A Haunt of Love and Longing

Come one, come all. Come tall, come small. Come young, come old. These words of welcome were heard all the time when I was young. The whole farm was young for that matter. The big house was a pretty pastel blue, and wildflowers grew around her. I remember the gleaming gold of corn on summer days, and the cows mooing like yesterday's music. I stood face to face with the apple orchard lining the pathway, and in my bright red coat I gave the brightest welcome you’d ever seen. No one ever left us unhappy or empty handed in those days. We had so much to offer, and our peaceful, colorful corner of the world was exactly what people needed in those days.

I remember when Mr. Farmer, who everybody called "George". came home for the first time. Mrs. Farmer, who everybody called "Emily", had arrived first. Some of her family had stayed with her to help get us started. The whole nearby town had come by to help raise me to the sky. Emily didn't smile much; not at all when she was alone in fact. Throughout the day Emily worked harder than anybody else, and she was grateful to all who helped her. But later, when the sun was setting, and everyone else had gone to bed, and there was no more work to be done, she would sit on a hay bail in front of me, and stare down the gravel road outlined by the saplings that would become the apple orchard. She'd stay long past dark, before she finally tired out and went inside. She did this every night for a summer and almost a whole fall, until finally, in late November, he was there.

George was, as I said, young, yet he walked with the measure of a much older gentleman. His brown uniform was marked by a maple leaf on his shoulder, and it weighed him down as he came home for the first time. It hung on him as if it were soaked with all the blood, sweat, and tears of the world, until he heard a shout. His gaze snapped up from his boots to his bride, and his face lit up - he hadn’t seen her in forever. She abandoned her post, and was charging down the path towards him. Upon hearing Emily call his name, George's youth suddenly revived itself, and he matched her pace. They collided halfway from the house, and held tight to each other for as long as Emily had stayed up waiting. After that, Emily smiled all the time; a most beautiful smile.

George took to the work of farming as if he'd been born to it. He preferred things to be quiet. He was uncomfortable to be around a crowd the first time people came on Market Day, but he was polite and friendly. He had always been a kind-natured man. He often came to me for solace. In the cool quiet with the cows, he confessed some of the sad and terrible things he had seen; things he couldn't bear asking Emily to think about. He told me stories of all his friends who had died in front of him at Vimy Ridge. I couldn't take away his sorrow, but I would always be there for him. A barn can give the same sanctity that some find in a church. George laid all his haunted memories before me, and until now I never told a soul.

The first winter allowed him to settle back to ordinary life easier than it might have been if he'd come back in the summer. The bitter cold discouraged most crowds, so George got his peace and quiet for several months. The next summer, however, brought thunderstorms. At the first crash of thunder, he dropped to the ground, and covered his ears. Even Emily couldn't make him stand up again, so she laid down on the ground next to him, until the guns stopped.

Their first daughter, Grace, was born that summer and from the moment she entered our world: George’s priorities changed. His instincts were suddenly all centered around being a father. He never forgot the horrors he'd endured, but his little family in his peaceful little corner of the world was infinitely more important.

From the time she could walk and talk, Grace would run down to the end of the orchard on Saturday mornings, and climb the apple tree closest to the road and yell,

"Come one, come all!", to passers by, and no one could resist her. Grace was as pretty as her mother, good-natured as her father, and hard-working as the pair of them. So many of the townsfolk had been reeling from losing their loved ones to the far away war, and this young family farm with apples and corn, and beef jerky and sweet cream, could put smiles on their faces for at least an afternoon.

Years went by. Grace became an eldest sibling to three brothers: Jamie, Will, and Peter, and two sisters: Sarah, and Rosie, all of whom had the same enchanting effect upon the crowds. They learned how to use their youthful charms on undecided customers, and they were well liked among most of their schoolroom peers. When they would play, the teams were always even. At harvest time, they would compete with each other for who could pick the most. Little Rosie was best at milking the cows.

Apple picking always came down to Jamie versus Sarah; Jamie had inherited his father's height, but no one could climb trees like Sarah. Grace was best at herding the cattle. Will and Peter were thick as thieves, and the best at husking corn.

The years of these children were the happiest. Memories of them still haunt me: The chattering of haggling on market days; their shouts of competitive laughter echoing through the rafters; The desperate consoling of the older siblings when the younger ones fell off the tire swing that George had hung up in the loft; and the deep discussions of young people making sense of growing pains.

Between the six of them, they always had someone to turn to when another one was bothering them. When some of the boys from town kept following Sarah home from school, all three of her brothers scared them off before George got the chance. When the rains barely fell through the thirties, they kept each others hopes alive. When Jamie fell smitten with Diana Montgomery, Grace made sure he got to meet her. The carved initials of "J.S. loves D.M." hasn’t faded from my back door eighty-two years later. A few more years after that, Grace, Sarah, and Rosie were Diana's bridesmaids, while Peter and Will were Jamie's groomsmen.

George and the boys went to work on a new house the moment Jamie and Diana were old enough to announce their engagement, but they never finished it.

I hosted the wedding ceremony. The entire family spent the day before in a frenzy of preparation. George and Jamie assembled an archway at the back by the work horse's stable. Will and Peter went all over town and neighbouring farms rustling up guests and as many chairs as they could find; Grace herded all the cows out to the pasture to make room for the ceremony space, and established space for dancing; Emily spent the day ensuring that everyone's best clothes were in prime condition for the special day - she even reworked her own wedding gown to fit Diana; Diana and Sarah arranged picnic tables and place settings; Diana's mother provided the best feast possible under the circumstances; her father prepared a horse and carriage for the bride's arrival; and Rosie spent the day sweeping as much hay as she could out of the ceremony space, and hanging lanterns along the orchard path.

The next morning, the sun beamed over the farm in all its glory. The grass had never been greener, white apple blossom petals blew off the trees with gentle romance. The house's pretty blue paint had faded, and my bright red coat had begun to peel, but we still stood proud as ever. Jamie was devastatingly handsome in his new uniform. The biggest difference between it and the one his father had staggered home in so many years before, was it had yet to be spoiled.

Diana shined brightly as she entered with her father. The younger girls had woven flowers through her dark hair. Various neighbors brought instruments and played a soft wedding march as she glided down the aisle. The ceremony was as short and sweet as the reception was long and joyous. All the family took turns dancing with the bride. From the home cooked feast, to the lively rag tag band of musicians, to the company of community, the wedding of Jamie and Diana was a night to remember.

As their grown children danced and mingled, I watched George and Emily gaze fondly at the life they’d built together. The old farmer and wife then slipped out of the lantern light, and danced slowly in my shade for one last moment of well earned peace.

The next day, and the years that followed were considerably greyer. Grace, Jamie, Diana, and Will all left in brown maple-leaf-embroidered uniforms. Sarah followed them a year later. Peter was livid about being left behind, and another year after Sarah, on his sixteenth birthday, he ran right off after them.

George had spent twenty years reconciling crowds again, and this profound silence was deafening. The day of his stroke, was worst day of my life. It was a ragingly hot day. He’d shared his prayers for his children’s safe return with me; he took five steps outside, stopped, turned, looked up at me, and dropped like a bag of feed. Emily and Rosie rushed to his side. Between the two women, they carried him into the back of the truck. Rosie got in the back with him, and Emily drove; the truck bounced twice as Emily sped down the road.

In their absence, a loud bang emitted from the house. I don’t know what started it, but all I could do was watch her burn. Enough neighbors saw the smoke to save me, but there was nothing else to salvage. No corn. No cows. No wildflowers. No home. A burnt out old barn is no home. The only times anyone came back were to lay their sorrows to rest. First for George. Then for Emily. Then for Jamie. Then for Grace and Diana. After each service, Rosie confided her sorrow in me. Will and Sarah came one time to see the graves. Peter was last. I watched him collapse into hysteria at the sight of me: The carcass of everything he’d been so eager to leave. He stayed all night talking to the graves. With the dawn he rose up, and then he too was gone.

If you see me today, you’ll see that decades of weathering and waiting have worn me down to a hollow shell. I have no more paint you’d call bright, you’d be wise to watch your step on the rotting floor boards, and you’d never know I’d ever sheltered life. You might even call me haunted, and you’d be right; though no malevolent spirit awaits you here. You, the grandchild of Grandma Rosie, will find this old barn is haunted with love and longing. You’ll gather some flowers from where they’ve begun to grow back, and you’ll place them on the stones of your family. You’ll feel sad for never getting to know them; but step through my doors, and I’ll tell you their stories. Then I think we’ll both find that they never left, and they never will.