A Living Barn

I could see eyes watching me, a large white head bobbing up and down. Twilight hovered, as if she weren’t sure of her timing this evening, and a few bright planets were already shining in the dimming sky. A jet skimmed miles above, and a large murder of crows headed home to roost in the forest abutting the crooked stream, cawing as they passed. My head swiveled back toward the faded, mostly red barn, just in time to view a smaller head peeking out. Then there were four, bobbing in unison.

I watched quietly, sitting under the enormous cottonwood tree, not daring to blink for fear of missing something. The barn listed away from the slope upon which it was built, its roof missing pieces, a neglected doorless structure of homesteader abandonment. Delighted to have found this quiet place at the far side of the wooded property, I had been busy for six weeks taking photos and researching its history. A woman from DesMoines, Iowa had homesteaded this land in 1902. Being the head of household with four children, she staked her claim along a pristine stream amongst shade trees and rolling mounds of hills. She had built this barn herself over the course of one summer, locating it on the side of a convenient slope in her staked claim. The slope made it easier for her to drive a loaded wagon into the barn and to enter it from the lower or upper level. It had doors on each end, two large windows in the upper walls, and four smaller ones at face height. The flower planter hooks were still attached to the outer walls, though all were rusty and some ready to fall. Actually, some had fallen, and rusty pieces laid on the ground with the broken pottery. I could envision planters with trailing vines and colorful geraniums and petunias. That homesteader wanted her barn pretty, as well as useful. The roof had timbers and a thatched roof, which had gradually disintegrated, leaving some framework timbers in view. Only one original photo of the homestead existed, taken years after she had died. It showed the now decrepit barn in its full blood red regalia, tipped in lilly white.

The homesteader's lonely grave was behind the faded, falling barn, its cross now with an illegible engraving.

Long abandoned, the land had been given by her youngest son to the county to preserve in its natural state. No motorized vehicles, horses, bicycles, or motorized boats were allowed. The son retained the right to approve uses, and he occasionally allowed scientists to use drones to view the land and wildlife from above. My research showed him as currently involved in land use regulations with the county and state. I had gotten the required permit to sit here at night and photograph the owls and other wildlife. A copy of my previous published research had been required for the permit. It was the son’s requirement to protect his mother’s land, in the silence of her death and in the shadow of her grave.

At this point of the night, I could barely see the bobbing heads in the barn window. As I watched, a football shaped body soared silently out of the barn window toward my cottonwood tree. Another soared low over the field and shot down quickly, grabbing the mouse she had spotted from her window perch. “She” could actually be a “he.” I don’t know. I named them Bertha and Barry, and the “kids,” four chicks, that I could see, were just One, Two, Three, Four. Barn Owls mate for life and this couple hunted in different directions to keep up with their hungry chicks.

The window of the slanting barn turned into a raucous, cheering crowd as the parent flew in with the mouse. I watched through my large spotting scope, and clicked off some photos. The second parent came in with another treat and gave it to chick Three. So One and Three had already received some food, and the parents were in for a busy night alternating to all open mouths. Flying ghosts, the adults occasionally shrieked, while their chicks were bobbing and disappearing in unison at the barn window.

Suddenly I heard the Great Horned Owl calling and a minute later she landed on the peak of the barn roof, near one of its many holes. The bobbing in the window had stopped and I held my breath. I didn’t want to see One, Two, Three or Four be carried off by the larger predator, and there was also no way for me to stop nature. She was intently staring down into the dark barn. Before I took another breath, two bullet shaped objects appeared on each end of the barn, screeching, flying directly toward the larger owl. Her head rotated, seeing the parents in their joint oppositional attack, and she silently lifted off. A few flaps and she was out of view. Luckily I caught part of her flight with my camera. I guess it was Barry who stayed on the roof for awhile so Bertha could hunt. I don't know. A fox was in the field over which she flew, competing for her chicks’ food. I watched as she dive-bombed the fox twice and it leaped into the woods.

One afternoon in late summer I visited the run-down barn again, my first daytime visit. The chicks were gone but the parents could be seen up in the loft, cozying up to each other. A startled deer ran out of the other barn door, aroused from her shady retreat by my appearance. Quietly, so as not to disturb them, I walked around inside the barn, looking up through the roof timbers, taking photos. Climbing on an old step stool, I looked through a broken window and noted the stream was visible. I walked to the dead woman’s grave and snapped a photo, wondering if that was disrespectful. Circling the building, it was clear she had loved the land and wanted beautiful vistas from all her windows, house or barn.

As I re-entered the decaying barn, I noted a hand-hewn set of drawers, (a tool drawer?) and opened the top one. There were drawings in colored pencil with the dead homesteader’s initials at the bottom. The sketches outlined her vision for her property. The barn was perfectly drawn, deep red walls, pure white trim on the windows, red and black trimmed doors, earthen planters. The next sketch showed planters full of snapdragons in yellow and purple, golden zinnias, and yellow trailing Creeping Jenny. There were sketches of large bushes of climbing roses in white and dark pink. A clothesline complete with colorful clothing hanging in the sun was a miniature sketch. This woman had traveled over difficult land alone with four children, built this barn, cultivated the land and was also an artist.

A shadow appeared, blocking the natural light. I spun around, finding a man silently watching me.

Startled, I acted guilty and froze. I knew who he was without asking.

I looked up at him, into chocolate eyes tinged with green. “This is beautiful.” Smiling, I waved, encompassing the barn and property. “All of it. It should be preserved. The county should preserve the barn before it completely falls. The sketches can be displayed. It would raise money for the preservation. A Homesteader’s history site. A woman homesteader. Don’t you think?”

“I have iced tea in my thermos. Let’s sit under the Cottonwood and talk about it.”