I don’t have good sense and not hurt my feelings. Maybe I don’t. But if more young folks knew the value and role these old relics played in building America, I think they would appreciate our History a bit more and would preserve some of these old barns.
Coming out of the barn with a sense of sadness, as usual, I sit me down against a tree and looked around. I think I can tell where the garden was, perhaps a half acre. Beans, peas, corn, melons, radishes, squash, tomatoes, potatoes, and cucumbers were raised along with anything else eatable. The spot is still there but the weeds and trees have won that battle. I could see and feel the wind blowing through the pines and sagebrush. A gentle sound that was lost to me in my silence. Over across the way, the remains of a big house stands. There is a yellow rose bush among the weeds. I wondered how many years it has struggled against nature to survive. And there were more colors of a flower here and there. Sweet smells in a sad empty place. The big house and barn says they were good farmers, the flowers say the woman liked flowers and pretty things. So despite the silence, there are good memories floating around here. I would hope there is still kin around that played in this barn and run through the new plowed ground barefooted, and could answer all my questions.
When I get home sometimes I go out to our covered shelter where it’s cool and silent and make these old barns come to life. Every one of you has a story. Every relic of our heritage has a rich story to tell. I tell you what, if you get a chance, go inside an old barn. Sit down on an 8 by 8 beam in front of a stall that’s rounded off from mules stepping on or clipping it when they went in and came out to work and listen to the silence. You might be surprised by what you can hear. Those old barns just may come to life. But don’t tell many folks. They might think you are crazy like me.
A lot of you folks who humble me reading these ‘stories’ are on up in years, too. You remember tag, hide and seek, spin the bottle, jacks, Marble shooting, cowboys and Indians and Old Yeller in living color. You have memories of those days and if you were lucky there was a barn either at your grandparents’ or maybe where you lived. If I can stir one of you to remember those good times then I consider this writing a success. Just one. The Lord left the 90 and 9 to go get just one that was lost. I know you are not lost, but it is an example that one is as important as many. It doesn’t take much to give one handshake, one neck hug, say I love you, to say I appreciate you or may I help you. Or you can say it our way – “Youens need anything atall, holler at me.” Point being it’s easier to smile and be gracious to all than to frown and let things that don’t matter upset you. My morning devotion, when I take the time to do one, I’m not perfect, I know. I always ask my Father to let me meet someone that I can do or say something to help on this journey. I cannot count how many times it has been answered. I am now like an old barn – sagging, walking slower, forgetful, nails coming loose, medicine, wrinkled up with both trouble and love furrows running deep, heading back to dust. But when you hear Old Jack died don’t you believe it, for I have been promised I’ll be more alive than ever, and in place of a mansion, I may be found sitting in a brand new barn full of life…